Page 111 of Theirs to Hunt
We are in the kitchen now.
She is still in his robe, damp hair, flushed from the shower, leaning against the counter while texting like it is a contact sport.
"I see you survived the dragon’s den."
I glance at her over my coffee.
She does not look up.
"Barely. Your father downloaded a period tracker and texted me about my cycle like he was checking a stock forecast."
I blink.
"He what?"
She tilts her phone towardme. Sure enough. The thread is still open.
Grayson’s tone, as usual, reads like it belongs in a legal deposition.
Not foreplay.
"He also sent a training schedule," she adds. "Anal. Not cardio."
I let out a low whistle.
"You okay?"
She shrugs, then smirks.
"It is weirdly hot."
I rub the back of my neck.
"Yeah. I get it."
"Also," she says casually, "thought you should know, he is planning logistics like a man on a mission. Hot tip: sounds like PMS will be your department."
I step in, press a palm to her hip, and give her a slow, deliberate smile.
"Let him track it. Means I will know when to fill you with something worth keeping."
She freezes.
Then blinks.
"You... what?"
I shrug like I have not just handed her my deepest, dirtiest secret on a breakfast platter.
"You think I do not have a breeding kink?" I say lightly. "You. In my bed. Stretched out. Knocked up and glowing? Yeah. That does it for me."
Her face flushes like I had my hand around her throat in public.
I kiss her temple.
"If I have a say, I will bring you chocolate, rub your feet, and run you a bath. Hopefully for a reason besides PMS."
Then I back off. Give her space.
