Page 40 of Hunting Harbor

A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. “Am I? I wonder how that happened.”

His expression doesn’t change as he grabs the coffee pot and pours two cups. He places the mugs on the granite island and pulls out a stool. “Sit. You need to eat.”

The command hangs between us, simple and absolute. My legs move before my brain can process the submission. I sink onto the stool, wincing as my battered body protests the hard surface. The blanket gapes slightly, and I cling to it tighter, suddenlyaware of my nakedness beneath it, of his eyes on the finger-shaped bruises on my arms.

“Where are my clothes?” My voice sounds smaller than I want, weaker.

“In the dryer. They’re… dirty.” His pause carries the weight of everything that happens in the dark among the pines. “I’ll bring you something else to wear after breakfast.”

I stare at him, searching for some sign of the monster, some acknowledgment of what he did to me. His face remains impassive, impossible to read. Only his eyes betray a flicker of something dangerous—a heat that makes me look away first, down at the plate he slides in front of me: toast, eggs, fruit arranged in a careful pattern.

“Eat,” he says again, taking the seat across from me, close enough that I can smell him—that expensive cologne now mixed with the scent of coffee and butter. Too close.

My stomach clenches, but I pick up a piece of toast mechanically, unable to disobey. Silence stretches as I take a small bite; the food is tasteless in my mouth. I am acutely aware of his gaze on me, assessing, possessive.

“It wasn’t a dream,” I finally say, the words falling like stones into the quiet. “What you did to me.”

His hand pauses, coffee mug halfway to his lips. “No,” he agrees simply. “It wasn’t.”

No denial. No apology. Just acknowledgment.

“You hurt me.” My voice wavers.

“Yes.” He sips his coffee, strong fingers wrapped around the mug with casual strength. “I did.”

My eyes fix on his hands—long-fingered, perfectly manicured, capable of such precision and such violence. I remember them around my throat, not quite squeezing but threatening. Remember them tearing fabric, exploring exposed skin, bringing me to climax. Remember them tangled in my hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck to his mouth.

“Why?” The question encompasses everything: why me, why the mask, why the chase, why the violence.

Kairo sets down his mug and considers me, head tilted slightly as if I’m an interesting specimen. “Because I want to,” he says finally. “Because you want it too, somewhere deep down. I just give you space to explore those urges, free of judgment.”

“Stop it.” I slam my palm on the counter, pain shooting up my arm from bruised flesh. “Stop trying to make this my fault. You kidnapped me!”

His expression softens into something almost like tenderness, which is somehow worse than cruelty. “I’m not blaming you, Harbor. I’m freeing you. From convention. From the prison of your inhibitions.” He reaches across the island toward my face.

I flinch away, the blanket slipping slightly. “Don’t touch me.”

His hand freezes mid-air, then withdraws. He nods once, accepting the boundary with such casual ease that it throws me off balance. How can he respect this small thing after violating every boundary last night?

“More coffee?” he asks, domestic again, as if we’re just any couple having breakfast in a beautiful cabin.

I stare at him, at the precise way he holds himself, at the calm control that never wavers. There’s no break in his performance, no crack I can exploit—just this eerie, terrifying normalcy layered over the horror of what he’s done, what he is.

And what terrifies me most, as I automatically push my mug toward him for a refill, is the thought that I might be more like him than I want to admit.

I lift the coffee mug to my lips, my hand trembling so badly that dark liquid sloshes over the rim onto my blanket-covered lap. Fuck. I set the mug down too hard, porcelain clacking against granite. Across from me, Kairo watches with those unreadable eyes, tracking every movement like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. And the sick thing is, I just sit here eating the food he prepares, drinking his coffee, following his lead like a well-trained animal. The recognition of my own compliance crawls over my skin like a thousand insects, but I can’t seem to stop it.

“You should eat more,” he says, nodding toward my barely touched plate. “You need your strength.”

For what? The question hangs unspoken, but my fork moves to spear a piece of fruit anyway. My body obeys his suggestion before my mind can protest. What the fuck is happening to me?

I keep my eyes fixed on my plate, avoiding his gaze while being hyper-aware of his every movement—the way his fingers curve around his mug, the slight shift of his weight on the stool, the controlled rhythm of his breathing. How his broad shoulders fill his shirt and his biceps strain to escape the sleeves. I haven’t really looked at him like this, unashamed. I’m half-shocked to see the start of a tattoo at his collarbone, disappearing under his shirt. My attention to him is both involuntary and absolute, as if some primal part of my brain needs to see him—to understand him.

“Your heart is racing,” he observes, voice gentle. “I can see your pulse in your throat.”

My free hand moves instinctively to cover my neck, fingers pressing against the flutter of blood under skin. I hate that he can read my body so easily, that he can see it and… something else… coursing through me.

“Stop watching me,” I whisper, but there’s no force behind the words.

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