Page 75 of The Hunter
His tail wagged even harder as he bounded toward the front door, lightly pawing at it.
“You need to go out?”
I probably imagined it, but I could have sworn he responded with a single nod of his head.
“Okay, pal.”
The instant I opened the door, he bolted out of the house and off the porch in one enormous leap, kicking up snow all around him. He did several happy circles, heavy flakes clinging to his coat, before he glanced my way with an expectant look.
“Maybe I’ll come out and play later.”
He tilted his head to the side for a beat, then darted off, vanishing behind the pines.
I closed the door and shuffled into the kitchen, powering up the one-cup brewer. After a sip of coffee, I turned my attention to the refrigerator, pulling out the ingredients I needed to make a frittata.
My hands moved without thinking, cracking eggs, chopping vegetables. The rhythm calmed me. It felt good to be able to do something normal again.
When I met Victor, I loved how he pampered me. I was happy not to have to worry about all the mundane burdens of my old life — laundry, cleaning, cooking. Having someone who could do all those things for me seemed like a dream.
A fairy tale.
I didn’t realize they were pieces of my freedom.
If I’d known then what I knew now, I never would have traded my independence for silk sheets and a full-time staff who saw everything but said nothing.
I hummed to myself as I moved around the kitchen, already feeling more at home in this place than I ever did in the house I shared with my husband. Just as I popped the frittata into the oven, I heard a scratch at the door.
I headed toward it, and Cato barreled inside, shaking off snow in the entryway mudroom before making a beeline toward his bowl. He danced around my feet as I scooped out some of his kibble, causing me to almost trip over him. But the instant his food hit the bowl, he buried his face in it, hungrily gobbling it up as if he hadn’t eaten in ages.
I watched him for a few moments, unable to stop the smile that tugged on my mouth as he ate, his tail wagging with every mouthful. Then I headed back to the kitchen and washed my hands. I grabbed a container of strawberries from the refrigerator and began slicing them.
Just as I pulled the frittata out of the oven, I made out the creak of floorboards upstairs, followed by a door opening and closing. I peeked around the corner, finding the bedroom door still closed. Then I heard the faint sound of water running —the shower.
I grabbed the mug I’d seen Henry use and prepared him a cup of black coffee. After arranging the fruit and frittata on a plate, I brought it upstairs along with his coffee, carefully balancing both in order to nudge the bedroom door open.
Heading to the sitting area in the corner of the room, I set the plate and mug down on the small table. I was about to leave when the bathroom door swung open.
A wave of steam rolled out, followed by Henry clad in nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His chest glistened, his skin still damp from the shower, and my mouth went dry.
This man was pure perfection. I’d seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never with the light tracing every plane and ridge of him like a sculpture.
Like a goddamn work of art.
And that was exactly what he was.
A masterpiece.
Oblivious to my presence, he moved toward the duffel bag, turning his back to me.
But unlike his chest, his back was covered in scars. So many scars.
Angry. Raised. Raw.
They slashed across his skin, like a road map of pain he didn’t want anyone to see.
A small, involuntary gasp escaped me as I stared at his flesh.
Henry whirled around, his eyes widening when he realized I was there.
