EMMA
The white box sat on the obsidian kitchen island like a tumor in the center of our sterile paradise. Gabriel hadn't erupted in the primal fury I expected when I showed it to him. Instead, he had gone terrifyingly still, his scent shifting from the warm, musky heat of sleep to the sharp, metallic tang of a predator scenting a kill.
"He was in here," I whispered, my voice trembling as I stared at the red ribbon. "While we were sleeping, Gabriel. He was standing right over us."
Gabriel didn't look at the box. He was staring at me, his eyes a swirling vortex of emerald and gold. "He wants you to think he’s a ghost, Emma. He wants you to believe he’s everywhere so you stop looking for him where he actually is."
He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, pulling me to
