Page 21 of Hunter

He sounds like he’s apologizing for bleeding in front of us. Like he’s sorry the story hurts to hear.

I can’t fucking breathe.

The urge to protect him rides me so hard I clench my fists and press them into my thighs until the fresh gauze bites into the skin underneath. I want to murder the people that hurt him. I want to find every single one of those sick motherfuckers who held him down, who prayed while they broke him, and make them feel every second of what they did to him. I want to burn their church to the ground and make sure he never feels the pain of those memories again.

That’s a feeling I know well.

The same rage that made me charge back into that warehouse after Robby. The same rage that almost got Mike and Diaz killed last week. The same rage that’s been eating me alive for six months.

And now it’s roaring for this soft kid with the golden curls and painted nails who just sat here and told us he was raped while grown men prayed over him like it was holy.

But protecting him means admitting I care. That I’m not dead inside.

And caring means I’m not the monster I’ve been telling myself I am.

“That’s a lot to carry, Charlie. Panic attacks and nightmares are common after trauma like that. You’re not alone in it.”

Charlie gives a small nod, fingers still picking at his nails. “Yeah. I know. Some nights are just louder than the others.”

I can’t take it anymore.

I push to my feet, chair scraping loud against the floor. The room tilts from the leftover alcohol in my system, but I don’t care.

“I need some air,” I mutter.

I don’t wait for permission. I shove the door open and stumble out into the hallway, down the stairway, then out of the building and into the alley way. The cool evening air washes over me, and my stomach heaves. I lurch toward a dumpster and empty the contents of my stomach into it.

My whole body screams with the movement, but the pain is good. Honest. Better than sitting in there feeling like I just watched someone bleed and then wanted to wrap my hands around the wound to stop it.

I lean against the wall, chest heaving, and let my head fall back against the bricks. The smell of piss and trash heavy in the air. At least it doesn’t smell like smoke.

That pretty boy. That soft, broken, still-gentle kid. All I can think about is how badly I want to keep anyone from ever touching him like that again.

Robby’s voice is a silent encouragement inside my head. Telling me it’s good to care about something again, even if it’s this.

The door opens again. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.

Charlie steps out, the cool air catching the edge of his cropped hoodie and making the fishnets on his thighs stand out even more. He hesitates for half a second, then walks over until he’s standing a few feet away, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie like he’s trying not to reach for me.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, voice soft and careful. “If my story hit a sore spot… I didn’t mean to dump all that on you when you just walked in.”

I push off the wall too fast, the world tilting again, and step toward him. “Don’t fucking apologize.”

Charlie blinks, those smoke-blue eyes widening just a fraction. Then the corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to piss me off.

“Are you drunk?” he asks, the words coming out with just enough sass underneath to make it clear he’s not backing down. “Because you smell like a brewery, and you’re swaying like the building’s moving.”

I laugh once. “Yeah, I’m drunk. So what? You gonna lecture me, too? Tell me I need to be nicer? Fix me with your pretty nails and your gentle little voice? Huh, pretty boy?”

He doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head, golden curls shifting in the light coming from the building.

“How is pretty boy supposed to be an insult? I’m the prettiest goddamn boy in all of New York City.”

The words are light and sassy, like he’s teasing a friend instead of a drunk, raging asshole who just threw up in a dumpster. It should piss me off more. It does. But there’s something else under the anger now—a stupid, warm twist in my gut that makes me want to laugh for real.

I step closer, swaying without meaning to, towering over him in the dim light. The vanilla and berries scent on his skin cuts through the beer and vomit smell clinging to me.

“Yeah?” I growl. “Keep talking like that and I’ll show you exactly how pretty I think you are, twink.”