Page 49 of His to Hunt

"This is excessive," she says, glaring at the packages.

"You say that like it's a problem." I study the way her fingers dig into her arms, the subtle tells of conflict playing across her face.

She steps forward slowly, one hip cocked as she tilts her head. "You think buying me things is going to make this easier?"

"I don't care if it's easier," I reply honestly. "I care if it's done."

"So this is just about dressing your new toy?" There's a bite to her words, a challenge.

I take a step closer—just one, but enough to make her lift her chin and hold her ground. "I don't play with toys, little thief. I own things. And I don't like them looking like they crawled out of someone else's life."

Her breath catches slightly, a barely perceptible hitch. "You think clothes are going to change me?"

"No." My eyes trace her face, taking in every subtle reaction.

She huffs a laugh—dry, sharp, shaking slightly around the edges. "I'm not your doll."

"You keep saying that." I hold her gaze steadily as understanding passes between us.

She stares down at the boxes like they personally offend her, like they're proof of something she didn't want to admit. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and I can see she's itching to either open one and rip it apart—or maybe rip into me instead.

She doesn't realize it yet, but I'm already addicted to these moments. To her fury. Her pride. That fire in her eyes that makes me want to ruin her and worship her in the same breath.

It hasn't even been a full day, and she's already under my skin.

I say nothing. I just wait, watching the internal battle playing across her features.

"You expect me to just—what—pick one and pretend like this is normal?" she finally asks, voice low and clipped.

"No," I say firmly. "I expect you to finally understand what is happening and stop fighting."

She looks up sharply, green-gold eyes flashing. "You really think I'm just going to fall in line because you bought me shoes? Do you even know where I came from?"

I tilt my head, completely unbothered by her defiance, but intrigued by her statement. "I think you're going to fall in line because you already did. The moment you got on your knees."

Color rises in her cheeks, spreading across the bridge of her nose. Her lips part—defiant, ready to fire something back—but nothing comes. The reminder of her earlier surrender hits its mark.

"You want to play stubborn," I murmur, stepping closeruntil the heat between our bodies mingles, "but we both know how this ends."

She straightens her spine, shoulders squaring. "Not with me putting on a pretty dress and playing house."

I nod toward the nearest box, a hint of challenge in my voice. "Then pick something else."

"I'm not putting on clothes you chose." Her jaw sets, chin lifting.

"Then I'll do it for you." The words come out soft but unmistakably firm.

Her eyes widen slightly, just a momentary flicker of uncertainty. "You wouldn't."

I take another step, closing the distance between us. "You want to find out?"

We're close now, too close for comfort. I can see the pulse jumping at the base of her throat, the way her pupils dilate slightly. She can feel the weight of my voice in the space between us—steady, commanding, low enough to crawl under her skin and settle there.

"I can put you on the bed," I continue, watching her reaction closely, "tie your hands behind your back, and dress you piece by piece while you pretend you don't enjoy my hands on you."

Her breath stutters. She hides it well, but not well enough. I see the way her lips part, how her chest rises a fraction faster.

"Or," I say, softening my tone slightly, more coaxing than cruel, "you can open the boxes. Pick something for yourself. Pretend this was still your decision."

---