Page 26 of Hunter

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. The gesture is so gentle and so full of emotion, it sends a fresh ache through my chest.

He lifts me from the tub without a word, cradling me in his arms as though I might shatter. I expect him to say something—maybe offer another plea or a string of reassurances—but all he does is carry me to the bedroom.

Setting me down on the bed, he hands me a folded pajama shirt, one of mine I’d left here months ago. His lips twitch into a small, sad smile, but his eyes betray the storm of emotions he’s holding back.

Then, without a word, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.

I stand here, unmoving, clutching the shirt against my chest. My eyes stay fixed on the door, my mind racing. He left. He actually left.

The weight of his absence crashes over me like a tidal wave. Maxim—the man who hovers, tries to fix everything, andnever takes no for an answer—left me alone.

Is this his way of giving me space? Does he think it’s what I need?

I exhale a shaky but steady breath for the first time in what feels like hours. I glance down at the shirt in my hands, its soft fabric worn from use. It smells faintly of him—clean and familiar, a strange comfort amidst the chaos.

I slip it over my head, the warmth of dry clothes easing some of the cold that had seeped into my bones, but it does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.

Moving toward the bed, I sit on the edge, the weight of everything pressing down on me. I know Maxim means well, but I don’t know how to face him after what just happened.

If something as simple as him grabbing my leg sends me spiraling, how can I handle him touching me in other ways? What happens when he tries to hold me, kiss me, love me? The thought makes my stomach churn, shame twisting its sharp claws through me.

I shake my head, forcing the thought away.

That’s a problem for another day.

Right now, I need to focus on surviving, on breathing, on making it through the next moment.

One step at a time. One breath at a time.

But there’s one thing I know for sure.

I need help. Real help.

The thought terrifies me—opening myself up, admitting I can’t fix this on my own. But deep down, I know it’s the only way.

When I finally lie down, curling beneath the blankets, I let the day’s weight crush me. My body sinks into the mattress, and for the first time in hours, I let the exhaustion consume me.

As sleep drags me under, one final thought flickers in my mind.

I survived.

But surviving isn’t the same as living.

ELEVEN

MAXIM

The feeling of helplessness is foreign to me, and I hate it. Sitting in the living room, nursing a bottle of whiskey, isn’t fixing anything, but I can’t bring myself to move. Sophia’s face—etched with utter fear and pain—is branded into my mind. It wasn’t me she was afraid of, at least not directly, but I was the one who caused her pain. My recklessness, my thoughtless actions, dredged up the worst parts of her past, and now, the weight of that guilt feels unbearable. How could I have been so fucking stupid? Dragging her like that—manhandling her, even in jest—when I know what she went through during the kidnapping. I’m supposed to be helping her heal, not ripping open wounds just barely beginning to scab over. She was doing so well this morning. Smiling. Laughing. For a fleeting moment, she was free of the weight she carries. And then, I had to go and fuck it all up.

I throw back the last mouthful of whiskey, its burn doing nothing to dull the ache in my chest. Slamming the bottle onto the coffee table, I push myself to my feet and head to my office.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’ve dealt with enemies, negotiations, life-or-death decisions—but this? Helping someone navigate trauma this deep? I’m lost.

But I’m going to change that.

Sitting down at my desk, I pull up my laptop and type: How to help someone with PTSD. A flood of articles fills the screen, and I begin reading, scrolling through tips and resources. I skim past the generic advice until something catches my eye: cold water. Apparently, shocking the body with cold water can pull someone out of a panic attack.

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