Page 41 of Hunted to Be Mine

“You should be.” But his good palm found my waist, a touch asking forgiveness he couldn’t voice.

Flakes continued falling, catching in dark hair, melting on shoulders. He watched my face, searching for fear but found resolve.

“I saw what they did. I saw the operative. But that’s not you.”

“You don’t know who I am.” The grip tightened. “Even I don’t know myself.”

“Then we’ll figure it out together.”

I leaned in, decision made before thought caught up. My lips brushed his, soft, questioning. He didn’t move, not responding but not pulling away. I pressed forward, more insistent. Fingers cradled his jaw, feeling the tension.

Three heartbeats frozen. Then something broke. That mouth softened, responding hesitantly. The uninjured palm slid to my back, pulling me close with careful gentleness.

The kiss deepened, white creating a curtain around us. First chill, then warm against mine. I tasted desperation and relief, fear and hope. Everything we couldn’t say wrapped in this contact.

When we broke apart, our breaths puffed between us. He kept his eyes closed, afraid to see mine.

“I’m still here.” The whisper found his ear. “Still choosing this.”

They opened, searching. “Why?”

I didn’t have a simple answer. Nothing simple here. I’d just seen his conditioning’s worst, and instead of running, I was sitting in his lap, precipitation melting in my hair, lips warm from his.

“Because I’ve seen enough to know what’s real. And the real parts are worth fighting for.”

He leaned his forehead on mine, breaths mingling. The damaged fist kept away, but the other traced my spine, probably reassuring himself that I was there.

“I don’t deserve this.” A murmur. “Any of it.”

“Not about deserving.” I pulled back to meet that gaze. “About choosing. And I choose to stay.”

Water melted in my hair, chills running down my neck. The moment was fading to practical concerns, his bleeding, our wet clothes, the temperature. I slid from his lap, knees stiff.

“We should go in.” I held his good palm. “Getting colder.”

He glanced at the door, then back. “I don’t think that’s good.”

I understood. The apartment that had been a sanctuary was tainted by what had happened. He repeatedly looked at my neck, where bruises would form.

“I can’t go back in there with you.” Quiet admission. “Not after…”

I squeezed tighter. “Can’t stay out here either.”

Flakes landed on dark lashes. “I’m not safe.”

“Not your decision.” I tugged him forward. “Come inside. Please.”

He remained frozen, conflict in every line. The bleeding had stopped, but exposure was making it worse. I needed to treat it soon.

“You’re bleeding.” I lifted the injured limb. “And we’re freezing. One problem at a time?”

After silence, he nodded once. I went to the door first, still connected, leading, not forcing. Each step behind me feltweighted. He paused at the threshold, as if he was facing execution, not shelter.

“I could wait somewhere else. Find another…”

“No.” I pulled him gently inside. Warmth hit immediately, showing how frozen we’d gotten. Water melted off us onto the floor, puddles at our feet. I closed the door, shutting out the storm.

We stood dripping, silent. He looked to where he’d held me, then away quickly, shame dark on his features. When he looked back, I stepped between him and that spot, blocking it with my body.