Page 35 of His to Hunt

The shirt continues its journey, revealing the bruised curve of her thighs, the slight jut of her hipbones, the smooth plane of her stomach. Her back arches unconsciously as she pulls it higher, over her ribs, past her breasts, finally freeing her arms from the sleeves.

The garment falls to the floor in a heap of fabric, discarded like it never mattered. She stands naked before me—scraped, bruised, beautiful in her defiance. Red marks bloom along her hips where my fingers dug into her flesh. Darker bruises pattern her inner thighs. A thin sheen of sweat and forest dirt still clings to her skin like a reminder.

She doesn't cover herself, doesn't shrink from my gaze. Instead, she turns to face me fully, allowing me to look my fill. Her silence carries more weight than any words could.

I remain motionless, cataloging every inch of her with deliberate attention. The swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist, the soft triangle between her thighs… Mine. All of it.

I step closer, movements slow and deliberate, giving her time to retreat if she chooses. She doesn't. "Let me see what I ruined."

Something shifts in her posture—a small flinch, a momentary hesitation—but she holds her ground, allowing myscrutiny without attempting to hide the evidence of what I've done to her.

"You didn't ruin me," she whispers, her voice carrying a tremor that undermines her words.

I smile, not with warmth but with certainty. "Not all the way, no."

Her eyes flash, something dangerous flickering behind them. "Is that the plan? To ruin me completely?"

"No," I correct her. "That's the promise."

She turns away then, as if my words have struck deeper than my hands ever could. Without further comment, she steps to the shower, turns the handles with practiced efficiency, and steps inside as steam fills the space.

Water cascades over her body—down her shoulders, along the curve of her spine, over the perfect roundness of her ass, between thighs that I would live between if I could. The heat draws the scent of forest and sex from her skin, replacing it with something cleaner but no less intoxicating.

She doesn't close the glass shower door, doesn't ask for privacy. I remain where I am, watching as she tilts her face into the spray, hands braced against the wall as if she needs the support to remain standing.

"You're not watching me shower," she says after a moment, not turning to face me.

"I'm not asking permission," I reply, voice even.

She exhales sharply through her nose. "You're standing there like a statue."

"Better than the alternative," I tell her, my voice dropping lower.

Now she glances over her shoulder, water slicking her hair to her scalp, droplets clinging to her lashes. "What's that?"

"Coming in there and fucking you again."

Her breath catches audibly, her body going still beneath the shower's spray. I see the conflict playing across her features—defiance warring with desire, pride with need.

"You come near me again," she warns, voice surprisingly steady despite the flush spreading across her skin, "I'll bite."

I make my way to the door, but then I turn back. My smile spreads slowly, anticipation curling through me like smoke. "Promise?"

Sixteen

BECKETT

The momentshe thinks I've left, I can see her relax.

She's still under the water, letting it cascade over her like absolution.

Steam coils around her body like smoke. Her head tilts back beneath the spray, eyes closed in momentary peace, lips slightly parted as if trying to catch her breath in a world suddenly too heavy with meaning.

She looks like something I shouldn't touch again—a masterpiece already marked, already sore, already claimed. And I know I should leave her be. Let her breathe. Let her pretend the last few hours didn't strip her to the bone.

But the longer I stand here watching her fingertips trail down the curves I've already mapped, the tighter my grip becomes on the doorframe. My knuckles whiten as water slicks down her legs, glides over the perfect rise of her breasts, tracespatterns across her throat where my hand had been mere hours before.

She doesn't know I'm still watching. She thinks she's alone with the steam and her thoughts. She thinks I'm finished with her.

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