Page 52 of Hunting Harbor

"I've been planning for you for years," I tell her, my thumb stroking her cheekbone. "Not you specifically, at first. Just someone. Someone worthy. But once I saw you—" I shake my head, still amazed by the clarity of that moment. "Once I saw you, it could only be you."

The cabin I had built for her flashes through my mind, every detail meticulously created to reflect her tastes, her needs. The writing desk positioned to catch the morning light. The wall of bookshelves filled with first editions of her favorite authors. The soundproofed basement where I can make her scream without disturbing the wildlife.

"Do you understand what that means?" I ask, my eyes locked on hers. "There is no after you for me. No other option."

Harbor's breathing has steadied, and her thumb is tracing circles on my wrist as her cheek nuzzles into my hand.

"So if I try to leave—" she begins.

"I'll find you," I cut her off. "I'll always find you. And if I can't have you—" I let the thought hang, incomplete but crystal fucking clear.

Her hand comes up, hesitant, to touch my face. The unexpected tenderness of the gesture sends a shock through my system. Her fingertips trace my jaw, my cheekbone, my lower lip. Mapping me. Memorizing me. Acknowledging me.

"You'd really die without me?" she asks, and there's a strange wonder in her voice. No one has ever loved her like this—with this intensity, this certainty. No one has ever been willing to follow her into death rather than live without her.

I turn my head slightly, pressing my lips to her palm. "In a heartbeat."

And then, because she needs to understand completely, I add, "But I'd take you with me first. Because you're mine, Harbor. Mine in life. Mine in death. There's no fucking 'maybe someday' for us."

The cabin's silence wraps around us, thick and heavy. Harbor's eyes search mine, looking for some sign that I'm exaggerating, that this is just another manipulation. She won't find it.

I mean every word I say.

"I've never belonged to anyone before. Not like this," she whispers, and I can hear the conflict in her voice. The writer in her, analyzing the narrative we're creating together. The woman in her, responding to the psychotic nature of my claim.

"You've belonged to me since before we met," I tell her. "You just didn't know it yet."

I release her throat completely, sliding my hand around to cup the back of her neck instead. Her skin is flushed, marked with the faint imprints of my fingers. Those marks will fade, but my claim on her never will.

"Say it," I command softly. "Tell me you understand."

Harbor takes a deep breath, her eyes never leaving mine. "If I try to leave you, we both die."

"No." I tighten my grip on her neck, not painful, just firm. "If you try to leave me, you choose death for both of us. There's a difference."

The distinction matters. I need her to understand that any ending between us would be her choice, her responsibility. Notsome external force tearing us apart, but her own decision to destroy what I've built.

Something breaks in her expression. She nods slowly.

"I understand," she says, and I believe she does. Maybe not fully, not yet, but enough to keep her here. Enough to make her think twice about that "maybe someday" bullshit.

I pull her toward me, pressing my forehead against hers. Our breath mingles in the small space between us, intimate and charged. My promise hangs in the air. Complete possession or complete annihilation. There is no middle ground with me. No compromise. No escape.

And somewhere in the depths of Harbor's eyes, I see love reflecting back at me.

Chapter Twenty

Harbor

I'mhummingasIslice through packing tape, eager to see what Kairo surprised me with. He’d even sent for my things from my old apartment, so here I am, unpacking it all. Our new cabin smells like cedar and fresh rain, the morning light spilling through those massive windows Kairo had put in, just for me. "You need natural light to write," he'd told me, those intense blue eyes of his holding mine until I'd nodded my agreement. Now, surrounded by half-unpacked boxes and the remnants of my old life, I can't help but think he was right about everything.

Finally, the tape comes free from the box I've labeled "Books – Essential," and I nearly squeal with delight. My first editions, my dogeared paperbacks with coffee stains and tear-warped pages – they're all here, intact and ready to line the custom shelves Kairo built along the eastern wall.

"Home," I whisper to myself, running my fingers along the leather spine of my favorite Brontë. "This is actually fucking home."

The cabin rises around me like something from a fever dream I once had. It’s like a wood castle. The ceiling soars overhead, peaked with wooden rafters that Kairo claimed were from trees that once stood exactly where our bed now sits. I'm not sure if I believe him, but the poetry of the idea makes me smile. That's the thing about Kairo – he weaves these perfect little narratives that feel too beautiful to question.

I place my books on the shelves one by one, organizing them by how they make me feel rather than a system a librarian would approve of. Dark and moody by the bedroom door. Hopeful and bright near my writing desk. It's a system that makes sense only to me, and the freedom to arrange my life exactly how I want it feels like a gift.

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