Page 35 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 34

Hunter

I’m waiting outside her bedroom door with my arms crossed, back against the wall .

It’s been five minutes.

Not that I’m counting.

She’s getting dressed for our morning training session.

Her idea, not mine. Even though it’s her birthday.

Even though I would’ve given her the day off.

Hell, I would’ve given her the world if she asked.

I couldn’t tell her what her real birthday gift was.

Not yet. So I gave her a cupcake.

A stupid, pink-frosted little thing from the bakery down the street.

One candle. Lit it myself like an idiot.

She smiled. Made a wish.

Took a bite like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did. It meant everything.

She deserves so much more than that cupcake.

More than me…

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I slide it out and glance at the screen.

Michael Ashby:

You and Alana still training this morning?

Or you giving her the morning off because it’s her birthday?

I smirk, thumbs tapping.

Me:

No can do, sir.

Villains don’t rest.

We need her strong.

I pause, reading over the message before I send it.

The words are true, but also not.

She is getting stronger.

Fitter. More focused.

But training isn’t just for her anymore.

It’s for me too. My excuse to stay close.

To touch her. To lose control in tiny, measured doses.

I hit send.

Another message pings.

Michael Ashby:

Great.

I need your help.

After training, bring her down to where the Range is parked.

I’ve got a birthday surprise.

I stare at the screen a second longer than I should.

A surprise? Of course.

He always shows up for her, even when she doesn’t see it coming.

I tuck the phone away.

Right on cue, her door creaks open.

She walks out in black leggings, a fitted tank, hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

No makeup. Eyes sharp.

Cheeks still flushed from sleep.

The hoodie’s gone. And she looks lethal.

“Ready?” she asks, one brow raised.

Not even close. But I nod anyway.

“Let’s go.”

We head to the gym in silence.

The moment the door closes behind us, something shifts.

She drops into stretches without prompting.

Focused. Present. Fluid.

I watch her move and feel something in my chest crack open just a little more.

I toss her the gloves.

“Wanna spar?” I ask.

She grins, pulling them on with a snap.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

She lands a hit.

Not perfect, but the form’s cleaner.

More precise. Controlled.

She’s been fighting me for days.

Fighting herself harder.

But this? This is progress.

I nod once, letting it show just a little.

My jaw’s tight, but my voice is steady.

“Good girl.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Low. Offhand. Like they don’t mean anything.

But they do. Her eyes flash.

A flicker of surprise.

Something else. Then she rolls them hard enough to dislocate a thought.

“Say that again and I’ll deck you.”

I smirk despite myself.

God, she’s infuriating.

Brilliant. Impossible.

“You’re welcome to try.”

She ducks under my swing and uses the angle of her hips to pivot cleanly out of the way.

I’m impressed.

I’m aroused.

I’m in trouble.

“Again,” I say.

She comes at me—right hook, low jab, step back—and I catch her by the waist mid-turn, pulling her momentum into my chest. Her body slams into mine with a breathless laugh.

Her hands land on my chest. Her face is inches from mine.

“Careful,” I murmur.

“You’re getting cocky.”

She smirks, breath fanning across my throat.

“Maybe I like the view from up here.”

God help me.

I let her go. Slowly.

We go again. And again.

By the third round, we’re both slick with sweat.

Her tank clings to her like a second skin.

Strands of her hair fall loose, framing her face in wild, glorious defiance.

She goes for a strike and I block it, but not before her foot slips on the mat.

I catch her mid-fall.

Again. Her back slams into my chest. I hold her steady with one arm wrapped around her middle.

“Still think you can take me?” I murmur at her ear.

She exhales. “Still think you can stop me?”

Fuck.

I think I love this woman.

I let her go. “Time,” I say, stepping back, needing the space like oxygen.

She pulls off her gloves and looks at me.

She’s sweat-slicked, glowing, radiant.

I know, without question, she’s never looked more beautiful.

And I’m never going to survive this.

“Come on,” I say, trying to keep my voice even.

“There’s a surprise waiting for you downstairs.”

Her brows lift, curious.

“What kind of surprise?”

“You’ll see.”

And as we walk side by side to the elevator, I know I’ve already given her the one thing I swore I never would.

My traitorous heart.