Gabriel forgot what he had been trying to say when Rochelle turned, her big dark eyes wide and glazed with shock, pain, misery. Something fell out of her hand, clattering on the bricks, and he realized it was metal, long and narrow, with a straight edge. A switchblade. Her wrists and palms were covered in blood as she held them out to him, eyes beseeching, purse falling slack against her thigh.

It was almost impossible to process, to believe what he was seeing. Her pale fingers raised up, the vivid red of the blood streaming across them, back down her wrists, the jagged wounds brutal and desperate, the crimson stain pouring over the swarm of butterfly tattoos on her young, delicate skin.

He had done this. His weakness, his addiction, his gluttonous lust for escape, the need to boost his faltering confidence, his inability to cope with his responsibilities and the job he had been entrusted with.

Watch. Guide. Protect.

“Sara!” he yelled as loud as he could. “Call 911.”

Yanking off his T-shirt, he reached out and pulled Rochelle’s hands and wrists together, swaddling the shirt around them tightly, so her fingers entwined. Pulling to create pressure, hoping to staunch the flow as much as possible, he looked into her eyes. She was losing focus, her legs starting to crumple, and he slid his free arm around her back, holding her up against his chest so she wouldn’t fall.

“Stay with me, Rochelle.”

“I . . .” Her eyes started to roll back into her head.

Gabriel shook her a little. “Look at me.”

She did, sad, confused, scared.

And Gabriel did what he never did. He locked gazes with her and let her see into his eyes, his soul, his true nature. He let her see the light and full force of his power, the hope and beauty and promise and future. Projecting into her mind, he showed her what she could have—a man who truly loved her, a house in the Quarter with a lush courtyard, her every heart’s desire. He found her love of art and passion for sculpture in her racing thoughts, and so he showed her a successful career, where her work showed in national galleries and the art community knew her name. It was wonderful and it could all be hers if she held on, clung to it, chose it.

Her eyes widened, in wonder, awe, joy.

And then she lost consciousness, slack in his arms.

Sara drove back from the hospital, eyes scratchy and throat dry. Gabriel had insisted on staying with Rochelle, who was thankfully okay, but had been admitted. Sara was exhausted, with a clinging headache and a ravenous cotton mouth, which had to be from the absinthe drinking. She hadn’t wanted to leave Gabriel, who was taking Rochelle’s suicide attempt hard, but she had realized her presence was only distressing Rochelle, and distracting Gabriel.