Page 68 of His to Hunt

"Nothing you'd find surprising," she replies, her voice steadier than I expected.

"Try me."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "She thinks I'm in over my head."

"Smart friend."

"She also thinks you're dangerous."

I allow myself a small smile. "She's right about that too."

My gaze drops—once, slowly—dragging over every inch of her like I'm cataloging what's mine. And I am.

I reach for the first button of my shirt that she's wearing. She stiffens immediately, her breath catching. I don't touch the button yet—just rest my fingers there, feeling the heat of her skin beneath the thin fabric.

"Is this how you apologize now?" I murmur. "Dressed like you missed me?"

Her chin lifts slightly. "It was on the hanger."

"That doesn't mean it was yours."

"It was clean."

"It wasn't," I say, watching her eyes widen slightly at the implication that I'd worn it. "I can still smell myself on it. And now you, too."

I tilt her chin up with my thumb, forcing her eyes to meet mine. Her pulse races visibly at her throat, just above where my fingers rest.

"You walked out of this house wearing my shirt like it was a choice," I say, voice dropping lower. "And now you're back, looking like a contradiction I'm supposed to forgive."

She swallows, the movement delicate against my palm. "I didn't realize I needed forgiveness for doing exactly what you allowed."

"Then you misunderstood the arrangement."

"Did I?" Her voice carries a challenge now. "You said I could go. You texted me 'Soon' when I was out. Not 'Come back now.' Not 'You've been gone too long.' Just 'Soon.'"

"And yet you knew exactly what it meant, didn't you?" I counter, watching her carefully. "You felt it. The countdown."

She doesn't deny it, which is its own kind of answer.

"You want forgiveness?" I ask, unfastening the first button of the shirt with deliberate slowness. "Take it off. Button by button. Let me see what's mine underneath all that borrowed defiance."

Her breath stays shallow, lips parted, but her eyes don't leave mine as she reaches for the second button herself. Her fingers brush against mine, neither of us backing down. The fabric gives beneath our fingers like silk unraveling from tension. One slow release after another.

She doesn't speak until I slide the shirt from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor—soft, soundless, mine again.

"Why do you act like you're angry I went?" The words drop quiet. Honest. Not laced with bite or defiance. Just... raw.

I blink once, allowing the question to settle between us.

Her chest rises and falls beneath the thin cotton of her tee. She crosses her arms, not in defiance but something closer to self-consciousness, though her eyes remain steady on mine.

"You said I could go," she continues, voice softer now. "So why do you look at me like I broke something?"

I stare at her for a long moment, considering all the things I could say. The truths I could unveil. The possessiveness that burns through my veins like whiskey, scorching everything in its path.

"Because I did say yes." My gaze drops to her mouth, then climbs back up. "And you still left like it meant nothing."

She shifts her weight, fingers tightening against her arms. "It wasn't a betrayal."

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