Page 54 of Theirs to Hunt
I crouch, close enough for him to smell the bourbon on my breath. “You don’t get to die clean. That would be mercy. And this isn’t about mercy.”
He starts to beg again. Slurred. Broken. Every word a waste of breath.
Brooks finally speaks, his voice vibrating with fury. “Hold him.”
He moves in, fast, practiced.
The sound that follows is one you never forget. Flesh parting. Not deep. Precise.
The man shrieks until he gags on it.
We don’t react. We don’t flinch.
Brooks stands beside him, holding a gloved hand out to Devon as if offering a gift.
In it, the most literal piece of justice.
Devon walks to the fence. The gators are already circling.
He drops the severed flesh into the pen.
The splash is small. The frenzy is not.
Devon turns back to the man, whose face is a wax mask of shock and agony.
“Every time you piss through a catheter,” he says coldly, “you’ll remember what it means to hurt a woman in my city.”
And with that, the lesson is permanent.
Chapter forty-five
Reagan, Saturday 07:45 a.m.
Iwake slowly, the way you do after emotional whiplash and too many tequila shots coupled with adrenaline.
There's a weight to the silence, thick and heavy, the whole house is holding its breath.
My head doesn't hurt, not exactly.
It's more the weight of everything pressing down, last night's adrenaline crash, the violence, Bobbie, the way Grayson dragged me out as if I was his to command.
I shift under the covers and realize I'm wearing nothing but a soft, oversized navy t-shirt and my panties. The shirt's worn thin with time and use, the faded U.S. NAVY emblem across the chest brushing my skin, a memory I don't own.
Grayson's shirt? I breathe it in before I can stop myself, all spice with a hint of cedar wood, something inherently him.
I exhale slowly and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. And I see him.
He's slouched in an overstuffed armchair beside the bed, one long leg stretched out, the other bent. His feet are propped on the edge of the mattress. It looks like the most natural thing in the world.
He didn't undress, didn't leave. He watched over me.
His head tilts back against the chair, five o'clock shadow roughening his jaw, lips parted slightly he drifted off mid-thought. There's a faint crease between his brows, whatever dreams he's having are still chasing him. Or maybe he never really slept at all.
I stare at him. His suit jacket draped over the armrest. The first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, tie loosened. A man carved from stone and exhaustion.
It hits me all at once. He stayed. No manipulation. No game. Just him. Watching. Waiting. Making sure I was safe in a way no one else ever has.
I should be angry about the club, about how he handled it, but I only feel cared for, valued. Precious. Other than Bobbie, that feeling hasn't existed for me. And that's almost worse.
