Page 70 of The Hunter

“Thank you, by the way,” he offered after several uncomfortable moments.

“For what?”

“Everything. Especially for not letting me die.”

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I did, regardless of our circumstances.” I glanced his way before returning my attention to the pot.

“Whatever you’re making smells good,” he stated, his tone uneasy. As if he was just as uncertain how to act around me as I was.

“Tomato soup,” I offered a bit too quickly. Anything to take away from this awkwardness. “I’ll make some grilled cheese, too.”

“I’m going to sneak downstairs and grab some clean clothes.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I lowered my gaze to his ankle.

“I’ll use the railing,” he promised.

I hesitated. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? Distance. Space. He didn’t need my help.

“Take it slow.”

He made it to the first step before a low curse escaped him. “Shit.”

I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and hurried toward him, finding him leaning against the railing, his face scrunched up in pain.

“I’m fine,” Henry insisted through a tight jaw. “I can do it.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’ll be quicker if you just let me get it. If you keep pushing yourself like this, it’ll prolong the healing process.”

I could tell he hated everything about this. Hated having to depend on me. Hated being seen as weak. But he eventually relented.

“Code’s 4-0-9-2,” he said, albeit reluctantly. “The duffel’s on the couch. Don’t touch anything else.”

“You have a code for your man cave?” I attempted a joke, lifting a brow. “What kind of things are you hiding in there?”

He didn’t smile. “Just…don’t.”

His warning piqued my curiosity more than any locked door could have, and I carefully climbed down the narrow stairs.

The keypad beeped when I entered the code. The latch clicked, and the heavy door creaked open. Cool air met me as I stepped inside.

Whatever I expected — a couch, a punching bag, maybe a desk with a laptop — this wasn’t it.

Rows of monitors lined the walls, casting a pale blue glow across the space. The hum of machines filled the silence, steady and low like the purr of a sleeping beast. Some screens were dark. Others showed live camera feeds of the woods outside, the living room, the kitchen. One screen even had a clear view of the garage.

But my gaze snagged on one glowing monitor in particular.

A woman. Brunette. Striking.

I moved closer, blinking at the myriad of pictures filling the screen. Smiling on a sun-drenched beach. Laughing with a coffee cup in hand. Posing in a bathroom mirror with a messy bun andred lipstick. Image after image, lined up in rows. Some looked like screen captures. Others were clearly pulled from social media.

With every photo I examined, my heart pounded harder.

I knew her somehow. Her face and smile stirred something at the edges of my memory, so close yet just out of reach.

Who was she? Why did Henry have her pictures and social media posts displayed on the screen like some kind of obsession?

“Ariana?” His voice rang down the stairwell, sharp and impatient. “Did you find it?”