Page 61 of Theirs to Hunt
Last night’s chaos still clings to me, no matter how many times I scrub my hands. I watched her sleep until the sun came up. Every small shift, every twitch of her fingers against the sheets, I catalogued it.
I could lie to myself and say it was for her safety.
But it wasn’t just that.
It’s because I need her close. Because letting her leave feels like setting fire to something I just learned how to hold.
I tilt my head back under the spray, let it hit the scar above my collarbone. Old injury, long healed, but it aches when the stakes get too high. And this? This is the highest I’ve ever bet.
She’s younger. Wilder. So fucking alive it makes my bones hurt. And I know, deep down, one day she’ll be running barefoot through this house with grandchildrenin her arms. And I’ll be gray, slower, leaning on walls more than I should.
But Brooks will still be there.
That’s why this works. That’s why it has to.
She’ll never be alone. Not if I build it right.
Her loyalty. Her selflessness. You can’t buy that. You can’t fake it. And she gives it freely, continually, despite any past hurts.
I saw the email she sent about the customer service award. Her entire team was nominated. Industry-wide recognition. And all she did was lift them up. No mention of the fact that she rebuilt that department from scratch.
Her neighbor? Elderly. Lives alone. Reagan brings her dinner, takes her to appointments. I only know because I’ve seen the surveillance notes. She’s not the kind to talk about it.
Genevieve was new, a little lost. Reagan made space for her without needing a reason.
She does that. Finds the ones who are easy to overlook and makes sure they’re not.
That kind of heart isn’t common. That kind of loyalty doesn’t show up twice.
You don’t take it for granted. You build something strong enough to hold it.
Not if I set the foundation strong enough now. If I do this right, she gets everything.
I turn off the water and breathe in steam and silence.
Today, she stays.
And from now on, she’ll know she’s not just wanted.
She’s kept.
Chapter fifty-one
Reagan, Saturday 10:20 a.m.
Ihead back upstairs to find my clothes and realize Brooks has followed me up.
I turn. I blink.
“Wait... is that...?” I step closer, recognizing the worn leather handle, the little scratch on the corner.
“How did you?”
“Spare key under your aloe plant.” He smirks.
“Come on, Reagan. You think we didn’t do our homework?”
I should be mad. Or freaked out. But I’m not.
