Page 49 of Theirs to Hunt
Chapter forty-one
Reagan, Saturday 12:50 a.m.
Grayson knocks. The door swings open with no warning.
Behind it, the man Bobbie has been avoiding all night stands.
He’s tall. God, he’s tall. At least six-seven. His frame solid, as if sculpted from black marble. His smile is slow, like he’s been waiting for this moment.
His eyes, though. Those dark eyes speak more than anything.
“Reagan,” he says. His voice is deep, commanding, smooth. Denzel vibes.
He offers a hand. “You made quite the impression tonight.”
I take it. His touch is warm, firm, steady. Something about it immediately puts me at ease, despite the storm still brewing in my chest.
“You’re Anonymous,” I say, certain I know who he is. His presence fills the room, every inch of him larger than life.
“The owner of this place?”
“Correct.” His lips curve slightly. “You’re sharp. I like it.”
Grayson steps back, silent but observing, while my attention stays on Anonymous.
The way he holds himself, confident and unbothered by the world around him, it is clear this man is used to being in control.
“You must think I am some kind of savage for what I did to that guy,” I say. My voice is low but not apologetic. “But if you think I am going to let anyone put their hands on her, you’re wrong.”
“Good.” He responds smoothly, eyes never leaving mine. “I respect that. You showed strength when it mattered, and I appreciate it.”
I blink, taken aback. “You do?”
He steps closer, careful not to invade my space. “You are not playing at being strong. You are strong. You are a protector. And in my world, that is a trait I value.”
Grayson shifts behind me, but Anonymous does not care.
“I have been watching you, Reagan. How you move. How you care for those around you. It is rare. Most people think only about themselves.”
“I am not most people,” I reply, tone firmer now, matching his intensity.
He nods. “I have already learned that about you.”
He takes a step back, walking toward his desk, but his presence still overwhelms. Everything he says has weight.
“I want to offer you something, Reagan. Not for tonight. For when you need it.”
He reaches for a card and slides it across to me.
It is simple. Black. His name in gold lettering.
“Devon Carter,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper. “And my number. Anytime. Anything. Whether business or problem solving, I have resources.”
I take the card, pulse quickening. He does not need to say more. His eyes and his demeanor make it clear he is not offering this frivolously.
It is a statement.
“Thank you,” I say, unsure if I mean it for the card or the respect he is showing me.
