Page 44 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 43

Hunter

Tonight could not have gone worse.

I’m in the elevator, heading up to Alana’s apartment.

I’ve been watching her building’s cameras.

She’s safe. She’s fine.

But I still kept checking, over and over, because I don’t know how to be still when she’s alone.

We’ve never been apart like this.

I wanted to text her.

Just a single line to say: You’re okay.

I’m coming back. But she doesn’t have my number saved.

A message from an unknown contact at 3 a.m.?

That would’ve only made her panic more.

And then there’s Samuel.

By the time I got to the office, he was already gone.

Of course he was. He’s one of the best. Almost better than me.

Callum looked like he wanted to apologize, but I didn’t want his words.

I wanted results. I wanted blood.

He wasted my time with protocol when I should’ve been doing what I do best. Getting ahead of the threat.

Now I’m back here. With nothing but questions and rage keeping me company.

And the worst part? I don’t know what to do.

Do I go after Samuel?

Hunt him down, end this before he makes a move?

Or do I walk away? Put distance between Alana and me?

Because being near me is what made her his target in the first place.

The longer I stay, the more she’s at risk.

And the harder it gets to pretend I can let her go.

I walk into the apartment.

The door clicks behind me as I step inside.

All the lights are on.

I take two slow steps, muscle memory pulling me toward the kitchen.

I can feel her energy in the air, thick and tense.

I grab a glass and fill it with water, trying to drown the taste of guilt on my tongue.

And then I hear her voice.

“Hunter?” Fragile. Uncertain.

She sounds so fucking small.

“It’s me,” I call back and my voice—God, my voice—is rougher than it should be.

She rushes in before I can brace myself.

Arms around me. Her body presses into mine like she’s falling and I’m the only thing left to catch her.

Her cheek brushes my chest. I can feel her heartbeat racing against mine.

And for a second, I let it happen.

I let her have me. I let myself be hers, if only for a little longer.

But then, I peel her arms off me.

“What happened?” The words come out low, clipped.

Mechanical. Because I know if I let even a drop of softness through, I’ll unravel right here in her arms.

She stammers something.

“I—nothing happened, but I was scared. And alone and—” She’s shaking.

I see it. I feel it.

And all I want is to pull her into my chest. Tell her she’s safe.

Let her crawl into my bed and bury her fear in me.

But I can’t be that man anymore.

Not now. Because when she looks at me like this, like I’m the only thing keeping her from breaking, I remember exactly why I have to go.

The space between us grows thick.

Unbearable. I force myself to keep my eyes on the sink.

The wall. Anywhere but her.

“You’re fine, Alana.”

I told her I wasn’t pretending.

And I meant it. So why am I lying now?

She’s not fine. I’m not fine.

None of this is fine.

But I can’t say what I want to.

Not without breaking both of us.

“You didn’t need me.”

I hear her breath catch.

Feel her pull back like I struck her.

I hate myself. She steps back.

The silence is deafening.

“You don’t get to decide when I need you,” she says, sharp and full of pain.

Then she turns, walking away before I can even breathe out her name.

And I stand there. Still. Cold. Dying.