Page 90 of Cursed

“I thought we could watch that medical drama you like,” he says, setting his phone down. “The one you used to watch every night before bed.”

The fact that he knows my nightly routine isn’t surprising—he’s been watching me through cameras long before the Hunt—but the fact that he’s acknowledging it so casually, without using it as leverage, feels strange.

“Why?” I ask.

“Why what?”

“Why takeout and TV? That’s not...” I gesture vaguely between us, “what we do.”

Landon stares at me for a long moment, his steel-blue eyes unreadable. Finally, he leans back, maintaining that calculating distance that always makes me feel like I’m being observed under a microscope.

“Does everything need to have an ulterior motive?”

“With you? Yes.”

A smile curves his lips, not reaching his eyes. “Fair enough.” He takes another sip of whiskey, and I notice how his throat works as he swallows. It’s strange how familiar his body has become to me—every scar, every tattoo, every muscle, and every movement. I’ve mapped him with my hands and mouth as thoroughly as he’s mapped me.

“Maybe I want a different pace tonight,” he says finally.

“Different how?”

He shrugs. “We’ve established I can take whatever I want from you.” His gaze travels over me. “I’ve proven that repeatedly.”

My cheeks heat at the memory of all the ways he’s claimed me over the past few weeks.

“But maybe I want to see what it’s like when you’re not afraid of me. When you’re not fighting me.” His voice drops. “Just for one night.”

I narrow my eyes. “So this is an experiment.”

“Everything with you is an experiment, little butterfly.” He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re the most fascinating specimen I’ve ever studied.”

“I’m not a lab rat, Landon.”

“No.” His fingers linger. “You’re far more valuable.”

The intensity in his eyes makes me look away. It’s easier to handle Landon when he’s being cruel—at least then I know where I stand. This gentler version feels more dangerous, like quicksand disguised as solid ground.

Landon grabs the remote and turns on the TV, flipping through channels until he finds my medical drama. Without warning, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him.

I stiffen. This feels wrong—too normal, too couple-like. This isn’t what we are. We’re hunter and hunted. Captor and captive. Monster and... whatever I’ve become.

“Relax,” he murmurs against my hair. “I’m not going to hurt you. Not tonight.”

Thenot tonighthangs between us, a reminder that this reprieve is temporary.

I exhale and let myself sink into him just a little. His body is warm and solid, his expensive cologne mingling with the natural scent of his skin.

On screen, doctors rush a patient through hospital corridors while dramatic music swells. I’ve seen this episode before, but Landon watches with apparent interest, occasionally asking questions about character backgrounds.

“She’s sleeping with the chief of surgery,” I explain when he seems confused by a lingering glance between characters. “It’s been a whole subplot for three seasons.”

The doorbell rings, and Landon untangles himself from me with surprising reluctance. “Food’s here.”

I watch him walk to the door and notice how graceful he is. Even in this mundane moment, he moves like a stalking beast.

He returns with bags of fragrant Thai food, sets them on the coffee table, and pulls out containers and chopsticks. No plates, no pretense of formality. Just containers passed between us as we eat directly from them.

“Try this,” he says, holding out a piece of ginger chicken with his chopsticks.