Page 37 of Only the Hunter

I also have a cat that mostly sleeps and when awake is somewhat antisocial, but I still wouldn’t want to leave him behind.

“I’m not going to live my life like a suspect.”

“Not asking you to. I’m asking you to be smart. Safe.”

The word hangs between us. Safe.

I should argue. Should tell him I can take care of myself, that I’ve been doing it for years, that his protective instincts are misplaced. But the truth is, I don’t want to be alone tonight. And if I dig deeper—which I won’t—he makes me feel safe.

“Fine,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “But I have ground rules.”

His mouth quirks, almost a smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“This is temporary. A few days, max. And you’re not shadowing me at work.”

“Agreed.”

“And you’re not—” I pause, searching for the right word. Protecting me sounds too vulnerable. Babysitting me too defensive. “You’re not running my life.”

“Evie.” He pulls into an apartment building parking lot and shifts into park, turning to face me. “I’m just trying to keep you alive.”

The way he says it—simple, matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—brings a level of warmth to my chest that is best to leave unexamined.

“Then we’re on the same page,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt. “Because that’s my plan too.”

Chapter 10

Evie

The area behind my townhome looks exactly like it always does. Still, I scan the fence line several times before going downstairs. I didn’t sleep well. I know this because my dream journal is empty—just last night’s date and a blank space beneath it. If I dreamed, nothing made it through.

When I enter my kitchen, I’m greeted with the aroma of fresh coffee—and Gabe. He’s standing at my counter, freshly showered and dressed for the day in dark slacks and a button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair is still damp at the edges.

“Coffee in a mug or to-go thermos?”

His question rouses me from my momentary daze. I’ve never entered my kitchen before to discover Gabriel offering freshly made coffee. I could swear my heart rate kicks up at the sight—which is annoying.

“Umm, to go?” I say, not really meaning for it to sound like a question, but that’s exactly how it sounds.

Last night Gabe parked in my parking spot behind my townhome and he slept in the guest room. Him being in my kitchen shouldn’t fluster me in the least. Yet, I feel tongue-tied. Must be the lack of sleep.

He opens the cabinet with my to-go mugs on the first try. Which means he’s already been through my kitchen this morning, learning where things are, making himself at home.

The thought should bother me. It doesn’t—not really.

“What time did you get up?”

“Before you. Met your cat.” Atlas sits on the kitchen table watching us. “Not sure he’s a fan. Wouldn’t let me touch him.”

“He’s a stray. He’s cautious. If you give him time, he’ll warm up to you. Or at the very least, he won’t hide when you enter the house.”

He doctors my coffee—cream, no sugar—without asking. When he hands it to me, our fingers brush and goose bumps rise along my arms.

I pull back quickly.

It’s too early for this. I’m used to having my house to myself.

“Does your cat have a name?”