Page 63 of The Hunter
It’s not something I’d wish on my worst enemy.
Despite everything, Henry Fontaine wasnotmy worst enemy.
I sat on the floor beside the couch, my legs folded beneath me, my focus pinned to the man in front of me. This stranger who had taken me. Terrified me. Challenged me.
His features were slack in sleep, apart from his brows. They were drawn tight, as though he was fighting something. A bad dream maybe. A worse memory.
His dark hair, damp with sweat, curled slightly at the nape. A bruise was forming near his temple, the skin already purple-blue.
He looked nothing like the man who’d stepped out of the shadows of the forest and stolen my breath with fear.
This Henry looked breakable. Vulnerable.
The sight twisted something in my chest. Something I didn’t want to name.
Eventually, I stood, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. Every step across the floor felt thunderous in the stillness.
I powered on the one-cup brewer and placed a mug under the spout, the smell of coffee filling the room. After preparing it the way I liked, I headed to the hallway closet, retrieving a pillow and folded blanket. Cato followed me as I moved back to the living room, his tail low, ears alert.
“I know,” I whispered to him, settling into the armchair opposite the couch. “I’m watching him, too.”
The book I’d been reading earlier was still on the end table. I opened it, curled up with the blanket, and tried to focus on the words.
But every few pages, my lids drifted. Each time they did, I forced myself up and walked through the cabin. I checked the door locks. Looked out the windows. Verified Henry was breathing.
Cato sat by the couch like a sentry, refusing to leave his master’s side. I didn’t understand the bond they had, but it somehow made me trust Henry more. This dog would die for him.
After a few hours of doing everything in my power to stay awake, I knelt beside the couch again, watching as Henry’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
“Henry,” I said quietly, pressing my fingers to his shoulder.
He stirred, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Henry,” I said again, a little firmer.
“Five more minutes,” he grumbled.
“That’s not how this works.” I gently shook him. “I need you to open your eyes.”
He blinked against the soft light filling the space, squinting as if I’d stabbed him. His pupils were uneven at first before they adjusted.
“What’s your name?”
“Henry Fontaine,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.
“Your mother’s name?” I didn’t know why I asked him. I didn’t even know his mother’s name to verify if it was right or not.
“Sylvia.” He swallowed hard.
“And your father’s?”
He tensed, his whole body coiling like a taut wire.
“Henry,” he said again, but not the same way he did when givinghisname. His voice dropped an octave. Clipped. Quiet. A warning and a plea at once. It made me curious about his father. Why he seemed to hate the man who was most likely his namesake.
“And what’s my name?” I asked.
His face softened as his gaze drifted to meet mine. “Princess.” His eyelids grew heavy again and he fluttered them closed. “You’re my princess.”
