Page 45 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter forty-five

I wake slowly, the way you do after emotional whiplash and too many tequila shots coupled with adrenaline.

There's a weight to the silence, thick and heavy, the whole house is holding its breath.

My head doesn't hurt, not exactly.

It's more the weight of everything pressing down, last night's adrenaline crash, the violence, Bobbie, the way Grayson dragged me out as if I was his to command.

I shift under the covers and realize I'm wearing nothing but a soft, oversized navy t-shirt and my panties. The shirt's worn thin with time and use, the faded U.S. NAVY emblem across the chest brushing my skin, a memory I don't own.

Grayson's shirt? I breathe it in before I can stop myself, all spice with a hint of cedar wood, something inherently him.

I exhale slowly and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. And I see him .

He's slouched in an overstuffed armchair beside the bed, one long leg stretched out, the other bent. His feet are propped on the edge of the mattress. It looks like the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't undress, didn't leave. He watched over me.

His head tilts back against the chair, five o'clock shadow roughening his jaw, lips parted slightly he drifted off mid-thought. There's a faint crease between his brows, whatever dreams he's having are still chasing him. Or maybe he never really slept at all.

I stare at him. His suit jacket draped over the armrest. The first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, tie loosened. A man carved from stone and exhaustion.

It hits me all at once. He stayed. No manipulation. No game. Just him. Watching. Waiting. Making sure I was safe in a way no one else ever has.

I should be angry about the club, about how he handled it, but I only feel cared for, valued. Precious. Other than Bobbie, that feeling hasn't existed for me. And that's almost worse.

I swing my legs out from under the covers, the hem of his shirt skimming my upper thighs. The cold air kisses my skin, but I don't move to cover up. I want to see if he'll notice. If he'll pretend not to. I walk to him slowly, quietly.

His eyes open before I can speak, lids heavy with sleep, but sharp underneath. He looks at me the predator I know he can be, cataloguing everything.

"You stayed," I murmur, voice still husky from sleep.

Grayson doesn't move, doesn't blink. Just studies me with those icy eyes.

"You were safe here," he says simply. He leans forward slightly, arms braced on his knees. His gaze drops briefly to where his shirt clings to my body, then flicks back to my eyes.

"I would not leave you alone," he says. "Not after last night. "

I cross my arms, mostly because I don't know what to do with them, and partly to feel less… exposed.

"You didn't have to watch me sleep."

"I wasn't watching," he says, voice low, worn. "I was… making sure."

It's such a Grayson answer, this man I have built up in my head, unapologetic, steady, wrapped in quiet intensity. "You didn't sleep."

His jaw flexes. "Didn't want to."

I pause, trying to find my footing.

Being cared for is something I yearn for.

I haven't experienced it from a man…ever. I don't want to misstep, to push away the dream that could be in reach "You look like hell." I say softly, not unkindly.

Grayson smirks, but it's tired. "You should see the other guy."

I raise a brow. "Did something happen?"

"No, I stayed here, but someone has been causing me to lose sleep lately."

I walk over, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. The contact sends something between us, sparking to life again. His hand rises, hesitates, then settles on my thigh. Not possessive or demanding. And somehow, that ruins me more than anything else could.

"You don't have to take care of me," I whisper.

Grayson's voice is steady, but there's something buried in it, something raw. "I want to. You deserve that and more, and I want to give you everything."