Page 66 of Hunter

Tonight, I have a choice to make. This is him, the full raw version of him that makes him as much intriguing as it does dangerous. I could demand he tell me how tonight transpired. I could demand answers before I give him what he needs, but one look in those eyes and I already know they are filled with confusion and pain. So I do the only thing I can, and I give him me. Answers can wait. Right now, he needs me more than I need the truth.

The shower runs steady behind the closed bathroom door, a soft hiss of white noise that fills the silence left in his wake. I stare at the blood on his shirt. On the floor. A drop on the wooden boards near the bed. It’s not his, he said. Thank heavens it’s not his—the idea of losing him now isn’t worth considering.

But that doesn’t make it better. It’s proof of something broken. Something is spiraling out of his control. He’s always been known as an unpredictable man, a dangerous one. But the man that came home to me tonight was frightened, his actions enough to instill fear deep within himself.

I move slowly, not rushing. Not thinking too hard. I strip off the robe, then my pajamas. I let them fall to the floor in a silken heap. My bare feet carry me across the room, one step at a time, until I’m standing in front of the bathroom door. I take a pause, time to collect myself before I open it.

Steam rolls out into the bedroom, curling around my skin like fingers. Hunter stands under the spray, his back to me, hands braced against the tiled wall. Water runs in red-tinted streams down his arms, his spine, pooling at his feet.

He doesn’t turn when he hears me. He doesn’t have to.

I step inside, silently sliding back the glass door. Quiet. Deliberate.

“Bella,” he says, low, rough. Almost inaudible beneath the sound of the water splashing on his skin and the tiles surrounding him. The rainfall shower soaking both of us.

I press my body to his back and wrap my arms around his waist. He’s solid beneath me, every muscle tight, wound like wire. His breath catches, his body tensing under my touch.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I say. “I want to.”

His head drops forward as I press my lips to the skin between his shoulder blades. He lets me. He lets me touch him like I’m something clean in a night of filth. Like I haven’t seen the blood. Like I am unaware of the horror he has witnessed and created in the past few hours. I hold him like the tray of the shower isn’t splattered with vengeance and his life isn’t the collage of darkness tonight has highlighted it clearly is.

I move around to face him. His eyes are dark, hollowed out with exhaustion and something close to self-loathing. He hates himself, I can see that as clear as day. The water runs over his face, mixing with the tears from his eyes.

“You look at me like I’m not a monster,” he whispers.

“Because you’re not.”

“I almost killed one of my own men tonight.”

“But you didn’t.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. I reach up, trailing my fingers through the damp strands of his hair, then down the side of his face. The young man I fell in love with all those years ago warring for dominance over the creature he has become through the life he has lived due to birth.

“You came back to me,” I say. “That’s all that matters right now. You’re here with me, and we will face this together”

Then I kiss him. It starts slow, tentative, as if we’re relearning each other, but quickly deepens, the heat unfurling between us. His hands find my hips, gripping too tight at first, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish along with his sanity.

I press closer, parting my lips for him, letting his tongue slide against mine. He groans into my mouth, the sound low and broken. And that’s when he lifts me, no words, no warning, and pushes my back gently to the shower wall, the spray cascading between our bodies.

His hands are on my thighs, spreading me for him as my legs wrap around his waist. His mouth trails down my neck, over my collarbone, between my breasts.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

“No. I need this. You need this.”

He growls both deep and guttural and slides inside me in one desperate, aching thrust. My back arches against the tile, my cry echoing off the walls. He thrusts again, deep, deeper than he’s ever pushed before. His cock demands I open for him, him wanting every inch of me.

We don’t speak.

We don’t need to.

This isn’t gentle, but it’s not rough either. It’sreal. It’s him pouring out everything he can’t say. It's me taking all his fury and guilt, giving it somewhere to land.

He slams into me again and again, head buried in my neck, hand fisted in my hair. I hold on, arms around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, and let him. I let him use me how he needs to, giving him full control of my body to comfort his own. For once, I submit to my husband, and I fucking love it.

“I need you full of me,” he grits out, words laden with want. “I need to know you're mine…completely.”

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