Page 40 of Hunter

But then, it hits me. Flashbacks. Sophia lying unconscious on a hospital bed, bruised and battered, machines hooked to her fragile body. The sound of her screams during a nightmare, her body shaking in panic. The way she cried out that this was all my fault. The guilt crashes over me like a wave, choking the air from my lungs.

I pull away, jerking back from her, the kiss abruptly cut off. I can’t do this. Not now. Not with all the chaos still swirling around us. My mind races, drowning in the memories of her pain.

“Why did you stop?” she asks, her voice breathless, confused. She stands over me, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently.

I wish I knew the answer. The battle inside me is wearing me thin. I’m torn between wanting to tear her clothes off, to lose myself in her, and the gnawing fear that this is too soon. She’s still fragile, still healing, and I’m not sure if she wants this or if it’s a way for her to forget the pain for a moment.

I won’t risk it. One wrong move, one wrong touch, and I could lose her. I could drive her away. I won’t be that man. I can’t be.

“I love you,” I whisper, placing my hands gently on her face and gazing into her eyes. “I’m not going to take it further unless I know you’re really sure.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but I stop her by placing my finger on her lips. “Don’t argue with me, Sophia. You had a panic attack yesterday when I dragged you.”

She gives me the “are you serious right now?” look, the one that makes me smile despite the tension. I know she’s thinking sex and being dragged are worlds apart, but I can’t let her disregard the truth.

“It’s the same thing,” I insist. “They’re both triggers, and I don’t want to cause you any harm.”

The tension in her face softens. The deep furrow in her brow fades, and her eyes lose some of the hardness.

“We have an infinite amount of time for that, krasavitsa.” I let the words hang in the air, trying to reassure her—and myself—that there’s no rush. We have all the time in the world.

She narrows her eyes, thoughts clearly racing behind her gaze. The V between her brows deepens for a moment, and Ifeel a tight knot in my chest. Did I make a mistake by saying no? Should I have given in, given her what she wants, taken the scraps she’s offering?

Before I can second-guess myself, I see it—the spark in her eyes. That fire. The one I thought the world had snuffed out of her. The one I feared was gone for good.

It’s still there.

My heart skips a beat, hope blooming in my chest. She’s still here. There’s still a chance.

“Come swimming with me?” she asks, her voice lighter now but the fire still flickering beneath her smile. It’s not the invitation I expected, but I see through her playful exterior. There’s anger in her eyes, anger she’s trying to hide—anger at me, at my rejection, but it’s there, burning bright.

I let it go. I choose to let it go. I choose to put it aside. She’s still here. She hasn’t walked away from me.

A smile tugs at my lips, and a rush of relief floods me. I didn’t ruin everything by saying no. I didn’t push her away. I’ve got her—right here, right now—and I won’t fuck this up.

“Swimming?” I repeat, my tone lighter now, the tension easing as I hum my approval. “Swimming sounds perfect.”

I lift her into my arms, bridal style, and before she can react, I take off toward the edge of the water, her laughter bubbling up and infecting me. I jump, my heart soaring as we plunge into the cool ocean together, her joy filling me, reminding me why we’re doing this, why we’re fighting.

SEVENTEEN

SOPHIA

It’s been a couple of days since Maxim denied me, and my emotions have been a whirlwind. At first, I was furious. I wanted to demand he take me home, even though a part of me knew why he stopped us. The bulge in his shorts told me everything. But that didn’t stop the hurt. That seed of doubt took root in the darkest corners of my mind. Was I not enough for him? Did he no longer find me attractive?

How could he want me, a broken, scarred version of who I used to be? Every time I tried to silence that voice, it only grew louder. It was a twisted thought, but it stayed. The anger turned to sadness, then resignation—painful acceptance.

If we’d gone further, if he’d touched me in the wrong way, what would have happened? Would I have spiraled back into the broken shell of myself I was weeks ago? His explanation finally came, and he said he was trying to protect me. He didn’t want to trigger something that would undo the small amount of healing I’ve done.

He admitted he’d been sneaking into my house to check on me every night while I slept. Seeing me like that crushed him. He said the only time he felt alive again was when I smiled the other day. He was willing to starve himself of my touch just toprotect whatever shred of happiness I managed to carve out of the darkness.

It’s sweet, sure, but it’s also where my resentment begins. He treats me like I’m fragile, like one wrong move will shatter me. I see myself that way in the mirror, but I can’t stand him seeing me as a cracked porcelain doll. The way he tiptoes around me, constantly worried about breaking me—it’s suffocating. I’m trying to move past everything to heal, but his actions only remind me of my past, of everything that has been done to me.

I’m not some delicate princess who needs to be pieced together. I can do that myself. What I need from him is support—not this constant hovering, not this protectiveness that only reinforces my brokenness. I punch the bag harder this time, frustration bubbling to the surface. I can feel the energy in me, all this pent-up aggression, and the bag is the only thing that’s going to take it.

He couldn’t protect me before. Why does he think he can now?

The thought cuts deep.

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