Page 55 of Theirs to Hunt
I swing my legs out from under the covers, the hem of his shirt skimming my upper thighs. The cold air kisses my skin, but I don't move to cover up. I want to see if he'll notice. If he'll pretend not to. I walk to him slowly, quietly.
His eyes open before I can speak, lids heavy with sleep, but sharp underneath. He looks at me the predator I know he can be, cataloguing everything.
"You stayed," I murmur, voice still husky from sleep.
Grayson doesn't move, doesn't blink. Just studies me with those icy eyes.
"You were safe here," he says simply. He leans forward slightly, arms braced on his knees. His gaze drops briefly to where his shirt clings to my body, then flicks back to my eyes.
"I would not leave you alone," he says. "Not after last night."
I cross my arms, mostly because I don't know what to do with them, and partly to feel less… exposed.
"You didn't have to watch me sleep."
"I wasn't watching," he says, voice low, worn. "I was… making sure."
It's such a Grayson answer, this man I have built up in my head, unapologetic, steady, wrapped in quiet intensity. "You didn't sleep."
His jaw flexes. "Didn't want to."
I pause, trying to find my footing.
Being cared for is something I yearn for.
I haven't experienced it from a man…ever. I don't want to misstep, to push away the dream that could be in reach "You look like hell." I say softly, not unkindly.
Grayson smirks, but it's tired. "You should see the other guy."
I raise a brow. "Did something happen?"
"No, I stayed here, but someone has been causing me to lose sleep lately."
I walk over, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. The contact sends something between us, sparking to life again. His hand rises, hesitates, then settles on my thigh. Not possessive or demanding. And somehow, that ruins me more than anything else could.
"You don't have to take care of me," I whisper.
Grayson's voice is steady, but there's something buried in it, something raw. "I want to. You deserve that and more, and I want to give you everything."
Chapter forty-six
Grayson, Saturday 07:45 a.m.
She moves, sleep still clinging to her. Slow. Quiet. Barefoot across the hardwood floor. The shirt drapes halfway down her thighs, swallowing her frame. The most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.
I should look away.
I don't.
She walks toward me, her eyes clear now but guarded, the remnants of last night's events still etched into her face. It's in the slight stiffness of her shoulders. The hesitation before she speaks.
"You stayed," she murmurs.
I hold her gaze.
"You were safe here." She moves closer, arms folded, not angry, just unsure.
She's wearing something that belonged to me, and that shouldn't matter as much as it does. But it does. She places her hand on my shoulder. A live wire. My hand finds her thigh without conscious thought. Not possessive.Just a connection. Reassurance, for her or for me, I'm not sure.
