Gabriel’s head bobbed slightly before he caught himself, blinking hard. Had he almost fallen asleep? He exhaled sharply, rubbing his fingers against his temples. The wait had stretched unbearably long, the heavy silence pressing down on him like a thick fog. The dim glow of the hallway’s wall sconces blurred in his tired vision, their flickering light casting faint shadows that danced across the stone walls. He had no idea how much time had passed—until a hand gripped his shoulder.

Gabriel tensed at once, his instincts snapping him awake, but as his dark eyes lifted, he found himself staring at Ivonne’s pale face. Her expression was tight, her hands wringing the hem of her apron, the fabric twisted and damp from her anxious grip. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks streaked with dried tears, and she looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.

Gabriel’s brows furrowed. He shifted in the chair, rolling his shoulders as he sat up straighter. From inside the room, faint cries echoed through the heavy wooden door—small, sharp wails that pierced the silence.

Baby cries.

His gaze flicked to Ivonne again. She hesitated, licking her lips as if struggling to find the right words. Her voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper. “It’s Pierre,” she admitted. “We need help getting him out of the room.”

Gabriel stared at her. “Getting him out?”

Ivonne’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “He—he collapsed after the doctor left the room.”

Gabriel pushed himself out of the chair, his movements slow and deliberate, his tall frame unfolding with a quiet grace. He straightened his coat, his dark eyes never leaving Ivonne’s face. “And how is Madame doing?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

Ivonne glanced away, her hands tightening around her apron. “She’s gone,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She shook her head quickly, as if trying to dispel the words, but the tears welling in her eyes betrayed her. “She’s gone.”

Gabriel didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides, but his expression remained impassive. For a moment, he simply stood there, the weight of Ivonne’s words hanging heavy in the air. Then, without a word, he turned and walked toward the door, his boots echoing softly against the polished floor. Ivonne followed, her steps hesitant, her hands still clutching her apron as though it were the only thing holding her together.

The cries from inside the room grew louder as Gabriel pushed the door open, the sound sharp and insistent, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. He stepped inside, his dark eyes scanning the scene before him with a detached precision. The room was in disarray, the air thick with the metallic smell of blood and sweat. His gaze passed over the birthing chair, its wooden frame still bearing the faint traces of use, and the fire in the hearth, which burned low, casting weak, flickering shadows against the walls. The dim light barely illuminated the chaos before him, but Gabriel took it all in with a single, sweeping glance.

Pierre lay unconscious on the floor beside the bed, his golden hair tousled, his face unnervingly pale. His body was curled inward, as if shielding himself from an invisible blow, but his hand remained tightly clasped around Nicolette’s lifeless fingers, refusing to let go.

Gabriel’s gaze traveled upward, toward the woman who had once been the heart of this house. Nicolette lay still, her head tilted slightly to the side, strands of her fiery red hair sticking to the sweat-dampened skin of her face. Her green eyes—once sharp and full suspicion—were now vacant, dull, fixed on something far beyond this room.

In the crook of her arm, she held a baby.

A tiny, delicate baby, swaddled in white linen, its face impossibly still. Blonde hair peeked from beneath the folds of the blanket, the same golden shade as Pierre’s. But the child’s skin was waxy and pale, almost translucent under the low light, and its lips, tinged with an unnatural purple, were slightly parted—silent. Too silent.

Gabriel’s stomach twisted. The baby was dead.

His jaw clenched, but his attention was pulled away by movement and loud noises near the bedside. Two maids stood there, each cradling a newborn wrapped in soft linens, their tiny bodies squirming, their cries piercing through the thick, suffocating air. One had a dusting of pale blonde curls, their fragile hands curled into fists, their small face scrunched in distress. The other, smaller but just as loud, had a shock of red curly hair, his cries sharp and insistent, his blue eyes barely open.

Gabriel’s gaze flicked back to Pierre, unmoving on the floor, his fingers still locked around Nicolette’s lifeless hand. The room held its breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone present. Gabriel exhaled, slow, then, stepping forward, he rolled up his sleeves.

“Let’s get this man out of here,” he muttered, his voice colder than the air in the room.

Gabriel stepped closer, his boots barely making a sound against the bloodstained floor. He crouched beside Pierre’s limp form, his dark eyes sweeping over the man with a detached precision. Pierre’s skin was unnaturally pale, his golden lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. Faint traces of dried tears streaked his face, his nose red and raw from crying, his lips slightly parted as if he had whispered Nicolette’s name one last time before unconsciousness claimed him.

Gabriel’s expression didn’t shift, didn’t betray even a flicker of emotion as he slid his arms beneath Pierre’s body. With practiced ease, he lifted him, his movements steady, effortless, as if carrying an injured soldier from the battlefield. Pierre’s head lolled against Gabriel’s chest, his body heavy with grief even in unconsciousness.

The hallway outside was dim, the wall sconces flickering in the silence. The maids had retreated, and the midwife was busy tending to the two living children. No one was there to see.

Gabriel’s steps remained measured, controlled, but his grip on Pierre’s body tightened.

And then, for the first time that night, his expression shifted.

His brown eyes, usually unreadable, widened—full of something raw, something seething. A deep and all-consuming hate burned within them, a rage that simmered just beneath the surface. His pupils darkened, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached.

He lowered his head slightly, his lips barely moving as he muttered with his voice cold and hollow, as if dripping with venom.

“How does it feel, Pierre?”

His breath ghosted against Pierre’s temple, his hold firm yet impersonal, like a predator toying with something already broken.

“How does it feel to lose someone precious?”

The words came out slow, deliberate, carved from the same hatred that had festered inside him for years. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, had pictured Pierre in agony, in despair—but even now, watching him like this, the satisfaction felt short-lived, incomplete. Pierre didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. His unconsciousness only deepened the silence, leaving Gabriel’s words to hang in the air, unanswered.

Gabriel’s eyes flicked down to the unconscious man in his arms, his expression returning to its usual cold indifference.

He straightened his posture and continued down the hallway, carrying Pierre toward his chambers, his steps steady, unhurried—as if he had all the time in the world.