Page 83 of Hunted to the Altar
"Thank you," I breathed, hollow and broken but alive enough to keep bleeding for the chance.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
I sat outside her door, blanketless, pillowless, a sentinel of my own making.
The door didn’t open.
But it didn’t close all the way, either.
A crack of hope in a house still heavy with ghosts.
It wasn’t forgiveness.
But it was a start.
And I would bleed for every inch I had to crawl, just to earn my way back to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Nina
The soundof suitcase wheels scraping tile wasn’t usually threatening. But today, it echoed like a promise of violence.
I didn’t have to guess who it was. Mya never traveled light, and she never came quietly.
I was sitting just past the main living room, tucked between the edge of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the hallway leading to the bedrooms. It had become my spot—the one place where the sunlight still reached me but the shadows couldn’t quite cling. The wheelchair sat at a slight angle, my legs tucked under the knitted blanket that had once belonged to Samuel's mother, now my armor.
The elevator pinged. I wheeled myself forward a little, careful of the polished marble that still made the chair slide faster than I liked. The burn in my shoulders reminded me I hadn’t slept well—again. Too many memories. Too many ghosts whispering in the walls.
The doors opened.
Dr. Mya Caputo, elegant and fuming, stepped into the penthouse with a carry-on in one hand and hell in her eyes. Her curls were pulled back into a silk wrap, her stilettos clicked like gunshots against the marble, and the second she saw me, something shattered behind her perfectly lined eyes.
She didn’t ask how I was.
She didn’t greet me.
We hadn’t really spoken since before everything exploded. The last conversation we had was weird, clipped. I was already slipping into something I couldn’t name, and she was too far away to pull me back. When the trafficking happened, the silence between us turned into a canyon neither of us knew how to cross.
But here she was. Storming in like she’d never left, like I was still hers to protect. And something in my chest cracked.
She dropped her bag, crossed the room, and dropped to her knees beside my wheelchair.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered, taking my face in her hands. “What did he do to you?”
I flinched—not from her touch, but from the kindness. I wasn’t used to kindness anymore. Not when it came without strings. Not when it didn’t come wrapped in guilt.
“I’m fine,” I said. Flat. Practiced. Empty.
Her eyes narrowed. She turned her head like a bloodhound catching scent.
"Where is he?"
“Mya—”
“Don’t ‘Mya’ me.” She stood so fast the air shifted. Her heels spun her around like gunfire on marble, echoing with vengeance. Samuel was already in the room, standing stiff behind the couch, half-shadowed by the sheer curtains filtering in sunlight. He must’ve heard the elevator. He must’ve known itwas her. And he still stood there like a man waiting for judgment.
She pointed a manicured nail right at him. “You think I flew all this way to sit quietly? I’m staying a month. A month, Samuel Caputo. I’ll be in this penthouse every day, in every room, making sure this woman gets the care she needs. Mentally. Spiritually. You lost your chance to handle her heart. Now it’s my turn.”
