Page 23 of Alien Huntsman

He joined her as she ladled the steaming stew into wooden bowls. Their fingers brushed as she passed him a bowl, sending a now-familiar warmth up her arm. She settled on the rough-hewn chair across from him, watching as he took his first bite.

“Good?” she asked, oddly anxious for his approval.

He nodded, amber eyes catching the firelight. “Better than anything I’ve had in months.”

The compliment warmed her more than it should have. She busied herself with her own bowl, letting the rich flavors of rabbit and wild herbs fill her mouth. The pups had settled into a pile near the hearth, their tiny bodies rising and falling in synchronized sleep.

“I used to dream about having a mother,” she said suddenly, surprising herself with the admission. “My mother died when I was six and then it was just me and my father. I loved him very much, but I still wanted a mother.”

He put down his spoon, watching her.

“When my father brought Lenora home, I was so excited.” She stared into her stew, watching the steam curl upward. “I’d arranged flowers in her room, helped the cook prepare a special meal, I even made her a small cake.”

The memory stung, even now. “She took one look at it and said she didn’t eat sweets. Later, I found it tossed in the garbage.”

His jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

“She was never very nice but she kept up appearances—until my father died and the mask came off.” Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for her cup. “She wanted the bakery, the house, everything my father had built. But I was still useful to her. Until she changed her mind and hired you.”

“Why would she want you dead? What threat could you possibly pose to her?”

She swallowed hard, setting her spoon down as her appetite vanished. The question brought back memories she’d rather forget—Edgar’s clammy hands, his breath too close to her face, his eyes that followed her every movement.

“Edgar Thornfield,” she said, the name tasting bitter on her tongue. “He’s the wealthiest man in the village. Owns half the businesses, including the mill.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold despite the fire’s warmth.

“Lenora has been trying to catch his attention ever since my father died. But he…” She looked away, her cheeks heating. “He only had eyes for me.”

His expression darkened. “The male with the terrible scent?”

She nodded, surprised he’d noticed. “He comes to the bakery almost every day. Always finding reasons to brush against me or touch my hand.” She shuddered at the memory. “The night you… took me, I think he’d invited me to supper but Lenora went instead.”

“Your stepmother sees you as competition,” he concluded, his voice a low growl.

“Yes. Though I never wanted him. I don’t think Edgar even wants me specifically—he wants a possession. Something pretty to display and control.” She looked up at him. “Lenora would happily play that role if it meant access to his money and status. But as long as I was there…”

“He wouldn’t look at her,” he finished.

“No. And he’s been getting more impatient. He told me that he was tired of waiting, that I’d come around eventually. That a girl in my position couldn’t afford to be choosy. I wasn’t sure at the time but now I think Lenora overheard our conversation and that’s when she decided I needed to disappear for good. If I wasn’t around, Edgar would have to settle for her.”

A low, rumbling growl erupted from his chest, vibrating through the small cabin. Her head snapped up, her eyes widening at the sound. It wasn’t just anger in that sound—there was something else, something primal and possessive that made her breath catch.

“Edgar will never touch you.” The words came out as a promise, each syllable punctuated with barely contained fury.

She stared at him, heart racing. She should have been frightened by the predatory gleam in his amber eyes, by the way his claws had partially extended, digging small grooves into the wooden tabletop. But instead of fear, a strange warmth bloomed in her chest.

“You’re not… scared of me?” he asked, seeming surprised by her reaction. His growl had tapered off, but tension still radiated from his powerful body.

“No,” she admitted softly, surprising herself with the truth of it. “I probably should be, but I’m not.”

He studied her face, confusion replacing some of the anger. “Most humans would be running for the door.”

“I’m not most humans,” she replied, daring to reach across the table. Her fingers hovered inches from his clenched fist. “And I think you know that.”

His eyes tracked her movement, the gold in them seeming to glow brighter. Slowly, deliberately, he uncurled his fingers and turned his palm upward, allowing her to place her small hand in his.

“No,” he agreed, his voice rough. “You’re not.”

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