Page 20 of Hunter

As I step into the kitchen, the scent hits me—herbs, spices, and something else. Something familiar.

Sopa de pollo.

Tears well up, and for the first time in weeks, my stomach growls. The smell wraps around me, and I’m suddenly a child again, sitting beside my mom as she made this soup for me. On rainy days, when I was sick, or when my heart was broken, she would make me sopa de pollo. It was our thing.

Maxim glances up from the pot, a soft smile on his face as he stirs. “How?” I ask, my voice sounding strange after days of silence.

He steps closer, close enough that I feel the warmth of his body but not too close. “I called your mom,” he says. “Asked if there was something I could make you eat. She asked if ‘cold’ was code for pregnancy.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course she did.”

Maxim laughs. “I assured her it wasn’t. But then she told me when you’re feeling gloomy, she always makes you sopa de pollo.” His attempt at Spanish makes me laugh, and I can’t help but shake my head.

“She said that if I thought I could get away with butchering her recipe, I was a ‘shit eater.’” Maxim raises his eyebrows, his tone full of mock seriousness.

I laugh so hard, I snort, and it feels good, lighter than I’ve felt in a long time. He smiles, his eyes softening, though there’s still a quiet intensity behind them.

“I tried to convince her, but it was pointless. She won.” His voice carries a hint of humor, but I see the sincerity behind it. He wanted to help me.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not entirely alone in this.

The microwave timer beeps, pulling me from my thoughts and signaling the end of the wait. My mom always hatedwarming food in the microwave. She said it ruined the taste—everything needed to be heated up on the stove with care and precision. I always thought it was a little obsessive, but I never questioned her.

Maxim doesn’t seem to care about her quirks, though. He moves through the kitchen effortlessly, as if he has been here a thousand times, pulling out bowls and spoons without hesitation. I can’t stop watching him, my thoughts swirling faster than I can catch them. He’s doing this for me, but why? Why is he making such an effort to show me he’s different, that he cares?

He’s a murderer. A man who walks through life with an arrogance so thick, it chokes the air. He’s done terrible things, and yet here he is, in my kitchen, making me soup because he knows it’s the only thing that might make me eat.

I don’t know what to feel anymore. This should be simple. I should know whether I can forgive him. But it’s not. I can’t make up my mind. I can’t decide if I’m angry or if I’m thankful.

Before I can turn away, I feel his presence at the table. He placed the bowl in front of me and is now pulling out the chair. “Please,” he says, and I can hear the plea in his voice. It pulls at something deep inside me, something I thought I had locked away.

With a sigh, I sit down. The spoon feels foreign in my hand at first, but I bring it to my mouth, and the first taste hits me—warm, comforting, the familiar blend of herbs and spices. It’s the taste of my mom’s love, a love I haven’t allowed myself to feel in weeks.

Tears spring to my eyes. I’m not crying for what was done to me. I’m crying for what I’ve lost—the woman I used to be. The naive version of me who never imagined the world could be as cruel as it is. The one who thought love was enough to protect her.

For the first time in weeks, I’m not crying out of pain. I’m grieving the person I used to be, the person who never thought she could be touched by evil.

And then, something shifts. A deep ache opens in my chest, and I feel all the anger, all the hate, all the dark thoughts I’ve been hoarding for weeks, break free. The dam bursts, and my tears come harder, faster. But this time, there’s something else behind them—something more dangerous.

I realize that to heal, I need to let go of the woman I was. The old Sophia died the moment I was taken. She’s gone, and there’s no coming back. But the new Sophia—the one who faced the worst life could throw at her—is here, and she’s not going to stay silent anymore.

I grip the spoon so tightly, it digs into my skin. My eyes lock on the window, my heart pounding in my chest.

The promise forms in my mind, a silent vow. As a doctor, I swore to save lives. But what good is that when I’m the one who needs saving? I’ll stain my hands with blood if it means getting the justice I deserve.

Something inside me cracks open, and a deep obsession takes root. Revenge is no longer a fleeting thought; it’s my driving force. If that’s what I need to move forward, then so be it.

Maxim is sitting across from me, his eyes on me, but I can’t let him be the one to do it. He won’t be the one to take my vengeance. He’s not my savior.

Why have him do it when I can do it myself?

Revenge is the only thing I have left, and I’ll grip it like a lifeline. If that’s what I need to heal, then so be it. I’ll cling to that anger if it’s the only thing that can bring me peace.

NINE

MAXIM

The joy I feel from Sophia actually eating, after all the obstacles we’ve faced, fills me with an almost absurd sense of elation. I never thought something so small would mean this much, but it does. Even if it meant going to her mother for soup, it was worth it. She’s savoring the last spoonful now, her eyes closed, as if the flavors are healing something inside her.

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