
Gabriel
The moment Lizabeth disappears through the doorway, Gabriel loses the last bit of his strength and crashes to the floor. Bringing his knees up to his chest, he wraps his arms around his legs and rests his forehead on his thighs, as he did during thunderstorms when he was a child. Only now, the storm isn’t outside—it’s in his own mind.
He’s always known he couldn’t keep his identity a secret from Lizabeth forever, and the longer he kept the truth from her, the worse the consequences would be. But that didn’t stop him from hoping that somehow she would understand, that she would give him a chance to explain, and, above all, that she would find it in herself to forgive him.
He grips his arms tighter, his fingernails peeling away a delicate layer of skin. Everything in him wishes to cry and yell and scream until his throat is raw and aching. Lizabeth was the one thing he had that wasn’t weighed down by his past, the only person besides Jean who didn’t make him feel crushed with guilt. But his decisions had ruined her, too. Just as they had with Anne, his parents, Pierre, and countless others. Why does he continue on this path instead of giving up like he desperately wishes?
Because, a voice whispers in the back of his mind, you’re in far too deep to escape, and if you give up now, all you’ll do is cause more damage.
He breathes in, holding it until black dots dance across his vision.
Right. He can’t give up now.
He breathes out, curling his fingers into his palm until the sharp bite of nails on his skin is enough to clear his mind.
He has to calm down.
Gabriel has never seen Baptiste’s group enter the halls of Versailles, nor has he seen them try to blend in by wearing borrowed clothing. Which means they are planning something big. And they need to be stopped.
There is no other choice but to treat Lizabeth’s reaction as if it were another one of his kills. He closes his eyes, shoving thoughts of the betrayal and horror on Lizabeth’s face—as well as all the happiness he’s felt since he met her—to the farthest corners of his mind. He’s done the same so many times in the past, the act is easy, mechanical, a performance of mere routine.
He will not allow himself to lose control.
Standing, he glances down the hallway Marie and Maxime escaped through. They may have had a head start, but Gabriel knows his way around Versailles much better than they do. He also knows there is no way for them to freely walk through the more private parts of the palace without drawing attention to themselves. The only way they will get anywhere unseen is to leave the palace with the rest of the commoners, slip away from the crowd at the most opportune moment, and re-enter the building through a side doorway.
Hoping to God his prediction is correct, Gabriel turns and runs to the corridors leading to the Cour Royale, leaving behind his sweet memories of Lizabeth.
Versailles has never felt more like a labyrinth than in this moment. Gabriel may have every twist and turn memorized, but that doesn’t quicken the journey, and each second that passes is one more chance the others have to make their next kill.
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L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)
Historical Fiction{Wattys 2018 Winner - The Contemporaries} Versailles, France 1789: Where the only things more prevalent than opulence and wealth, are secrets. At the dawn of the French Revolution, Paris is divided. In the glittering palace of Versailles, courtiers...
