Chapter 13 - Night Terrors and Promises
The triumph of the Sterling Gala was a public victory, but trauma rarely surrenders without a private fight.
At 3:00 a.m. that night, the harbor penthouse was silent, wrapped in a blanket of thick Atlantic fog that pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the guest suite, Clara thrashed against the silk sheets, trapped in the suffocating grip of a night terror. In her subconscious, the glittering ballroom had dissolved into the dark hallway of her old Back Bay condo; Marcus’s hands were around her throat, squeezing harder and harder as he whispered that she wouldn't survive the night.
“No!” Clara screamed, her eyes snapping open as she bolted upright in bed, her chest heaving, her skin slick with cold sweat. She couldn't catch her breath; the walls of the guest suite seemed to be closing in on her in the dark.
She stumbled out of bed, barefoot and shaking, throwing open the bedroom door and escaping out into the sprawling, dimly lit main living area of the penthouse. She needed open space; she needed to see the sky.
She made her way out onto the wraparound stone terrace overlooking the harbor. The freezing November night air hit her bare arms through her thin silk nightgown, but she didn't care—the biting cold was a shock to her system, forcing her lungs to draw in deep, desperate gasps of clean ocean air as she gripped the steel railing, trying to anchor herself to reality.
“Clara?”
A heavy, warm wool blanket was draped gently over her trembling shoulders from behind.
She spun around, gasping. Gabriel stood on the terrace behind her. He was wearing dark pajama trousers and a simple black t-shirt, his hair tousled from sleep, his sharp face lined with immediate, deep concern as he looked at her shivering frame.
“I heard you cry out from down the hall,” Gabriel said softly, stepping close enough to block the freezing harbor wind with his own body, though he kept his hands respectfully at his sides. “Another nightmare?”
Clara nodded, pulling the wool blanket tightly around her chest as tears of frustration welled in her eyes. “I hate this, Gabriel. I hate that even after everything you’ve done—even after seeing him broken on his knees tonight—he can still reach into my head while I’m sleeping and make me feel like a helpless little girl.”
Gabriel didn't offer empty platitudes or tell her to forget about it. He reached out, his calloused palms gently resting on her fabric-covered shoulders, pulling her slowly, securely into the warm, solid fortress of his chest.
“He reached into your head because healing isn't a light switch you flip on a dance floor, Clara,” Gabriel murmured into her dark hair, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated against her cheek. “You spent three years living in a war zone where your own home was the enemy camp. Your body is still learning that the war is over.”
Clara rested her forehead against the crook of his neck, breathing in the clean, comforting scent of cedarwood and rain that had become her sanctuary over the past week. For the first time since she had stepped into his Escalade, the professional, protective barrier between the crime boss and the music therapist completely dissolved, replaced by a raw, intimate vulnerability between two human beings who recognized each other’s scars.
“How did you survive it?” Clara whispered, looking up into his dark, ancient eyes under the moonlight. “Your grandfather... the North End... living in a world where violence is always waiting outside the door. How do you stop the nightmares?”
Gabriel looked out over the dark, fog-shrouded waters of Boston Harbor, his jaw tightening slightly as he recalled his own demons.
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“You don't stop them by hiding from the dark, Clara,” Gabriel said softly, his hand moving up to gently cup her cheek, his thumb brushing away a cold tear from her skin. “You stop them by building something so bright and strong in the daylight that the shadows don't have anywhere left to hide. You play your piano. You heal those kids in your ward. And you let me be the one who stands guard at the door so you never have to look over your shoulder again.”
Clara didn't pull away from his touch. She leaned into his palm, her eyes closing as a deep, foundational peace finally settled over her trembling heart. Under the freezing Boston stars, surrounded by the strong, unyielding arms of a man whom the rest of the city feared, Clara Hughes felt completely, untouchably safe for the very first time in her life.
