No alcohol.
No gambling.
No outside contact.
No access to money.
No control.
And worst of all, no Daniella.
Daniella...
The one who should be clean up their mess... The one who should have rescued them from such a mess.
Marcus lay sprawled across one of the hospital beds inside their private recovery suite, sweating heavily beneath thin sheets despite the cold air conditioning running overhead.
His withdrawal symptoms had turned uglier over the last several days—violent mood swings, trembling hands, nausea, headaches sharp enough to leave him vomiting into sinks some nights.
Tonight was not better. He dragged one shaking hand over his face before groaning lowly.
"I can't stay in this place anymore." His voice sounded hoarse now, exhausted.
Gabriel sat nearby in a chair beside the darkened window, looking older than he had only weeks ago.
The swelling from Daniella's beating had mostly faded, though faint bruising still lingered near his jawline.
