Page 66 of The Hunter

Ariana had gotten creative over the course of the past few wake-up calls, asking me questions other than my name.

What was your favorite subject in school?

What was your first dog’s name?

What’s your favorite sport?

What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?

If you had to pick a favorite planet, what would it be?

I’d been too tired to care. Or maybe I wanted her to know these things about me.

So I told her my favorite subject in school was history because I liked knowing how empires fell.

Shared that my first dog’s name was Lars, a lazy golden retriever who used to sleep curled against my feet at night.

Informed her my favorite sport was baseball because there was something soothing about the rhythm of it.

I even told her my SEAL team nickname — Spartan. Explained I got it because I was the one who never broke. Never bled. Never begged. Never once considered ringing that bell during training.

Funny how full of shit that turned out to be, especially right now. I’d never felt so damn broken.

So fucking weak.

And I hated it.

I blinked against the dim light, my gaze shifting toward the windows. The shades were drawn, blocking out the setting sun trying to seep in through the corners.

My head still ached, but it was dull now, more from the gash than the skull-splitting pressure that plagued me all night.

I slowly sat up. To my surprise, the room didn’t tilt or blur. My stomach didn’t lurch. And I was only seeing one version of everything instead of three, which felt like progress.

I braced one hand on the couch and rose to my feet, testing my ankle. Pain flared for a second, but simmered down to a bearable throb. Still, I limped.

I heard a flurry of motion from the kitchen, then Ariana appeared, concern painted across her expression.

Her blonde hair was piled in a messy bun on the top of her head, and there wasn’t a single ounce of makeup on her face, but she didn’t need it. She was stunning. Even now with her brows pinched and lips turned into a scowl.

I hated to admit it, but I liked when she looked angry like this. Liked the passion. The fire. It was so different from the woman I observed for months on Victor’s arm. The woman who seemed as plastic and fake as a Barbie doll.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

I straightened, or tried to. “Bathroom.”

“You should’ve called me.” She looped an arm around my waist, helping to steady me.

“I’m feeling better. Not one-hundred percent, but I’m not going to faceplant. I promise.”

Obviously skeptical, she studied me for a long moment, her eyes examining every inch of my face. She must have seen something to back up my assertions since she slowly released me from her hold.

And I hated that I missed her touch.

“Leave the door open,” she stated, taking a small step back.

I arched a brow in question.

“I don’t need you falling and cracking your head open. I’d rather not have to stitch you up again.”