Page 23 of The Hunter

I pushed myself up again, struggling against the weight in my limbs. I had to see him. Had to know who he was.

“Don’t,” he said, stepping forward.

The moonlight touched his features now, half-shadowed, but my eyes refused to focus.

“If you try to stand, you’ll fall. Just rest while the drugs work their way out of your system.”

“Drugs?” My voice was stronger this time. Accusing. Confused. “You drugged me?”

I staggered forward, dizzy with fury and fear. I needed answers. I needed control. I needed to fight.

But the floor was like trying to walk on water, everything tilted and uneven. Before I could stumble a few feet, my knees gave out, and the floor rushed up to meet me.

Then a pair of strong arms caught me. Steady. Unshakable.

Warmth radiated from him, burning through the fog in my mind. His scent hit me again — cedar, soap, with something darker underneath.

He eased me back onto the bed like I was made of porcelain.

I should’ve fought him. I wanted to. But my body was too weak. Too tired. Too slow.

He pulled the duvet over me with surprising care, pushing my hair behind my ear. The gesture was too comforting. Too gentle. It didn’t make sense.

“Just sleep.”

And I did.

Chapter Eleven

Henry

She looked small in my bed. Too small for someone like her.

Or, at least, the version of her I’d built in my head.

Poised. Polished. Powerful.

The woman I’d watched at society dinners and charity galas.

The one who stood beside Victor Kane like a queen wrapped in diamonds.

But now?

Now she was curled beneath a wool blanket in the center of my stark, oversized bed that made her seem so much smaller than the woman I thought her to be.

Her hair was a mess, a chaotic halo of gold tangled across the navy pillowcase. Not the polished waves I’d seen in pictures. No pristine curls or flawless blowouts. Just raw, unstyled disorder. A smear of mascara clung to her lashes, the last trace of the mask she wore in public.

I sat in the corner of the room, my elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped loosely, just watching her breathe. Her chest rose in slow, shallow intervals, the sedative still holding her in its grip. I told myself I was just monitoring her vitals. Making sure she didn’t aspirate or crash.

But that wasn’t the whole truth.

Something in me needed to see her like this.

Unvarnished. Untouched. Real.

My dog, Cato, padded softly into the room, his claws clicking faintly against the floorboards. He paused near the bed, sniffed once, then walked toward me, sitting with a low grunt of approval, like he could somehow sense she wasn’t a threat. That she belonged here.

The thought twisted something in my chest.