Page 144 of Only the Hunter

“So he didn’t send you. But you moved here, and didn’t let me know?”

“When I moved here, I told myself I was more useful watching out for you from a distance. That if Scott was right, I was more effective figuring out if you were in danger if no one connected me to you.” He pauses. “If you hadn’t spotted me that day, I might still be out there.”

That takes me a minute.

“Out there because I’d convinced myself distance was the smartest strategy. Not because I didn’t want to be near you.” He pauses. “Though if I’m honest, that’s an old habit too. You were too young for a long time. And then you weren’t, but you were still Scott’s little sister, and I didn’t think I’d earned the right to be anything else.”

I think about all the years of it. Him at the edges of my memory—older, untouchable, belonging to a world I wasn’t part of. The way I used to track him across a room without meaning to. How I’d told myself it was just proximity, just the particular quality of attention he brought to everything.

I pull back. His grip tightens, not letting go.

“I’ve always wanted you,” he says. “Even if I didn’t know what to do with it.”

The kitchen is quiet. Rain taps against the back window.

I look at our hands—his holding mine—and suddenly I’m the one who wants to tell him everything. “That teenage crush? I thought I’d gotten over it.”

“Did you?”

“No.” I lift my eyes to his. “Not even close.”

He exhales, slow and even. But his eyes—those gray-blue eyes that go icy when he’s in operator mode—are anything but controlled right now.

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb grazes my jaw, and I feel his touch everywhere.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

Not I’m going to kiss you. Not the press forward of someone who’s already decided. We’re still straddling the disagreement it seems.

“I’m yours, remember?”

He leans in slowly. My heart thunders against my ribs. His hand cradles my jaw like he’s afraid I’ll break.

I pull back just far enough to breathe.

“Gabe.”

“Yeah.”

“Upstairs.”

He stands when I do and follows me.

In my room, the lamp on the nightstand throws a low, warm light. He closes the door behind him, and when he turns back to me, he stays where he is. Makes no move toward me.

He’s waiting.

The realization moves through me slowly, and then all at once. He’s standing there—all six feet of him, broad-shouldered and still, with rain-damp hair and something raw in his eyes—and he’s waiting for me to come to him.

I cross the room.

He catches me when I reach him, hands sliding to my waist, drawing me in. But even then, he doesn’t rush. He presses his forehead to mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between us.

“Tell me what you want,” he says quietly.

“I don’t want you to be careful with me. Not in here.”

His hands tighten at my waist. “I’m always going to be careful with you.”