Page 132 of Only the Hunter

No sign of trauma.

“You okay?” My voice sounds rough.

“Yes.”

I search her face. Those brown eyes of hers are wide, alert. Cheeks flushed from cold and adrenaline.

Without thinking, I pull her into me and crush my mouth to hers.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not slow.

It’s relief and anger and fear and everything I swallowed down on the phone.

She makes a small sound against my mouth—surprised but not resisting.

I pull back just enough to look at her.

“You’re okay,” I say again, like I need to convince myself.

“I told you. It could’ve been nothing.”

I don’t argue.

But it wasn’t.

I just take her hand and guide her toward the door.

As I close the door behind us, taking care to lock the new deadbolt, the warmth of the house wraps around us, but my pulse hasn’t slowed.

She shrugs off her coat and drops her bag onto the sofa.

“I feel stupid,” she mutters, heading through the hallway into the kitchen.

“You’re not.”

Although what she did was stupid.

She opens the refrigerator, staring into it without seeing anything.

I follow. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her blouse.

“I was so pissed at you this morning,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

She closes the fridge and turns, nearly colliding with me.

“I thought you were trying to control me.”

“I wasn’t.”

Her chin lifts. Defensive reflex.

“I was trying to protect you,” I say more gently. “But I should’ve asked. I fucked up.”

That registers.