Page 43 of Hunting Harbor

Kairo straightens, moving closer to me, his presence shadowing over me. His finger traces a slow, deliberate line along my collarbone, visible above the blanket. I focus on the call, not on how those fingers could make my legs tremble.

“Harbor?” Lila prompts when I don’t immediately answer. “You still there? How’s it going with Mr. Mysterious?”

I stare up at Kairo, trapped in his gaze as his fingers continue their exploration, dipping beneath the edge of the blanket to trace the bruises he left on my skin.

“I’m here,” I finally manage. “And it’s… I think I might be developing some kind of feelings for him.” The words come out stilted, strange, carrying multiple truths and lies layered together.

Am I playing along to survive? Experiencing some twisted form of PTSD? Or am I acknowledging that darkest possibility—that something in me recognizes and responds to the monster in him?

Lila squeals, the sound making me flinch. “I knew it! Details, Harbor, I need details. Is he as good in bed as he looks? Does he—”

“Lila, stop,” I interrupt. “It’s complicated. I can’t really explain it right now.”

“Oh my god, he’s right there listening, isn’t he?” Lila stage-whispers, audible to both of us. “Kairo, you better be treating my girl right! She needs someone to help her get out of her head once in a while.”

Kairo’s hand settles on the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “I’m taking very good care of her, Lila,” he answers, voice warm and personable—the voice of the man I met at the bar, not the monster in the woods. “Harbor is extraordinary. I’m making sure she explores all her potential.”

His double meaning makes my heart race, but Lila just laughs delightedly. “Well, you two enjoy your ‘writing retreat.’ Harbor, call me in a couple days, okay? I want updates.”

“I will,” I promise, the words feeling like a lifeline to a world that suddenly seems impossibly distant. “Love you, Li.”

“Love you too, weirdo.”

The call ends, and silence falls over the kitchen. Kairo’s hand remains on my neck, a gentle pressure laden with unspoken threat.

“That went well,” he says softly. “You’re learning already.”

I say nothing, staring at the dark screen of my phone, at my own reflection distorted in its surface. Behind me, Kairo’s blurred figure looms like a shadow.

“Feelings, huh,” he echoes, fingers tightening fractionally on my neck. “What kind of feelings, Harbor?”

I look up, meeting his gaze in the phone’s reflection. “Fear,” I whisper. “Disgust. Hate.”

His smile widens. “And?”

The word hangs between us, demanding completion—demanding honesty I don’t want to give.

“Fascination,” I finally admit, the confession burning my throat like acid. “God help me.”

“God has nothing to do with this,” Kairo murmurs, bending to press his lips against my hair. “This is between you and me. The writer and her creation. Or am I your creation? I’m still not sure which of us summons the other.”

As he takes my phone and slides it into his pocket, I wonder the same thing. And which answer will be worse.

Chapter Seventeen

Kairo

Aftertalkingtoherfriend, she seems her settled. We spent the day hanging out, playing card games. Watching her become emotionally vulnerable with me, hit me in a way I never thought it would. We even went exploring around the cabin. A small hike, but being outside seemed to do something to her. She picked some berries, wandered a bit too far from my line of sight, but I decided to trust her. And just like that, she came back, her cheeks flushed, her hair a mess. Just before five, she decided she was going to make dinner.

I watch her from the kitchen doorway. Harbor's fingers tremble as she chops vegetables, the knife unsteady in her grip. She’s not afraid of me. Not anymore. She feels something for me, she just doesn’t understand what. She knows I'm here without turning around—her shoulders tense, her breathing shallow. The cabin feels smaller tonight, the walls pressing in around us like they're conspiring to push us together.

The knife hits the cutting board with rhythmic precision despite her trembling hands.Chop. Chop. Chop. Harbor's auburn hair falls across her face as she works, and she tucks it behind her ear with a quick, practiced motion. A single drop of sweat trails down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her oversized sweater. It's not hot in here. Far from it. The mountain air seeps through the cabin's wooden walls, but Harbor's burning up from the inside out.

"I thought you might like some tea," she says to the vegetables, still not turning around. Her voice wavers slightly, betraying the calm she's trying to project.

I don't respond. She doesn't expect me to. This little charade of domesticity amuses me. She never cooked when she was at her apartment, so who was she trying to impress?

"I found some wild mushrooms on the trail today," she continues, filling the silence with meaningless chatter. "I'm pretty sure they're safe to eat, but I left them outside. Wasn't sure if you'd—"

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