Page 60 of Hunter's Game
She still was.
And when she woke up—because it was when, not if—they’d figure out what came next together. Hunter wasn’t naive enough to think it would be simple. Eden would need time to heal physically, but the psychological aftermath might prove more challenging. She’d spent years focused entirely on vengeance and justice, building her entire identity around exposing Romano’s operation. With that mission accomplished, she’d need to rediscover who she was beyond the mission.
He planned to be there for all of it—the nightmares he knew would come, the moments of doubt, the process of building something that wasn’t defined by revenge or duty. Whatever path she chose—whether rejoining federal service, working with the Blind Jacks, or finding some new purpose entirely—he was committed to walking it beside her.
Even if it meant working with the feds. Even if it meant walking a line between law and outlaw. Even if it meant facing whatever other dangers waited in the shadows.
They’d face it together because they’d earned that chance. Through blood and fire and betrayal, they’d found something neither had been looking for—partnership based on mutual recognition of the darkness each carried, connection founded on respect rather than need, understanding that went beyond words to something bone-deep and essential.
After the good agent and his president saw themselves out, Hunter settled into the uncomfortable chair beside Eden’s bed, her limp hand cradled gently in his calloused one. He traced the small scars on her knuckles—evidence of a life lived in combat—and found himself planning impossible things, like motorcycle trips along the coast and quiet mornings without tactical objectives.
Assuming she didn’t shoot him for letting federal agents into her hospital room. Assuming she wanted the same future he was suddenly able to imagine. Assuming they could both learn to live without war constantly surrounding them.
Big assumptions for two people trained to expect betrayal and prepare for worst-case scenarios. But as Eden’s fingers twitched slightly in his grasp, Hunter allowed himself to believe in possibility rather than tactical advantage.
After all, the best love stories were written in blood. And theirs was just getting started.
The problem with waking up from a coma is that your body remembers the pain before your mind catches up to why it hurts.
Eden surfaced slowly through layers of darkness, each breath sending sharp reminders of what had brought her here. Her muscles felt leaden, unresponsive despite her mental commands. Beneath hospital-grade cotton sheets, her tactical-trained body cataloged damage with clinical precision—the tight pull of surgical stitches along her left side, the tender bruising across her ribcage, the persistent ache that suggested fragmented tissue rebuilding itself beneath her olive skin. Her throat felt raw from intubation, her eyes gritty from extended unconsciousness, while the familiar warmth of medical-grade painkillers created a floating sensation that her training immediately identified as dangerous vulnerability.
The steady beep of monitors gradually resolved into meaningful data as her training kicked in—heart rate elevated but stable, oxygen levels good, multiple IV lines delivering what felt like some excellent painkillers.
“Welcome back, sleeping beauty.” Hunter’s voice was rough with exhaustion, the relief in his blue eyes unmistakable despite his attempt at a casual greeting. Stubble darkened his jaw, shadows beneath his eyes suggested minimal sleep, and his normally immaculate tactical awareness had narrowed to this room, this bed, her.
“You’ve been keeping us waiting,” he added softly, one hand reaching to brush hair from her forehead with surprising gentleness from fingers more accustomed to triggers and throttles.
Eden tried to speak but found her throat too dry. He was already there with ice chips, anticipating her need before she could communicate it. His hands were steady as he helped her, supporting her head with the careful strength that characterized everything about him—controlled power tempered by precise restraint. The tenderness in this simple act spoke volumes about how their relationship had evolved from operational alliance to something neither had anticipated.
“How long?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Four days.” The muscle in his jaw ticked. “You died twice on the operating table. Once in transport. Doc says it’s a miracle you’re alive.”
“Not miracle.” She managed a weak smile. “Spite.”
His laugh was more relieved exhale than humor. “That tracks. You’re too damn stubborn to die.”
“Romano?” The word hurt, but she had to know.
“Both brothers dead. Operation exposed. Federal task force is still making arrests.” He squeezed her hand. “Your plan worked perfectly. As usual.”
She tried to focus past the pain and medication fog. “Carson?”
“Dead.” Hunter’s voice hardened. “Along with most of his crew. The ones who survived are cooperating with the feds, trying to save themselves.”
Eden absorbed this, pieces of memory falling into place. The rooftop confrontation. Carson’s final words about her mother. The shot meant for Hunter.
“Hey.” His hand tightened on hers. “I can hear you thinking from here. The doc says you need to rest.”
“Need to know.” She forced her eyes to focus on his face, cataloging the exhaustion and worry lines there. “How bad is it? Really?”
Hunter was silent for a long moment, and Eden felt her heart rate increase slightly. The monitors betrayed her anxiety.
“It’s...complicated,” he finally said. “Your plan worked better than anyone expected. The FBI found evidence linking Romano’s operation to similar networks across Europe. International law enforcement is involved now. And some verypowerful people are suddenly very interested in making deals.”
“What kind of deals?”
“The kind that come with immunity agreements and federal contracts.” A new voice joined them. Eden turned her head carefully to see Katherine Chen entering the room, looking impeccable despite everything. “How are you feeling?”
