Page 67 of His to Hunt

She walks away with all the fire she brought in, heels clicking like punctuation marks against the rooftop tile. I watch her disappear through the glass doors before turningback toward the skyline, letting the city's vastness wash over me.

The air tastes different now. Clearer, somehow, after unburdening myself.

But beneath that clarity, there's something else—a current, an electricity, a warning. Like something's coming. I don't know what precisely, but I can feel the shift in pressure, the way the air changes before a storm.

As I reach for my phone to call a car, I see the text from Beckett waiting there.

One word.

Soon.

My fingers hover over the screen, a chill running down my spine despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. Not fear, exactly. A premonition.

And I had a feeling it had to do with my payment for my time out with Avery.

Twenty-Five

BECKETT

The elevatorhums low and distant as I sit in the leather chair by the window, a glass of untouched scotch in my hand. The city stretches beneath my feet like something I conquered long ago, but my eyes aren't on the skyline. They're fixed on the front door, waiting for the sound of her return.

For the proof that she's back under my roof. Back where she belongs.

She left today—just for a few hours. A harmless outing with a friend. I said yes. I gave her that small freedom, that brief taste of the world outside these walls. And still, every cell in my body has been vibrating with the hollow ache of her absence. The dissonance of knowing she's breathing somewhere else, smiling for someone who isn't me.

Every second she's been gone, I've been waiting for the world to realize what I already know. She doesn't belong to them.

The door clicks—soft, controlled, but not fast enough to hide the hesitation in her fingers as the lock gives way.

Good. Let her hesitate. Let her feel it. Let her wonder what it cost her, walking out of here like freedom doesn't come with a leash wrapped around my fist.

I don't turn to face her right away. I let her walk in, let her find me here—calm and still, as though I hadn't spent the last hour watching the footage from the rooftop camera. Her smile had been too easy there, her eyes too open, her skin too far from my touch.

She stops a few feet inside the room. I hear the faint catch of her breath. A small, involuntary reaction that tells me she's already calculating what comes next.

I still don't look at her. Instead, I speak in a voice low, smooth, carved from quiet rage, "Did you enjoy your sunlight, little thief?"

She doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches between us, weighted with all the things neither of us is saying.

I finally rise, slow and deliberate, setting the glass down without a sound. Then I turn to face her.

She's wearing one of my button-ups—the one I wore yesterday, still carrying my scent. She's tucked it casually into jeans I bought her, sleeves rolled to her elbows in that effortless way that makes her look both delicate and defiant. The shirt isn't just clothing anymore; she's wearing it like it's hers now, like my presence has soaked into every thread and she's claimed it.

I'm once again taken aback by her beauty, standing there with long auburn hair twisted atop her head and a timid expression. Her mask is off. Her guard is up. But her eyes—God, her eyes still flicker when they land on mine, like something inside her recognizes that the hunt never really ended.

"I let you go," I say softly, taking a measured step toward her. "I gave you a taste."

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out. We both know what this moment means—the reckoning after the reprieve.

"And now," I murmur, each step bringing me closer, my movements deliberately slow, predatory, silent, "I collect."

She doesn't speak when I stop in front of her. Doesn't ask what I'm thinking. Doesn't try to explain where she's been or what she said to her friend. She just stands there—silent, waiting, a storm contained in soft denim and borrowed cotton.

I notice everything about her—the way her jeans hang loose on her frame, already streaked with dried paint in pale tones I don't recognize. Not from today. Not from her outing with Avery. From some quiet moment in her studio I wasn't invited to witness. She's been living in my house without me. Wearing my shirt. Staining my gifts. Taming her fire in corners I didn't light for her.

And still—she walked back in like none of it meant anything.

"Did Avery have anything interesting to say?" I ask, circling her slowly.

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