Page 48 of His to Hunt

I was mesmerized by the way she pushed back at every turn—just as much as it fucking irritated the shit out of me.

The way she dropped to her knees like it killed her pride, the way her lips parted like they were built for silence and surrender, the way her eyes glared up at me even as she choked on my cock and moaned around it.

She's not broken. She's becoming.

And if I'm not careful, I'll catch myself wanting more of it. Wanting her. Not just under me. But everywhere. Every second. An unwarranted distraction in the middle of my perfectly curated life.

I push my glasses up again and sit forward, cracking my neck once before attempting to refocus. Three lines in, I delete them all and curse under my breath.

She's pacing somewhere down the hall. I can hear her footfall—light, bare, cautious. I told her to eat, but I doubt she's touched anything. I told her to help herself, but girls like her never do, not without a push.

Which means I'll probably find her in the kitchen later—starving, stubborn, pretending she's fine while her stomach gnaws at her pride. The thought makes me inexplicably irritated.

I stare at the screen for another full minute before closing the terminal. This can wait. She can't.

When I enter the kitchen, she's standing near the island with her hand wrapped around a mug, looking like she's trying to pretend this is normal.

The coffee's half gone. The food I left out is barely touched.

I pause on the other side of the island, letting the silence stretch between us. She doesn't look up right away, but her body tenses. She feels my presence. I know she does.

"You should eat," I say finally, breaking the quiet.

Her eyes flick to mine briefly before returning to the mug. "I'm not hungry."

I raise a brow, studying the tension in her shoulders. "You will be. I don't plan on being gentle when I claim my cunt tonight."

Her hand tightens around the mug, knuckles whitening.

I watch her for another moment—the way tension pulls tight across her shoulders, the way she shifts her weight like the tile's too cold for her feet but she's too proud to move. The silence between us is almost tangible, charged with everything we're not saying.

Then the buzzer cuts through the air—sharp, direct, echoing through the space. She flinches visibly.

I don't.

"That's for you," I say calmly, already turning toward the entry.

She stays frozen in place, watching me warily as I walk to the door. When I open it, the hallway is filled with boxes, each bearing designer labels, matte black packaging, silver-foil logos stamped across the tops. Someone took care with the presentation. I didn't ask them to. They just know who they're delivering to.

I nod once to the courier and wave them off. No signature needed. No words necessary.

When I turn, she's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes narrowed at the stack like it might bite her.

"You ordered me clothes," she says, the statement somewhere between accusation and question.

"Obviously."

"Makeup."

"Yes."

"Shoes."

I lean against the wall, watching her reaction. "Vetted by a stylist who actually knows what you need."

She crosses her arms over her chest, her stance defensive. "This isn't generosity."

I smirk, appreciating her perception. "No. It's control."

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