Page 45 of Make Me Hunt
“You tried to play me last night,” she mutters, and I feel her gaze burning on the side of my face.
“If I wanted to play with you, it wouldn’t have lasted just a night.Thatwas a lesson.” I turn to look at her. “You’re mine. Get that through that thick head of yours. Look at another man again, and he’s dead. It’s quite simple.”
“That proves my point,” she arches a brow like she’s finally won this round. “I’m something that caught your curiosity, something to satisfy a need. Maybe boredom. But that’s it. People like you don’t choose…”
“What? Someone like you?” I ask, my gaze burning into hers like I am ready to devour every inch of her. Body and soul.
I don’t know what the fuck happened to her, but I’m going to fix it—no matter what that is. And if I can’t fix it, then I’ll have her broken. I’ll have any piece of her I can get. “In a way, I wish you were right. But it’s not the case. It’s not being one of my toys you should be afraid of. It’s not being one of them.” I say, letting the silence settle between us.
I didn’t want her to let her in on what I’m feeling this soon, but I think she needs to gain a level of trust to overcome whatever it is that she’s fighting with.
Maybe even trust that I won’t hurt her.
I know she’s strong and that she puts on a brave façade. Like she can take on anything life throws at her. But I also know she needs to feel safe. Because I have a feeling she never has.
We spent the rest of the trip without saying another word. I park in front of my house, slide out of my driver's seat, then walk over to her side to open the door.
I want to get her to open up, and snapping at her won’t help, even if staying quiet defies my very existence. She’s the kind who fights fire with fire, and that would only get us both burning—just not the right kind of burn.
I don’t ever know how the fuckIended up being the civil one. It’s just something my instinct tells me to do, even though I’m having serious trouble keeping everything locked in and going against everything I stand for. I don’t do gentle, I’m not the kind of man who listens or obeys in any way, but for some strange reason, I’d do it for her.
We end up on the back terrace, dim lights guiding our way until we reach the half-open part of the backyard, framed by the lit pool, a massive couch, a dining table, and a smaller coffee table a couple of feet away.
I lead her there, asking her to wait while I grab us a bottle of wine. The table’s already set; I asked the maid to handle it before she left. I gave everyone the night off, except for a few guards at the main gate, but they won’t dare come near the house.
There’s even an ice box with different refreshments, but I like to choose the wine myself. I didn’t know what was going on with Brynn, so I didn’t have anything specific prepared.
Now that I know what we’re having for dinner, I go down to the wine cellar and pick out a Domaine de la Romanée-Conti-Montrachet Grand Cru Chardonnay. Fancy name for a fancy wine with a fancy price tag. Perfect, for a night like this.
Just as I’m heading back to the yard, the doorbell rings. It’s our food. Right on cue.
I take the bags and then go to the table, where Brynn is waiting for me, casually scrolling through her phone, like she doesn’t do nervousness or emotions.
But the jokes on her because I can feel a person’s anxiety or fear. I pick up even the slightest trace of unease. And she’s bubbling beneath with all of the above.
She offers to help as I’m getting the food out of the bag, but I refuse. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.
It’s kind of a surprise for me too because I don’t really know what Manuel sent. My first instinct was to go with oysters, but even though it sounds sexy in theory, it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. And I wasn’t sure Brynn was in the mood to slurp ocean slime tonight, no matter how fancy it looked on paper. I’ll just save it for another time.
I dig through the bags and pull out Salmon Crudo with passion fruit and chili oil, along with some mini lobster rolls with citrus aioli.
Even after centuries, I’d have no idea what the dishes are, but Manuel made sure to label them for me, so I could show off as I introduce whatever the hell I’m serving.
I like cooking from time to time, helps me take off the edge. I’m actually pretty good at it. That’s why I wanted to cook something for Brynn tonight, right before she went and fucked up my plans. Nothing this fancy, though, more like seafood pasta, or a perfect steak.
Despite my best efforts to impress her, Brynn doesn’t seem to be tempted by anything on the menu. She barely touches her food, not the hors d’oeuvres, not even the pan-seared sea bass that literally melts in your mouth.
The dinner conversation is almost nonexistent. I know exactly why—she’s still pissed off at me and trying to make a point.
We both know this is just a façade and I’m starting to think I played this from the wrong angle. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my patience really wearing thin. Maybe someone could say no to the hors d’oeuvres, even the delicious seabass, but no one could refuse the lemon curd tart with toasted Italian meringue.
She glances at me, lower lip trembling, like she’s about to say something stupid. But I see her holding back, knowing there are limits she can’t cross. “I’ve told you before, I’m not hungry.”
“Do you like testing me, Brynn? Is that your thing? Push me until I break?” I say, straightening up, my eyes burning into her while her position is now somehow defensive. “I tried to play the nice guy. But that only brings out the worst in you, doesn’t it?” I really did try the nice guy route, figured it’d be the easy way to get information out of her. It’s not working, though. And I know exactly why. “You don’t like nice guys, do you?” I tilt my head, watching the way her fingers clench at the end of the chair. “You don’t want someone to take the detour and charm his way under your skin.” I lean in, just enough so she’dfeelmy words. “You want someone to fuck you raw. The way you know only I can.”
Her eyes light up, like I just unlocked her darkest fantasies. The ones she’s afraid to admit. The ones she’s afraid to let surface.
I don’t even think she’s pissed about earlier. I think she’s pissed that this version of me is harder to handle. It involves much more than the cravings of the flesh. And she’s not ready for that. Fucking is one thing. Sitting down for dinner and spending time with the person you’re fucking—that’s a whole different level.
