Page 42 of His to Hunt

He sits at a desk surrounded by curved monitors, backlit keys glowing soft blue beneath his hands. The room is cold and dark, the only light coming from rows of data spilling across screens and the low flicker of movement on one of the larger displays.

He's wearing pajama pants—dark gray, hanging low on his hips—and nothing else.

His chest is bare, muscles carved in stillness, shadows painting sharp lines down his ribs and over his abdomen. Tattoos peek along his body, intricate ink shifting with every subtle movement.

And he's wearing glasses.

Thin black frames. Sleek. Unexpected.

They make him look almost human.

Almost.

He doesn't flinch when I step inside. Doesn't straighten. Doesn't greet me. Just shifts his eyes toward me briefly, then returns them to the screen like my presence is noted but not worth reacting to.

But I don't hesitate. Not this morning. I'm rested. I'm recharged. And I still have my pride.

So I walk in—shoulders back, chin high, wearing nothing but his T-shirt and the bruises he left behind—and step right up to him.

He doesn't stop typing, even as I stand right beside him. His fingers move fluidly across the keyboard, eyes flicking between screens, posture relaxed—like I didn't just slide out of his bed wearing nothing but his shirt and bruises. Like he didn't fuck me into silence and leave me to find my way out alone.

"You know, it's rude to ignore someone standing two feet away from you," I say, voice steadier than I expected.

He continues typing for a moment, then without looking up, replies, "I'd ask how you slept, but the fact that you could walk in here suggests I wasn't rough enough."

I let out a dry laugh. "Always thinking about your performance. How predictably male."

That earns me the barest twitch of his mouth—not quite a smile, but close enough to know I've hit something.

"I want my own place," I say before I lose my nerve.

The keys keep clicking. No acknowledgment.

"I'll stay under your name, or whatever you need to make your little rules feel satisfied, but I'm not living in your penthouse."

No reaction.

"I'll need a studio—an actual one. Wherever you put me, I expect space to work. I'll furnish it myself."

Still nothing, not even a pause in his typing.

"I want full control over my schedule. My movement. My time." My voice gains strength with each demand. "You can have what you want—what you claimed—but I'm not going tobe locked in a tower waiting to be summoned like some obedient little doll."

I pause. His typing finally slows, though he still doesn't look at me.

"You don't get to control everything," I continue, leaning closer. "Not my life. Not my body. Not all the time."

That's when he finally stops. He doesn't turn. Doesn't look at me right away. Just pauses with his fingers resting lightly on the keyboard, the blue glow casting shadows across the tendons in his hands.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he leans back in the chair. His head turns. His gaze drags over me—bare legs, bruised skin, wearing his shirt… again.

When his eyes meet mine, he smiles. Slow. Dark. Sardonic.

Like I just told him a bedtime story. Like I'm adorable for thinking this conversation is real and I actually have a choice in the matter. Like he's already heard what I said, filed it away, and plans to ignore all of it.

"You done?" he asks, voice soft, almost gentle. Not a warning. A courtesy.

I don't answer, but I hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.

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