Page 83 of Only the Hunter

Not as a placeholder.

As him.

My hands shake as I stand and cross to the door.

If he meant what I think he meant—if he’s been holding back because of me—then I’m done thinking. Because thinking hasn’t kept me from wanting him. It’s just delayed it. My subconscious has been talking to me for years—this isn’t something to ignore.

The living room is dim—afternoon light going gray at the edges. The TV is off. Gabe sits on the sofa, phone face-up on the cushion beside him, but his attention snaps to me the second I appear.

“Still angry?” he asks quietly.

I blink. Right. We were fighting. About the café. About control.

I can barely remember why.

I cross to the sofa and sit, leaving space between us. Not much. But some.

“I need to know something,” I say.

He sets his phone on the coffee table, moving it as if it’s important, because for some reason it can’t fit on the sofa with both of us. With that done, he says, “Anything.”

I pull the cardigan tighter, stretching the threads, as if it can protect me from what I’m about to ask. “Am I imagining this? Or are you saying you’re interested in me?”

His jaw flexes ever so slightly.

I push forward before I lose my nerve. “That kiss earlier, …was it just...stress? Or if I hadn’t stopped, would you have wanted it to keep going?”

He meets my gaze with an intensity that sears. “Evie, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted anything more.”

I pretty much stop breathing.

“Does that really surprise you?”

“Yes,” I manage. “You never—you’ve never indicated⁠—”

And then he’s there.

Close enough that I feel the heat of him. His hand comes up, fingers sliding along the side of my neck, thumb brushing the side of my face.

“I’ve been holding back since you were sixteen.”

My throat tightens. Not fear. Want—sharp and disorienting and overwhelming.

I’m not sure I can swallow.

“And now?” The whisper is all I can manage.

“Now,” he says, leaning closer, “If I’m reading you right…”

His mouth brushes mine.

Soft. Testing.

The world narrows.

Everything else—the case, the danger, the noise in my head—falls away like it was never real.

I’ve dreamed of this. A thousand times. But dreams don’t feel like this—don’t taste like this—don’t make my pulse hammer like this.