Chapter 5 - The Assessment of Damage
Forty-five minutes later, Clara sat on the edge of a king-sized bed in the guest suite, wrapped in a thick, white terrycloth bathrobe Maria had provided. The hot bath had washed away the physical chill of the Boylston Street rain, but the internal trembling had not stopped. She stared at her own reflection in the vanity mirror—at the dark, purplish-yellow contusion mapping its way across her left collarbone, trailing upward toward the base of her throat where Marcus had pinned her three days ago.
A gentle knock sounded at the bedroom door.
“Come in,” she said softly, pulling the lapels of the bathrobe higher around her neck to hide the bruises.
Gabriel entered the room accompanied by a older man carrying a black leather medical bag. The man wore wire-rimmed glasses and possessed the calm, discreet demeanor of a physician who had spent decades treating gunshot wounds and trauma without ever filing a report with the state authorities.
“Clara,” Gabriel said, staying near the doorway to respect her space. “This is Dr. Vance. He has been my personal physician for fifteen years. I would like him to check your arm where Thorne grabbed you, and make sure there’s no underlying nerve damage or structural injury.”
Clara instinctively shrank back against the headboard. “I don't need a doctor, Mr. Moretti. Truly. It’s just a few bruises. I’m fine.”
“A woman who is fine doesn't flinch when someone walks into a room,” Gabriel said gently. He walked slowly toward the bed, stopping two feet away, looking down at her with an expression of profound empathy that made her chest ache. “Please. Let Dr. Vance examine you. Everything he sees stays strictly between the three of us.”
Reluctantly, Clara nodded. She sat still as Dr. Vance approached, his hands warm and professional as he gently checked the rotation of her wrist and shoulder. But when his fingers brushed against the base of her neck, Clara let out a sharp, involuntary gasp of pain, her shoulders hiking upward in defense.
Dr. Vance paused. “May I look at your collarbone, my dear?”
Clara looked at Gabriel, who was watching her with steady, reassuring eyes. Slowly, with trembling fingers, she parted the lapels of the white bathrobe, exposing the brutal, hand-shaped contusion marring her pale skin.
The room went dead silent.
Dr. Vance inhaled sharply through his nose, reaching into his bag for a small penlight and an anti-inflammatory ointment. “This is a Grade-Two deep tissue contusion, Mr. Moretti. Severe soft tissue compression around the clavicle and trachea. Another few pounds of pressure and the bone would have fractured, or the airway would have collapsed entirely.”
Gabriel didn't speak for nearly a minute. He stood frozen at the foot of the bed, his dark eyes locked onto the purple marks across Clara’s chest. The air in the bedroom seemed to drop twenty degrees. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, yet it vibrated with a lethal, terrifying violence that made the crystal lamps on the nightstands rattle.
“He did this to you three days ago,” Gabriel stated—not a question, but a cold, absolute realization.
“I tried to pack my bags,” Clara whispered, tears finally spilling over her cheeks, dripping onto the white fabric of the robe. “I told him I couldn't take the control anymore. He trapped me against the closet door. He told me that if I ever tried to leave him again, he would make sure my mother spent her retirement in a homeless shelter, and that he would personally ruin my professional licensing at the hospital.”
Gabriel turned slowly on his heel, walking toward the large glass window overlooking the dark harbor. He pressed his palms against the cool glass, his shoulders rising and falling as he fought to control the primordial rage surging through his veins.
“Dr. Vance,” Gabriel said without turning around. “Leave a full course of anti-inflammatories and topical analgesics with Maria. Make sure she is comfortable.”
“Of course, Gabriel,” the doctor replied quietly, packing his bag and exiting the room with discreet efficiency.
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Once the door clicked shut, Gabriel turned back to face Clara. He walked back to the bedside, dropping to one knee on the Persian rug so that his eyes were level with hers. He reached out, taking her right hand into his own scarred palms, holding it with a gentle, fierce reverence.
“I made a mistake outside the restaurant tonight, Clara,” Gabriel murmured, his dark eyes burning with an unshakeable vow. “I told Marcus Thorne I was going to teach him table manners. That was far too lenient. By the time I am finished with that man, he will not have a law license, he will not have a bank account, and he will not have a single friend left in this city to buy him a cup of coffee. He is a walking ghost. I just haven't arranged the funeral yet.”
