Page 32 of The Hunter

“That won’t fit.”

“Stop being difficult and put the damn shirt on.”

She didn’t immediately agree. Almost like she was trying to hold on to whatever autonomy or independence she could. In a way, it was cute that she was willing to freeze to death to make a point.

Finally, she stood, snatching the shirt from my hand. “Turn around.”

I leveled her with a stare, not wanting her to think she could tell me what to do. But I eventually turned, staying close in case she needed help.

Behind me, I made out the sound of fabric rustling, followed by a muffled curse.

I started to glance over my shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Turn around!” she snapped, her words echoing in the rafters. “I said I can do it myself.”

“I can help you,” I offered softly. “Your fingers are probably too cold to?—”

“I don’t need your fucking help.”

There it was again. That entitled tone I’d expected from a woman like her. A woman accustomed to everyone jumping at her command.

But there was something else beneath it.

Something raw.

Something broken.

“Fine,” I muttered, focusing on the fire again.

Cato padded up beside me, his eyes trained on her like he was trying to figure her out, too. He craned his head, a silent question in his dark eyes. A question I doubted I’d ever be able to answer.

“You can turn around now,” she announced after several long moments. What should have only taken her a matter of seconds took several minutes. She was stubborn. That much was certain.

As aggravating as it was, I liked it. Liked her fire. Her spirit. Even though I wasn’t supposed to like anything about her.

I turned and fought to keep my eyes locked on hers, but it was nearly impossible not to rake my gaze over her.

My Henley swallowed her slender frame, the sleeves hanging past her wrists, the hem grazing the middle of her thighs. Bare legs stretched beneath it, dusted with goosebumps and faint bruises, most likely from her fall in the woods. Her golden blonde hair hung in loose waves in front of her shoulders like a halo. Through it, I was able to make out some redness around her throat now that her scarf was gone.

Apparently, she and her husband liked to spice things up in the bedroom.

The thought shouldn’t have affected me, but the idea of Victor being able to have her like that made something angry and jealous stir inside of me.

I turned abruptly and stalked over to the hallway closet, grabbing a thick blanket and spare pillow before returning and tossing them onto the couch.

“Get warm. I’ll be back.” I looked down at my dog. “Cato. Stay.”

He obeyed, standing beside her like she belonged to him already.

“That’s his name?” she asked, her voice softening.

“It is.”

“Hey, Cato.” Lowering herself onto the couch, she smiled at the Chesapeake Bay Retriever. It wasn’t the painted, hollow one I’d seen in photographs or during galas. This one was real. Soft. Beautiful.

She stretched out her hand. Cato sniffed, then nudged into her palm. She lit up like the sun had cracked through a storm cloud.

This woman — Victor Kane’s pampered, spoiled wife — was sitting barefoot on my couch, wearing my shirt, and petting my dog like she belonged here.