Page 42 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter forty-two

I guide Reagan through the office door, my hand resting lightly on her arm.

The tension in the air is heavier than the chaos we left behind. A moment balanced on the edge of something.

She’s angry. I see it in the set of her jaw, in how hard she works to look unaffected.

But I know her. I see the layers. Defiance, yes. Hurt too. Confusion. She’s reeling and searching for a steady point.

I intend to be that point.

Her eyes snap to mine, guarded.

“You’re not really a man of words, are you?”

I give a half smile. “Words aren’t necessary. You know what’s happening here.”

She jerks away. Instinct pulls me forward before I think.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she mutters. Not complaint. More like a fracture in her voice .

“Maybe not. But you’re here. And I’m not letting you walk away.”

She lets out a sharp breath. A humorless laugh.

“I’ve had to use a stun gun before. Creeps who wouldn’t take no. Guys who thought following me to my car meant they earned something.” Her voice cracks, just for a second. “But I never thought anyone would take it that far.”

She looks at me, eyes stunned and sharp. “He had his dick out, Grayson. What the hell.”

Her hand scrubs over her face, as if she can push the memory out.

“Therefore, women choose bears. At least they growl before they lunge.”

Her gaze slices through me.

I want to reach for her. Say something to ease it. I don’t. She isn’t ready, and I won’t push.

I turn for the door. The Garden District house is waiting. She is coming with me. Not for control. Because she needs someone to take the reins while the riptide still pulls.

She hesitates in the foyer, scanning the layout for exits.

“You’ll be more comfortable here,” I say, letting my tone soften. “Quiet. No eyes on you.”

She doesn’t answer, but the flicker of hesitation is enough.

She steps inside.

The house is calm. Nothing like the club. Nothing like the electricity still sparking between us.

“I don’t need your charity,” she mutters, but when I guide her to the couch, she sits.

“I’m not offering charity.”

I leave her for a moment. Let silence settle. The undertow has been humming all night.

When I return, I sit beside her. Close, but not touching. I don’t have to .

“You need to relax,” I say quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She turns to me, voice softer now. “I’m not the one running.”

My smile is small. Tight. “No. You’re too busy fighting yourself.”

Her body shifts. The fight isn’t gone, but it’s quieter.

“We don’t have to talk about this,” I murmur, my fingers brushing her arm. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t lean in either.

“I don’t trust you,” she whispers, testing the words.

I don’t answer. I don’t need to. I lean back, giving space without moving away. The offer is there. No pressure.

For now, we are here. That is enough.

Her breath stumbles, then steadies. She lets her head drop against my shoulder.

Not surrender. Admission. Quiet, but heavy.

I don’t need her full trust yet. What matters is this. She’s not fighting. Not fleeing. And for the first time in years, I breathe.

She softens against me. Her breathing evens.

I don’t want to move, but I know I must.

Carefully, I lift her into my arms. She stirs but doesn’t resist. That is enough.

I carry her through the quiet house. The tenderness in it surprises me, but I let it rise.

When I lay her in my bed, she curls under the covers.

I sit a moment, watching her breathe. Watching her let go.

I brush a strand of hair from her face.

“Rest,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

And this time, it feels like only the beginning.