Page 28 of Hunter

When I walk into the room, she stirs, blinking at me through sleepy eyes.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, her voice soft and groggy as she sits up in bed.

A smile tugs at my lips as I take in the sight of her—messy hair, heavy-lidded gaze. It’s the kind of beauty that doesn’t try. “Good morning, krasavitsa,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

Her expression shifts, a small, apologetic smile playing on her lips. “I’m sorry about last ni?—”

I raise my hand, cutting her off before she can finish. “Don’t you dare.” My voice is firm, the words low and rough in my throat. I move closer, crouching so I’m at her level. “Don’t ever apologize to me, Sophia. Not for last night, not for any of this.”

Her lips part slightly, surprise flickering in her wide eyes, but I keep going.

“Your feelings, your pain—none of it is something you should feel sorry for. Ever.” I brush my thumb along her cheek, watching as her breathing hitches. “If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me. I should’ve known better. I should’ve been better.”

Her eyes glisten, tears welling at the edges, and I know she’s on the verge of breaking again. But this time, I want her to break with me, not alone. “Can I hug you?” I ask, my voice softening as I wait for her permission.

For a moment, she stares at me like she can’t believe I’m asking instead of just taking. But then, slowly, she nods. I don’t waste a second, wrapping my arms around her and pulling her close.

The weight of her in my arms feels grounding, and the scent of her shampoo—subtle and familiar—soothes somethingrestless inside me. We stay like this, silent, just holding each other. Her face is buried in my chest, and I tighten my grip, willing her to feel every ounce of reassurance I’m trying to give.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes are glassy but dry, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

Go shower,” I say gently, my voice softer than usual. “I have a surprise for you.”

Her brows lift, curiosity flashing in her tired eyes. “A surprise? What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” I say with a small smile.

She narrows her eyes at me, hesitant. “Maxim, you know I hate surprises.”

I chuckle lightly. “I know. But trust me, this one’s different. Now, go get ready. I want to leave in forty-five minutes.”

The playfulness in her expression fades, replaced by a shadow of unease. She clutches the blanket tighter around herself, her voice dropping. “Leave? I don’t know, Maxim. What if something happens? What if?—”

I kneel beside her, my hands reaching for hers. “Sophia, look at me.” I wait until her eyes meet mine, her fear clear in their depths. “Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise. You’re safe now.”

Her lips tremble as she shakes her head. “You can’t promise that. Last time, I thought I was safe too.”

Her words pierce me, but I force my voice to stay steady. “I know,” I say softly, brushing my thumb over her knuckles. “I know how hard this is for you. But you don’t have to carry this fear alone. I’ll be with you every second, and I have men watching every corner. You’re protected, Sophia. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She exhales shakily, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “I’m scared,” she whispers, the vulnerability in her voice cutting straight to my heart.

I shift closer, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. “It’s okay to be scared,” I say, my voice as soft as I can make it. “But you don’t have to let that fear control you. You deserve to feel alive, to step outside without looking over your shoulder. Let me help you take that step.”

Her grip on the blanket loosens, but the way she clutches its edges betrays her lingering fear. She hesitates before throwing it back, the movement slow and uncertain, as if she’s peeling away a protective shield.

Before she can stand, I scoop her into my arms, holding her close. She lets out a startled laugh that sounds more like reflex than genuine amusement.

“Maxim,” she protests, but there’s a flicker of something lighter in her tone—a hint of warmth, maybe even trust.

I set her down carefully, my hands remaining at her waist for just a moment longer, grounding her. “Go shower,” I murmur, my voice soft but steady. “And don’t overthink it. I’m right here. You’re safe.”

She hesitates again, her gaze flickering between me and the bathroom. I see the battle raging in her—fear clawing at her resolve, warring with the fragile hope I’m trying to nurture.

“Trust me, please?” I beg, my voice barely above a whisper.

She takes in a shaky breath, her eyes a battlefield of emotions—fear, doubt, anger, and something fragile I can’t quite name. Finally, she nods, but it’s hesitant, almost reluctant.

Her agreement should feel like a victory, but instead, a weight settles in my chest. Why does it feel like no matter what I do, she might never truly trust me again?

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