Page 44 of Hunting Harbor

"If I'd what, Harbor?" I finally speak. "If I'd want to risk being poisoned?"

Her shoulders stiffen further, her rhythm faltering for just a moment before she regains control. "I was going to say if you'd want me to cook them. They might be death caps, what do I know?"

The onions sizzle as she tosses them into the hot pan, the sound and scent filling the space between us. I push away from the doorframe and step into the kitchen, my footfalls deliberately loud on the wooden floor. I want her to track my approach through sound, to feel me getting closer even as she pretends to focus on her task.

I watched her explore the woods surrounding the cabin, giving her the illusion of freedom, letting her believe she's here by choice. And she is, in a way. She chose to come with me. She chose to stay when the first signs of my true nature began to show. Every step of this dance has been choreographed, but her participation—that's been her choice. That's what makes this so delicious.

"Now who’s the quiet one," she observes, a giggle escapes her as she tries to cover her discomfort, stirring the pan with unnecessary focus.

"I've been watching you," I reply simply.

The wooden spoon pauses mid-stir, just for a heartbeat, before resuming its motion. "I know."

Of course she knows. She feels my eyes on her constantly, tracking her movements, studying her reactions. She pretends it unnerves her, but I see the flush that creeps up her neck when she senses my gaze. I see how she sometimes performs for me, stretching a little longer, bending a little lower when she knows I'm watching.

I move closer, silent now, my reflection appearing in the window above the sink where she's working. Our eyes meet in the glass, and for a moment, neither of us breathes. The outside world has gone dark, turning the window into a mirror that captures us both—me standing behind her, towering and still, her small frame rigid with awareness.

"The potatoes are burning," I murmur, not breaking eye contact in our reflection.

Harbor blinks, the spell momentarily broken as she moves the pan off the burner. "Shit," she mutters, her voice breathy.

I'm close enough now to smell her, the lavender soap she used in the shower this morning, the scent of her. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body. Close enough that when she turns around, startled by my proximity, she nearly collides with my chest.

"Jesus!" she gasps, dropping the wooden spoon. It clatters against the floor, spattering droplets of sauce across the worn wood. "You can't just—"

"Can't just what?" I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her skin. "Can't stand in my own kitchen? Can't approach the woman staying in my cabin?"

Harbor swallows hard, her green eyes wide as they stare up at me. She's backed against the counter now, her hands gripping the edge behind her, knuckles white with tension. I've positionedmyself intentionally blocking her escape, forcing her to confront what's been building between us since the moment she agreed to come here.

"You can keep pretending," I murmur, my voice dangerously soft as I place one hand on the counter beside her hip, effectively caging her in. "But I can see it, Harbor. You want me just as badly as I want you."

Her breath hitches, color rising to her cheeks. She opens her mouth to deny it, but nothing comes out. I lean down, my lips grazing the shell of her ear.

"The question is, do you have the strength to fight it? Or will you let go? Let me take you the way I've always wanted to."

Her pulse flutters visibly at the base of her throat, signaling her surrender before she consciously makes the decision. I press closer, my chest against hers, feeling her heart hammering through the thin fabric of her sweater.

"I—" she starts, then stops, words failing her.

Outside, the wind picks up, branches scratching against the cabin windows like skeletal fingers trying to get in. The single lamp in the kitchen casts long shadows across Harbor's face, deepening the hollows beneath her cheekbones, darkening her already dark eyes. In this light, she looks haunted. Hunted.

Mine.

"You don't need to answer," I tell her, my hand moving to cup her chin, tilting her face up to mine. "Your body already has."

She trembles visibly, her lips parting slightly, invitingly. We're alone in the world, just the two of us in this moment of terrible, beautiful truth.

And as her eyes flutter closed in anticipation of what comes next, I know I've won.

Harbor's breath comes in shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling against mine. The knife she was using to chop vegetables glints in the low light, forgotten on the cutting board. I wonder if she's thinking about grabbing it—if some primal part of her brain is screaming danger. It wouldn't matter if she did. Nothing can stop what's happening between us now. I've planned too long, waited too patiently, for her to slip away.

Her knuckles are white where she grips the counter edge, as if it's the only thing keeping her upright. Maybe it is. The way she's looking at me—fuck, it's everything I've wanted. Fear and desire so tightly woven together that even she can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

"Harbor," I breathe her name like a prayer, though I've never been a religious man. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. But I worship at the altar of her body, her mind, her essence. Have done so since the moment I first saw her.

She doesn't respond, not with words. But her eyes never leave mine, pupils dilated so wide they almost swallow the green. Thekitchen feels charged, like the air before a lightning strike. Each breath we take is shared, the space between us so minimal it barely exists.

When my lips finally claim hers, the connection is electric. I don't start gentle, there's no point pretending this is something soft or sweet. My mouth crashes against hers with bruising force, my hands finding her waist and gripping hard enough to leave marks.Mine. The word throbs in my mind with each beat of my pulse.

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