Page 37 of Hunter

I step closer, the sound of my boots scraping over the plastic filling the silence. Grabbing the chair, I pull it upright with a jerk. He flinches at my touch, trembling as his desperate gaze darts around the room, searching for salvation.

“No one’s coming to save you,” I say, my voice low, steady. I crouch to meet his eyes. “You’re all mine now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for both of us.”

I grab his face, my thumb and forefinger digging into his cheeks. “Do you know why you’re here?”

His muffled cries through the duct tape covering his mouth are unintelligible, his head shaking wildly.

“You fucked with the wrong woman,” I growl, leaning in closer. “You thought you could mess with her and walk away? You thought that just because you’ve got a dick swinging between your legs, you had the right to touch her?”

I straighten, lifting my boot and pressing it between his legs. His muffled screams reach a higher pitch as I press harder, a sadistic smile creeping onto my face.

“Let me teach you a lesson about touching what doesn’t belong to you,” I hiss, my voice dripping venom.

I extend my hand, palm up, and within moments, one of my men places my favorite weapon into it: a gleaming butcher’s knife. Slowly, I trace my thumb along the blade, letting the anticipation hang thick in the air. Then, without warning, I strike him across the side of the head with the handle, his muffled cries growing weaker as he slumps.

Gripping his throat, I lean close, savoring the thrill that courses through me. There’s a primal satisfaction in holding someone’s life in my hands, knowing I alone decide when it ends. The power, the control—it’s intoxicating.

“You can beg all you want,” I murmur, tightening my grip on his throat, “but this only ends one way.”

I slide the blade down his cheek, a thin trail of blood blooming in its wake. The sight stirs something feral inside me. More.

“Was it this hand?” I ask softly, resting the knife against his wrist. He jerks, cutting himself on the blade, and the sight of the crimson stain drives me into a frenzy.

I bring the knife down hard, severing his hand with a single stroke. It hits the plastic with a dull thud, blood pooling around it like an abstract work of art. His muffled screams reverberate through the room, tears streaming down his face in torrents. The stench of urine hits my nose, and I grin.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. What’s mine.”

I don’t give him a moment to recover before moving to his other side. “Or was it this hand?” The blade comes down again, severing the second hand. His cries pierce the air, desperate and unrelenting, the plastic beneath him soaked with blood and piss.

A voice cuts through my haze. “Sir, she’s on the move.”

I blink, the high of violence receding as I straighten. My gaze lingers on the pitiful shell of a man before me. He’s broken but not finished.

“Clean this up,” I say coldly, handing the blade to one of my men. “Make sure there’s nothing left of him.”

Without a backward glance, I leave the room, shaking off the bloodlust. If Andrei was here, he’d disapprove, lecturing me on my extremes. I can almost hear him now, his calm, measured voice urging me to pull back. He’d be right, but the rage inside me isn’t something I can contain. It demands to be fed, and if I don’t indulge it, it’ll consume me whole.

When I find Sophia, she’s standing by the window, her silhouette framed against the soft glow of the evening sky. She’s lost in thought, her beauty striking, almost ethereal. My heart tightens, the darkness inside me momentarily silenced.

She’s the light in my world of shadows, the only thing that keeps me from slipping too far. I’d do anything for her—anything.

We sit, and the waiter arrives promptly to take our order. I dismiss him quickly, not wanting any interruptions. Sophia gazes out at the sky, her thoughts seemingly a million miles away. I study her, the rawness of her presence grounding me.

In her, I find my salvation and my damnation.

“Penny for your thoughts?” I ask, spreading some butter on a piece of bread and handing it to her.

She takes it from me, staring at it as if it holds the answers to the universe. After a long pause, she looks up, her eyes heavy. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, fiddling with the bread in her hands.

A scowl pulls at my face. I hate it when she apologizes. She doesn’t owe me anything, least of all an apology. “We’ve talked about this, Sophia,” I say, my frustration seeping through despite my attempt to keep my voice even. “You don’t need to keep saying sorry to me.”

“I’m sorry for how I treated you back at Luca’s house,” she adds, her voice quieter now, her lips trembling into a frown. She opens her mouth as if to say more, but before she can, the door opens, and the waiter enters with our drinks and appetizers. The moment hangs in the air, neither of us speaking until he leaves.

“Please, don’t be sorry,” I plead, my tone softer now. I don’t deserve her kindness, but I’ll take it, every last bit. “I deserved the way you treated me. Hell, I don’t even deserve how nice you’re being right now.”

She sets the bread down and then takes a sip of her water. “I talked to a therapist today,” she says, avoiding my gaze, her eyes skimming over the decor as if it holds something more important than me. She doesn’t need to be embarrassed. She’s taking steps, and that’s all that matters.

I reach across the table, my hand finding hers, offering a gentle squeeze. “Good. That’s a good step.”

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