He walked back to the fortress, hoping the cold night air cleared his mind.
When he reached her bedroom, he hesitated then entered. The French doors were open, rendering the room cold. His eyes fell to a toaster on the dresser with two socks resting beside it, as if waiting for their turn to warm her feet in the morning.
His mate was curled into a tight ball in the middle of her bed, on top of the covers. Her sleep was fitful, and he walked to the bed, standing beside it in the dark.
How the fuck did he just go with what she'd done? He still didn't know. The human was okay, and his mate was at his side, where she'd always belonged. He sat on the bed, reaching over to rest a hand on her head. He used his power to soothe her sleep.
Being near her calmed him, despite his ambivalence.
She'd told him the truth, because she wanted them to have a relationship built on trust and love. Because not telling him was hurting her.
This wasn't the same goddess who fucked them all over. She'd been incapable of empathy or remorse. Darkyn stripped her power, turning her human. The woman in the bed behind him wouldn't hurt anyone else.
The woman in the bed behind him had taken three days to warn him about the human left in Hell. What if Darkyn slaughtered the innocent life dragged into this mess for no other purpose than to make the goddess' transition easier.
Disposable. The human thought herself unwanted, except by Darkyn, who had done more to help her than Gabriel thought possible. She was able to justify it as destiny. He wasn't as forgiving of himself or his mate.
There was never a day when you didn't love each other.
Gabriel considered the human's sad wisdom. This was what troubled him most: that despite everything his mate had done, he never stopped loving her. He hadn't been able to during their time together when she was a goddess and he her servant. He couldn't now that their roles were reversed.
He had never doubted himself before. He couldn't afford to now but there was a part of him that hurt.
Deidre stirred from behind him. She took the hand he rested on her forehead into both of hers. Gabriel didn't know what to say.
"I'm sorry, Gabriel," she whispered again.
"So am I." He squeezed her hands.
"Do you hate me now?"
"No," he said quietly. "I'm angry."
"At me."
"Yes and at myself."
"You did nothing wrong, Gabriel. I did. I thought I was doing right."