Page 82 of The Huntress and Her Hound

I clench my fist at my side but help her into the bubble bath anyway. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

She looks up at me as she sinks down to her chin, the bath swallowing her. “He always told me that no one would ever love me if they knew.”

Yeah, well, I do.

I eye her. “The biggest lie that’s ever been told.”

She pulls her knees into her chest, resting her chin. “I don’t know. The only person who’s ever loved me was my brother, and he doesn’t know.”

“But you’ve never told anyone,” I reason, taking a seat on the edge of the tub.

“Just you.”

“And I’m still here.”

She reaches out and tugs at my hand, her pretty blue eyes asking what she’s too afraid to say. I pull away from her and rip my T-shirt over my head, followed by the rest of my clothes. Carefully, I climb in behind her, the warm water easing the tension in my muscles. Cher leans back against my chest and lets out the sweetest fucking sigh I’ve ever heard.

“You’re safe here,” I murmur into her hair, vowing in that fucking moment I will always protect her.

She tips her head back against my shoulder. “I’m safe with you.”

“Always.”

***

I stare at the ceiling while she lays beside me, her breaths deep and easy. She never uttered the man’s name while she bled for me, pouring out situations I could hardly listen to. I almost asked her, since it’d make my hunt much easier if I knew who broke her.

But I’ve had harder chases, and I didn’t want to press.

Besides, I’m a fucking hound. No one can outrun me.

I slide the covers back and slip out from underneath them. I place the comforter back softly, and then creep across to where Cher’s purse lays on the floor. I sweep it up, and to avoid making any unnecessary noise, I exit the room. Thankfully, in the time I’ve had, I moved the computer set up to the guest bedroom.

As soon as I’m inside my makeshift tech cave, I close the door and unzip her purse. I pull out her busted phone and set it on the desk, but as I do, I catch sight of a small tear in the lining of her bag. And because it looks more like a cut than a tear, I stick my fingers through the opening.

My fingertips graze a baggy. I’m not surprised when I retrieve the white powdery substance from her purse. I set it down, and then reach in again. A mostly empty small liquor bottle comes next. Then a taser. And a .380 pistol.

I line the four items up, not missing the tinge of blood like stains on the ends of the taser. As much as I can’t wrap my fucking brain around it, the more I know this is evidence she is who my brain is telling me she is.

She’s a huntress. She’s the Black Widow.

And it makes sense. It makes a lot of fucking sense.

I wait, expecting to be concerned or at a minimum, a little leery at the confirmation. But no uncertain feelings follow. In fact, it’s a relief. Taking a deep breath, I nod to myself. My brain plays back the moments she told me she didn’t sleep with the men I saw her with, and she was telling the truth.

Because she kills them.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

The girl I’m in love with kills men who come onto her.

“Cool,” I mutter aloud, suddenly needing a cup of coffee. I take the contents on the desk and put them back in the purse, save for the phone. I plug that into my computer, and hope it’s not so fried I can’t access the content.

I head for the kitchen and start coffee, my eyes staring out the window at the rising sun. One question hangs in my mind and no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake it. If Henry knew what happened to his sister all those years ago, what would he do?

The sound of brewing coffee fills the air around me and I fold my arms across my bare chest. Eventually, I’ll have to tell Henry about us, and as bad as it would hurt—and potentially drive him crazy—Henry should know what happened to her. Not for any reason other than Cher being able to heal.

And maybe then she’d get some help for the voices. Maybe it triggered schizophrenia? Or is it some sort of PTSD?

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