Page 64 of The Hunter
I kept my eyes glued to him like he might disappear if I blinked. I shouldn’t feel anything after hearing him say that. But something about the way he said it, soft and reverent, dismantled my defenses just enough to let the warmth in.
I sat beside him, allowing myself to rake my gaze over his face. From his strong brow. To his square jaw. To his lips. This man was my captor. Yet I couldn’t stop staring at his lips. Full. Firm. Capable of cruelty.
Capable of tenderness too, maybe.
Would he kiss with desperation? Or with control?
This was the last thing I should be thinking about, considering everything Victor put me through over the past several years. He’d taught me to be wary of desire. Distrustful of charm. Terrified of what love, or the illusion of it, might cost.
Henry repeatedly insisted he wasn’t a good man. If my marriage to Victor taught me anything, it was that I should believe him. Keep my distance. Hell, I should leave right now while I still could.
But I didn’t.
Because something in my gut told me Henry was nothing like Victor. He hadn’t lain a hand on me in violence. He hadn’t demanded obedience. He hadn’t gaslit or threatened or broken me down piece by piece for his own sick satisfaction.
He’d abducted me, yes. But it didn’t feel like punishment. It felt like…protection.
And that scared me more than anything.
Eventually, I pulled myself away from Henry, using the opportunity to close my eyes until I needed to wake him up again. But there was no phone, no alarm. So I shuffled back into the kitchen and set the oven timer for two hours.
When I returned, I curled up in the chair with the pillow tucked behind me and the blanket pulled up to my chin. Exhaustion weighed heavy on my bones and sleep pulled me under quickly.
I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep when a cold, wet nose nudged my hand, stirring me awake. My eyes snapped open, and Cato’s face came into view, solemn and insistent.
“What—” I started, then looked past him.
The couch was empty.
My heart lurched into my throat. “Henry?” I called out, scrambling to my feet.
A groan answered me, followed by a loud thud. He was halfway across the living room, swaying dangerously,attempting to grip a side table with one hand and the back of a chair with the other.
“I have to piss,” he mumbled.
I rushed to his side just as his knee buckled. I slid under his arm to support him, catching the bulk of his weight.
“Let me go,” he growled. “I can do it myself.”
“No, you can’t.”
“I said?—”
“AndIsaid no.” I tightened my grip. “You may not like it, but you need my help right now, so suck it up and stop being a pain in the ass.”
His jaw clenched, and he squeezed his eyes tight, breathing hard through his nose. I physically felt the frustration vibrating through him.
I may not have known him all that well, but I’d learned enough to know this man didn’t like to ask for help.
Didn’t want to need anyone.
And now he had no choice but to lean on the one person he couldn’t stand.
Me.
Thankfully, my words sunk into his thick skull and he let me help him the rest of the way. Each step was slow, deliberate, the living room feeling bigger than ever.
When we reached the bathroom, he stopped in the doorway, swaying.
