Page 53 of Pretty Little Trigger

CHAPTER 52

Alana

I’m sprawled on the couch now.

My skin is sticky with sweat and blood, the dried remnants of the night still crusting on my arm.

I feel a little safer.

A little. But beneath that, there’s a numbness I can’t shake.

Hunter just stepped out of the guest room, steam from his shower still curling behind him.

He’s barefoot, a towel slung low around his waist, his hand runs through his damp hair.

He drove me home. I asked him to.

He didn’t protest.

“Come on,” he murmurs gently.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I follow him, not really thinking, moving like an automaton.

Through the hallway.

Into my bedroom. The light is dim.

Warm.

He turns the tap of the bath, tests the water.

Lavender and bergamot drift up from the bath bomb he drops in without a word.

Then he turns to me.

“I need to get you out of this.” His voice is careful.

Almost scared. Like he’s worried I’ll shatter if he touches me.

I don’t move.

So, he steps closer and finds the clasp on the back of the jewelled dress, fingers hesitant.

It slides down my arms, pooling around my ankles like silk surrender.

Then he helps me out of my beige body suit.

His breath catches. Just once.

But he doesn’t look.

Not really.

He helps me into the bath and the heat wraps around me instantly, pulling a soft sound from my throat.

Not quite pain. Not quite relief.

Hunter kneels beside the tub, dipping the washcloth in the water.

He starts with my shoulders, then my arms. Slow.

Careful. Reverent.

He reaches for my hand, lifts it slightly, washing away the last of the blood from my skin.

Cleansing me.

What if healing isn’t some finish line I’m supposed to drag myself across?

What if the opposite of trauma isn’t healing at all?

What if it’s presence?

Letting myself take up space in a body I once treated like a locked room.

And in that moment, I decide to demolish every single wall I’ve built around my heart.

I strip off all my armour, until I’m standing there, bare, naked and utterly at his mercy.

I sit up slightly, water sliding down my skin.

“Hunter.”

He meets my eyes.

Everything in him is pulled tight.

Torn.

“Kiss me,” I say, a little breathless.

He shakes his head, jaw tense.

“Little Diamond, this isn’t a good idea.”

“I don’t care.”

“If we do this…” he breathes out, struggling, “there’s no going back.”

I stare at him.

“You would need to be mine,” he says.

“Fully. I can’t share you. I won’t. I do not love gently.”

My pulse stutters.

Something low in my stomach turns molten.

“I’m not asking,” I say, voice soft but sure.

“I’m telling you. Kiss me. Now.”

There’s a beat.

Then he’s on me.

He grabs my face like he’s been starving for it, like he’s done pretending.

His mouth crashes against mine—hot, desperate—tongue sliding deep like he’s trying to stake a claim.

I rise out of the water to meet him.

Our bodies collide in a fever of breath, wet skin and months of denied tension.

He doesn’t hold back.

Not now. His hands are everywhere.

On my waist, my jaw, my hair.

He’s pulling me into him like he can’t get close enough.

And God, I don’t want space.

I want him. All of him.

“You make me feral,” he mutters against my mouth, voice dark and cracked open.

He pulls away, looking up at me with wild, dark eyes.

“Tell me to stop.”

I feel safe here.

I feel wanted. There’s something erotic about safety—the kind that undresses you without touch.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

His hand holds my throat, thumb grazing my jaw.

And then he claims my mouth again.

Claiming all of me. Every last part.