Page 138 of Only the Hunter

“You think she might tell you what really happened.”

“Maybe.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Or maybe she’ll feel guilty enough to give us something useful on Meridian.”

I reach out and rest my hand over his. His fingers uncurl, threading through mine.

“You’re telling me this,” I say, “instead of going alone and deciding later what I need to know.”

His gaze holds mine. “Yeah.”

“That’s,” I stop. “That’s different.”

“I’m trying to be different.” His voice drops—maybe because Jake’s still sitting there, still reading his phone. “You were right. I was making decisions for you instead of with you.”

That tightening in my chest loosens.

“Thank you,” I say.

He squeezes my hand once. “She won’t talk if you’re there. CIA tradecraft—no witnesses means plausible deniability.”

“I get it.”

“But I’ll tell you everything she says. Even if it’s just about my dad. Even if it has nothing to do with your case.”

That promise matters more than he probably realizes.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask Jake, recognizing we’ve been having a private conversation without acknowledging his presence.

“No, thanks.” He shakes his head. “I have a few things to go over with Gabe, but when he leaves—if you don’t want me here⁠—”

“You can set up wherever works,” Gabe says. Then catches himself. Looks at me. “If that’s okay with you.”

The question—the actual question, not an assumption—is appreciated.

“It’s fine,” I say. And I mean it.

Earlier today I would’ve bristled. Would’ve seen it as Gabe orchestrating my life. But after what happened on that sidewalk—the cold rush of fear, the certainty that someone was following me—I’m not too proud to admit I’d rather not be alone.

Not hours after.

“Kitchen’s through there if you need anything,” I tell Jake. “I’ll probably be upstairs working.”

Jake nods. “Appreciate it.”

Gabe stands, and I follow him toward the front door—away from Jake’s line of sight.

“You’re really okay with this?” he asks quietly.

“I’m really okay with it.” I tilt my head. “You asking makes a difference.”

His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing along my cheekbone. “I don’t want to be him, Evie. Your father. I don’t want you to ever feel trapped by me.”

“Then keep asking,” I say. “Keep telling me the truth. Even when it’s hard.”

“Deal.”

He leans down and kisses me—slow and tender, nothing like the frantic heat in the kitchen. This one tastes like a promise.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine for a heartbeat.