Chapter 1.2: The Weight of a Mark (2)

The prickling sensation at the nape of his neck flared, sharp and insistent. Gabriel turned back toward his desk, his fingers tracing the faint grooves of the mark as his thoughts churned. Something about today had set him on edge—whether it was Elliot's too-casual demeanor, George Claymore's unnerving persistence, or the gnawing feeling that he'd missed something critical.

He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Whatever the problem was, it would have to wait. For now, the only thing he wanted was to get out of this office, away from its stifling walls and the faint traces of pheromones that lingered like unwelcome guests.

Pheromones no longer had an effect on him; the marking was doing its job; he could smell them, but he could not tell what mood or intention they represented. After seeing it, the alphas would leave him alone; even though a few saw it as an opportunity to prove something, it was clear that they had a chance only if they were dominant. 

Gabriel shrugged on his coat, pausing briefly to glance out the window. The city stretched before him, its lights starting to twinkle against the approaching dusk. He locked his office door behind him. Annabelle was standing in the hall, holding two large folders.

"Heading out?" She asked, her tone neutral but her eyes sharp.

 "Yeah," Gabriel replied. "I'll check in tomorrow. Let me know if anything comes up with the evaluators."

 Annabelle gave a curt nod. "Will do. Take care, Gabriel."

Annabelle approached the second elevator as the doors closed behind him. She let the folders fall to the wooden desk with a muffled sound. She picked up the phone and dialed a familiar number. Moments later, Director Callahan's gruff voice came through the line.

"Callahan speaking."

"Director, it's Annabelle," she said, her voice low but firm. "I thought you should know—Elliot personally took Gabriel's report to the evaluators today."

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a measured response. "That's... uncharacteristic."

"I know." Annabelle replied. "Gabriel seemed unsettled after their interaction. I have a feeling something's off."

Callahan exhaled audibly, the sound heavy with thought. "I'll keep an eye on it. Thank you, Annabelle."

Annabelle hesitated before continuing. "One more thing: Gabriel asked me to double-check the report with Janice. He didn't outright say he didn't trust Elliot, but he made sure I knew to follow up."

Callahan grunted, a sound of acknowledgment rather than surprise. "I'll have a word with Claymore."

The office was as imposing as the man who occupied it, with sleek lines, dark wood, and a glass wall that framed the city like a living painting. George Claymore stood by the window, his shoulders squared, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. The city below hummed with activity, its lights glimmering like embers in the fading twilight. He didn't turn when Callahan entered the room.

"I must say, George, you fouled me," Director Callahan said as he walked in and closed the heavy door.

Claymore smirked without turning. "And yet, you picked your office first."

Callahan crossed the room, taking the chair opposite Claymore's desk without waiting for an invitation. He stretched out, unbuttoning his jacket. "We need to talk about Elliot."

Finally, Claymore turned, his expression unreadable. "What about him?"

Callahan leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "He stepped in with Gabriel's report today. Delivered it personally to the evaluators."

Claymore arched an eyebrow, then sighed. "Did he? That is odd; he barely completes his tasks."

Callahan chuckled dryly. "He has his mother's audacity, that's for sure. However, this is not a social event that he can schmooze his way through. Gabriel's work is good, but the evaluators are strict about protocol."

Claymore moved to his desk and poured two glasses of whiskey from the decanter. "You think Elliot tampered with it?"

Callahan took the glass and swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully. "I don't know. It's not like Gabriel to let something slip, but the way he reacted... He's unsettled. And when Gabriel's unsettled, it usually means something's off."

Claymore took a seat across from him, his fingers tapping lightly on the glass. "Elliot's sudden interest in Gabriel is... concerning. He's known him for years, but it's only now he decides to take an active role? Timing's too convenient."

"Agreed." Callahan took a slow sip. "It is too convenient that he became interested in Gabriel following your initial discussion with him about Max."

Claymore exhaled sharply, setting his glass down with a soft clink. "I wonder if Patricia found out who Gabriel is. Elliot will do whatever she asks."

"I thought that if I take him from her, he will start to think for himself, but I was too late."

Callahan leaned back, his expression thoughtful. "He is 27. You don't have to babysit him at this age. You did what you could, but the Duarte family was stronger."

Claymore allowed a small, bitter smile. "Precisely. Gabriel's talent and determination deserve someone who can match them, someone who understands the weight of responsibility.

"And yet," Callahan said, raising an eyebrow. "You can't entirely fault Elliot. If he delivered the report correctly, it might actually help Gabriel. The evaluators might appreciate the personal touch, even if it's unorthodox."

Claymore snorted. "That's the thing about Elliot. He's reckless, but somehow, things have a way of working out for him."

Callahan's expression darkened slightly. "Elliot's involvement isn't just about the report, George. It's personal. You know that."

"I know," Claymore admitted, his voice low. "And that's what worries me. Elliot's interest in Gabriel feels... opportunistic. After all these years, why now?"

"Maybe he finally grew up," Callahan offered, though his tone was laced with skepticism.

Claymore shook his head. "Or maybe he sees Gabriel as a way to prove something—to me, to himself. Either way, I can't allow it to derail what we've built here. My nephew is a better match for Gabriel."

Callahan nodded. "We'll handle it, George. Together. If Elliot oversteps again, we'll reel him in. But for now, let's give him the benefit of the doubt."

Claymore leaned back, his gaze returning to the city beyond the window. "The benefit of the doubt," he repeated, the words tasting bitter. "Let's hope he doesn't make us regret it."

Callahan raised his glass. "To second chances, then. For Elliot and for Gabriel."

Claymore hesitated, then clinked his glass against Callahan's. "To second chances."

The two men drank in silence, their shared history and mutual understanding binding them more tightly than words could. Below them, the city carried on, oblivious to the quiet schemes and decisions unfolding above.

-

The building's elevator carried him to the ground floor with a smooth hum. As he stepped outside, he took a moment to breathe in the crisp evening air, a stark contrast to the recycled atmosphere of his office. The world outside buzzed with life.

He looked toward the nearest bus stop, where a crowd of commuters waited, and could sense how congested it would be. The mere thought of feeling all the pheromones and smells was giving him a headache. He got used to the portals from the construction sites, but at the same time, sick of them. 

The air around the teleportation hub shimmered faintly, its arcane energy casting faint lines of light in the looming darkness. But instead of heading toward either option, Gabriel adjusted his bag and began walking.

Gabriel's footsteps were steady, his pace unhurried. The bustle of the city was a comfort in its own way, its energy a distraction from the thoughts swirling in his mind. He passed a group of teenagers crowded around a musician, the young man coaxing a hauntingly beautiful melody from a stringed instrument imbued with faint magical resonance. Further along, a vendor shouted over the din, trying to sell his wares to a disinterested crowd.

Yet, even amidst the noise and color, Gabriel felt a strange sense of detachment. The city was alive. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushing against the smooth surface of his key fob.

As he continued toward his apartment, the streets gradually grew quieter. The market district gave way to residential neighborhoods, their cobbled streets lined with row houses and small apartment complexes. Streetlamps cast pools of golden light, their soft glow flickering as moths danced in their beams.

When Gabriel finally reached his building, he lingered outside for a moment, his gaze sweeping over its familiar facade. The two-bedroom apartment he called home wasn't much to look at—a modest space in a nondescript building—but it served its purpose.

He climbed the stairs to his floor, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. Inside, the apartment was as sparse as he'd left it that morning. The living room held only the essentials: a couch, a coffee table, and a bookshelf lined with a mix of technical manuals and worn paperbacks. The kitchen was clean, almost sterile, its surfaces free of clutter.

Gabriel set his bag down and shrugged off his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. The silence of the apartment pressed in around him, its weight heavier than the bustling noise of the city streets. He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, unsure of what to do next.

Finally, he moved to the kitchen and opened a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of cognac and a glass. The amber liquid swirled as he poured himself a generous measure, the faint clink of glass against glass the only sound in the stillness. Gabriel carried the drink to the living room, sinking onto the couch with a weary sigh.

He touched the bite mark from his nape and took a long sip. The whiskey burned, but it was a welcome distraction. Gabriel allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability while alone in his apartment. The mask he wore at work slipped away, leaving behind the raw edges of his uncertainty and guilt.

The city outside continued to hum, but inside, Gabriel sat in silence, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a storm cloud that refused to break.

Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, disheveled from the day's meetings. His gaze moved around the apartment, taking in the worn furniture, drab walls, and lack of personal touches. There were no family photos, no knickknacks, no signs of life beyond the bare essentials. The space was functional, sure, but it lacked the warmth of home. It had never felt like home.

He sank into the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling. The only noise in the room was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Gabriel closed his eyes, his fingers twitching with the urge to reach for the glass again, to feel the burn and the haze that came with it.

But he didn't. Instead, he let his thoughts wander, even as they threatened to pull him under. He thought of his family, of the calls he'd been avoiding, of the guilt that clawed at him. They had tried to reach him—his father, his siblings—but Gabriel couldn't bring himself to respond. Not yet. He wasn't ready to face them. Not when he still carried the mark, the reminder of his past decisions. The mark that had severed his ties to them, to the life he had once known.

Another sigh escaped his lips, soft and tired. George Claymore's offer was a hand that he knew he could take. Maximilian Thornwell was a dominant alpha who could place another mark over the old one. Maybe it was time to make a change. 

Gabriel set the glass down beside him and let his head fall back against the couch, his eyes closed. He didn't have answers. He didn't know what was coming next or how to fix what was broken inside him.