Page 65 of Hunting Gianna

She’s a mess. She’s perfect.

I sit back on my heels, cock throbbing so hard it’s painful. But I wait. I want to see her eyes.

She blinks up at me, dazed, cheeks stained with salt.

“Why—” she starts, but can’t finish.

I climb up over her, propping her head on my arm, and brush the hair out of her face. “Because you’re mine,” I say. “Because I want you to remember who you belong to.”

She laughs, shaky and spent. “I don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Good.”

She stares at me for a long time, searching for something in my face. When she finds it, she smiles, slow and lazy.

“Come here,” she says, tugging me down. I let her. She kisses me, tasting herself on my mouth, moaning low in her throat.

I could fuck her now, split her open and fill her up, but I don’t. I just hold her, my hand cradling the back of her neck, her body melting into mine.

She runs her fingers through my hair, lazy and soft. “You’re something else,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.

I grin. “Yeah. But at least now you won’t forget me.”

She grins back, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she pulls me closer.

I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want her, and yet… if she were to tell me she wanted to walk away, I’d let her.

Not because I want to, but because I’d give her the fucking world, even if it meant putting an end to mine.

Chapter Nineteen

Gianna

Thekitchenhumswitha different energy now. The air smells like the leftovers from the lunch we grabbed yesterday. He moves around the kitchen like a wolf in a suit that doesn’t quite fit, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight around his biceps, the muscles in his neck flexing every time he glances over his shoulder.

I watch him from the doorway, one hand clutching the edge of the flannel shirt I stole from his closet. It drowns me, the hem brushing mid-thigh, the cuffs swallowing my hands. If I let go, the whole thing would puddle at my feet. But I keep holding on, knuckles gone bone white, like if I lose the fabric I might unravel right there on the peeling linoleum.

I can’t pinpoint the moment it happened, but I’ve fallen for this tall drink of fucked up and couldn’t imagine my life without his intensity in it.

He’s got the stove light on, as he moves, grabbing plates. It halos his hair, showing off the dark auburn in his brunette strands, catches the scar at his temple, softens the sharpness of his profile. He’s cut the chicken into even pieces and arranged it on two mismatched plates, taking more care with this than I’ve ever seen him take with anything except maybe me.

“You could have just microwaved it,” I say, voice pitched just above the sizzle in the pan.

He doesn’t look at me, just shakes his head, scraping the spatula in slow, controlled arcs. “Not the same,” he grunts. “Ruins the texture.”

“Jesus, who are you?” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my tongue fighting the urge to tease him harder.

He shrugs, but there’s a tightness to the gesture. “It’s not like I have a lot to offer, but I can cook.” The words hang there, naked and pathetic, and I want to go to him, but I don’t. Instead, I watch the way his hands move. How he wipes them on the towel, fingers flexing and unflexing like he’s prepping for a fight.

Something in me darkens every time I hear him talk about himself like that. He doesn’t see himself accurately, and I don’t think I do either. But I want to learn. I want to learn him.

He plates the food with weird precision, wiping a smear of sauce off the rim before carrying both plates toward the bedroom. I trail behind, all bare legs and nervous energy.

He sets the plates on the bed, then sits cross-legged on the far edge, leaving a gap between us. I crawl onto the comforter, balancing my plate on my knees.

We eat in silence at first. I watch him chase every crumb, methodical, eyes fixed on the food like if he looks up the spell might break. The chicken is cold at the center but I don’t care. I swallow the first bite and it catches in my throat, like my body knows I’m not supposed to be here, not supposed to be happy. Yet, I am, anyway.

Halfway through his meal, he sets the plate aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers drum a staccato on the ceramic, rat-tat-tat, a Morse code of anxiety.

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