Page 26 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 25

Alana

I grip the door handle a little tighter than necessary.

The silence in the car is louder than any playlist I could’ve thrown on.

Hunter’s gaze is fixed on the road.

One hand steady on the wheel, the other resting casually on the handbrake.

I chew the inside of my cheek.

It feels like I packed all my chaos with me, neatly folded between my toiletries.

And still… there’s something about sitting here.

In the passenger seat.

That does something to me.

Something I don’t fully understand yet.

There’s a thrill in giving up control.

In letting him lead.

My brain protests, but my body?

My body’s already halfway to surrender.

I’ve been driving myself through life at full speed for as long as I can remember.

After my mom died, I learned to rely on the one person who always showed up: me.

Through grief. Through pressure.

Through independence so rigid it started to feel like armour.

And some days? That armour is suffocating.

My dad was always around and he loves me, but not in the way I needed.

He loves me like a tennis bracelet.

Like a new apartment.

Like a car delivered with a bow.

His love is real. It just doesn’t reach the places that ache.

So I started loving myself.

Or, at least, looking after myself.

I’ve never trusted anyone enough to relax.

To let go. To be held.

And maybe that’s why, for the first time in what feels like years, I don’t feel like I have to hold everything together.

Just for this stretch of road, I can breathe.

With Hunter in the driver’s seat, the weight slips just a little.

We arrive at sunset.

The Range crunches over a long gravel drive that winds through windswept cliffs and dark pine trees.

At the end of the road, it appears.

Jenyx’s infamous estate.

Perched at the very edge of a cliff, it juts out over the ocean like it dares gravity to misstep.

The exterior is a brutalist blend of matte black steel and floor-to-ceiling glass.

Sharp angles. No curves.

The ocean below is violent, crashing against jagged rock.

Hunter puts the car in park, but doesn’t move.

He takes a deep breath, rolls his neck, then turns to face me.

“How much are we performing tonight?” he asks, completely straight-faced.

He’s ditched the leather for a black button-up.

The sleeves are rolled up just below his elbow.

You can still see his tattoos leaking out through his collar, licking a trail up his neck.

And that has me starving.

For something other than food.

I run my hands over my dress.

It’s a short leopard print sequin number that’s unapologetically loud, unreasonably tight and undeniably me.

My usual rings and silver chains are stacked across my collarbones and hands.

A red lip. A pair of sharp, red Valentino heels that match it perfectly.

I look like a warning.

“You don’t have to overdo it,” I reply, ignoring the low thrum building between my legs.

“Let’s just go about how we normally do. Maybe walk a bit closer. Maybe hold my hand.”

His expression softens.

His jaw relaxes.

When he steps out and moves around to open my door, his hand finds the small of my back like it’s second nature.

Like he owns the space there.

My spine arches instinctively, because my body knows what my brain refuses to admit: I want him.

Desperately.

The front doors open before we can even knock.

Staff greet us, dressed in all black, of course.

Not uniforms. More… curated outfits.

Like they were hand-selected by Vogue ’s creepiest intern.

They don’t smile. They just nod and glide forward to take our overnight bags.

We’re led inside. The moment the doors close behind us, the air changes.

It’s cool. Heavy with the scent of salt, silver polish and something faintly floral I can’t place.

The foyer is all stone and glass.

Cold, clean lines. The kind of space where your heels echo a little too loudly.

But it’s the sculptures that stop me in my tracks.

They’re everywhere. Fragments of creatures.

Silver, impossibly detailed and just a little…

wrong. A leopard’s torso, but with wings instead of back legs.

A ribcage suspended from invisible wires, hollow and gleaming.

Beautiful. Haunting.

Alien.

“This place is insane,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

His arm stays around me as we’re led down a hallway toward the main atrium.

The glass walls open out onto a terrace overlooking the sea.

It’s lit with a dozen flickering oil lanterns.

Wind lashes at the cliffs below, but up here, it’s calm.

Controlled.

Hunter’s thumb brushes the sequins on my dress.

Barely noticeable. Probably accidental, but I feel it like a static charge.

My brain says don’t react.

My body files a complaint.

And there she is. Jenyx.

She’s tall, statuesque in the way of old marble goddesses.

Broad-shouldered, commanding, her black hair slicked into a braid that runs down her spine like a whip.

There’s an intensity to her.

A precise kind of chaos in the way she moves, like everything is deliberate but somehow still unpredictable.

Her voice cuts the silence, “Ah. My visionaries have arrived.”

I blink.

She looks… younger than I imagined.

Mid-thirties, maybe.

Flawless skin, piercing hazel eyes that practically glow under the soft lighting.

And yet, she gives off ageless.

Like she just decided she would stop time once she hit her prime.

She stalks toward us barefoot, wrapped in a kimono-style robe made of some kind of crushed silver velvet.

“Alana,” she purrs, taking both my hands in hers.

“You’re more magnetic in person. And this,” her gaze slides to Hunter, “must be the mysterious partner. You did not say he was this… sculptural.”

I cough to cover a laugh.

Hunter stiffens.

“I love what you’ve done with him,” she continues, circling us like a cat inspecting a new piece of furniture.

“Men like that are only useful if you let them haunt the room like a silent god. Good instincts, darling.”

I offer a tight smile.

I should be offended.

But I’m too busy wondering what it would feel like to be worshipped by the god haunting this room.

..

Jenyx claps once.

“Come. Dinner awaits. And then, when the sun rises, we work.” She turns on her heel and disappears down a hallway.

Hunter exhales beside me, voice low and close to my ear.

“We’ve been here five minutes and I already feel like I’ve joined a cult.”

The heat of his breath slides down my neck.

I shouldn’t react. But my thighs clench like traitors.

This is a performance.

Just a role. So why does it feel like I’m two seconds from falling apart?

I look at Hunter. He shrugs.

His hand finds my lower back again, guiding me forward.

And I tell myself to keep it together.

To focus on the opportunity.

The collaboration. But with Hunter at my side, his touch lingering on my skin and all I can think about…

is how much I want to misbehave.