Hunter

by Eden Summers

  I have nobody. Nothing. And God, I’m beginning to hate it.

  My immediate family is dead. My extended family are so distant they wouldn’t even recognize me after all these years. My one friend has just been murdered. And tonight, I stole a car from the only other person who has acknowledged my pathetic existence.

  “Why did you stop chasing me?” I ask, exacerbating my pitiful situation.

  The car slows as he looks me in the eye. “You don’t know? I thought you must have figured it out.”

  “No. Why would you think that? I’ve had no clue this entire time. I always used cash. I don’t know how many times I got a new phone, only to throw it away days later. But you always found me. At least until I went to Eagle Creek.”

  “Because you stopped using your video surveillance.” He turns his attention back to the road. “Without the feed, I had no idea where to look.”

  My mouth gapes. “You hacked my feed?”

  How the hell did he do that? When did he do that?

  He glances at me, and his lips kick at one side.

  “You think this is funny?” I accuse.

  He smirks. “No, I’m thinking that I’d love to slam my mouth against yours to taste your shock.”

  My heart stops, drops, and rolls. I’m burning. Blazing.

  “Decker gained access to your account not long after we first met. It gave me the ability to track whenever you left your apartment.”

  “But…”

  “You always stayed in cheap hotels with a window that faced the road. Without fail, you would point the camera at something Decker and I could search online. Either a road sign, a business name, or a landmark. You made it easy.”

  Until I moved into a bed and breakfast and started relying on Betty’s dogs for security instead of my camera. “I thought you’d given up on playing games. I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “I hadn’t given up.”

  If my stomach wasn’t currently in a battle with grief and attraction, I’d slowly devour the delicious bowl of his determination.

  He flicks the car lights to high-beam, illuminating a stretch of road I recognize.

  “Is this…”

  “The place you shot at me?” he taunts. “Yeah.”

  “Why are we back out here?”

  He slows, approaching a dirt drive with a dilapidated wooden mailbox to the side, the faded number thirteen partially covered by overgrown shrubs.

  “Who lives here?”

  “I do. This is where I wanted to take you the day of the funeral.”

  “Why?” Surely, taking me to his house will expose vulnerabilities for a man with his profession. How does he trust me so easily? Or is this knowledge a bigger vulnerability for me? “Do you plan on keeping me here?”

  “Keeping you?” He scoffs. “Can you stop assuming the worst for a second and focus on what you already know?”

  “Which is?” I scan the front yard, with its imposing trees covering the ground in a canopy of black.

  “I was supposed to hurt you, okay? But I didn’t. I should’ve, and I chose not to. After wasting weeks sidestepping my contract, I’m not going to change my mind now.”

  “That’s comforting,” I drawl.

  A house comes into view, the roof bathed in moonlight, along with the front porch that gives a slight hint to the wall of windows behind.

  It looks nice. Modern and tidy, with no garden, only manicured lawns and sensor lights that flick on and temporarily blind me.

  “Shit.” I squint through my adjusting vision while he pulls into the garage.

  The car turns off, and I sit, waiting for answers to questions that multiply. Why did he bring me here? Why did he save me tonight? What happens next? And the most poignant of all—“Why did all this happen, Hunter?” My voice is soft as I stare at his vacant garage wall. “Why didn’t you ask me for information on day one? Why didn’t you force it from me?” I turn to face him. “You’re this cold-blooded killer who doesn’t care about hurting people, so why didn’t you use that against me?”

  He focuses straight ahead, not meeting my gaze. “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit,” I whisper. “You have an agenda. I know you do. I’m just not sure what it is.”

  “Come inside and I’ll explain.” He unfastens his belt and opens the driver’s side door.

  “Why? Why can’t you do it here?”

  “Because we both need a drink to settle the adrenaline.” He slides from the seat and closes the door behind him. He walks around the hood, opens my door, and holds out a hand. “Come on. I’ll tell you everything. Whatever you want to hear.”

  “Whatever I want to hear?” I raise a brow and swing my body around to face him. “Or the actual truth?”

  “The truth. Okay?” He implores me with beseeching eyes, kicking me in the girlie parts with the thinly veiled emotion in his words. “I’m not going to lie to you again.”

  I tilt my head in scrutiny and my tongue sneaks out to moisten my dried lower lip. He watches the movement, his focus turning predatory in a snap. I can’t resist that shit.

  Why the hell can’t I resist that shit?

  “I’ll follow you inside once you admit that Hunter isn’t your real name.”

  “That’s it?” He chuckles. “That’s what you want to know first?”

  I nod. It’s a start.

  “Okay. You got me. Hunter’s not my real name.”

  “What is it?”

  He hitches a thumb over my shoulder, pointing toward the door. “Follow me inside and I’ll tell you.”

  “No.” I glower. “Your name first.”

  He crouches between my bent legs, places his hands on my knees, and peers up at me. “It’s Luke.”

  He could easily lie. I wouldn’t know any different. But I believe him. I swear to God he’s telling me the truth.

  “You’re not lying.”

  “No, I’m not, but nobody else around these parts knows my name. Not Decker. Not Torian. I’d like to keep it that way. Okay?”

  “Then why tell me?” Why bring me here? Why do any of this?

  “Because I want there to be trust between us.”

  I frown, not appreciating the momentary dip in my pulse. “I don’t want to trust you.”

  “And I don’t blame you for that.”

  His honesty is seductive. I guess seeing a major change in a man will have that affect. Or maybe it’s like he said—I need to settle the adrenaline.

  I scoot closer, his palms hitching higher up my thighs. My chest pounds with the need for comfort. My lips tingle at the thought of his kiss.

  “I’m ready to go inside now,” I whisper.

  He nods and pushes to his feet, offering me a hand. I place my fingers against his and wince at how good it feels. There’s strength in our connection. It doesn’t make sense. But it’s there. Buzzing. Tingling.

  He leads me to the door, down the dark hall, then stops to flick on a light. A massive living area is exposed. Sofas, a dining table, a large television, and a sparkling kitchen. It’s clean, stylish, and uncharacteristically homely.

  I release his hand and take a few steps ahead, letting it all sink in. “Your home is nice.”

  “You sound surprised.” He walks by me, into the kitchen to pull open one of the glossy white cupboards.

  “I’m not familiar with the murderer stereotype. I guess I didn’t expect it to be so…”

  “Normal?” He grabs two scotch glasses and places them on the island counter. “I don’t fit a stereotype, Sarah. And I’m not the horrible person you think I am. Not entirely, anyway.”

  I hope that’s true. In fact, I’m banking on it.

  “What do you want to drink?” He moves to a high cupboard above the stainless-steel, double-door fridge. “Scotch? Gin? I think I’ve got some vodka in here somewhere, too.”

  “No, thanks. The last thing I need is alcohol.”

  He frowns at me over his shoulder. “How a
bout coffee?”

  “Caffeine isn’t a good idea either. I’m fine, really.”

  He grabs a bottle of scotch and returns to the island bench.

  My grief returns, not only for Brent, but for myself. This murderous, manipulative man has a comforting, tidy home to return to. He has his shit together. He functions better than I do.

  It isn’t fair.

  Nothing in this world is fair.

  “I don’t know what to do for you.” His admission cuts me to the core. “Tell me what you need.”

  “I don’t need anything,” I lie. The reality is, I need everything. Anything. Something.

  He places the bottle down on the counter and walks toward me. My heartrate increases with every step. I don’t want him close. But I also want it so bad it hurts, ripping and slicing me to shreds from the inside out.

  He stops in front of me, and I fight the need to touch him. To reach out and steal his strength. He raises a hand, his fingers drifting close.

  “Please don’t,” I plead.

  That hand descends, my heart falling along with it.

  “Is that a directive for tonight?” he asks. “Or forever?”

  “Forever would be the smart answer,” I admit.

  “But it’s not what you want.” This time he raises his hand and doesn’t stop until those fingers are tangling in the loose strands that have fallen from my ponytail.

  I turn my head away and his touch moves to my cheek, my jaw. He burns a trail along my skin, devastating my senses.

  “He’s all I had.” I face him, his sympathy sinking its teeth into my ribs.

  “You’ve got me.”

  “The man who kills for a living.” I release a derisive laugh. “You know, I’ve actively tried to take down people like you.” And yet I can’t step away. Not even an inch. “You have no respect for life.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “How can you say that with a straight face?”

  His jaw hardens, and his nostrils flare. “Don’t judge me until you know me.” He stalks back to the kitchen, pouring himself a generous glass of scotch.

  “Then tell me.” I follow, slower, more cautious. “Have I got this murderous thing all wrong? Was Dan the only man you killed?”

  He raises the glass, drinks the contents in three heavy swallows, then slams it down on the counter. He glares and pours himself another.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “He wasn’t the first,” he snarls. “And he won’t be the last.” He raises the glass again, this time staring at me over the rim as he takes a sip. “And what about you, princess? How innocent are you? I saw what you did to Dan. And what do you have planned for Jacob? I can’t imagine you want to catch up on the good ol’ days.”

  Of course he knows about Jacob. How can I still be surprised?

  “Dan abused women habitually, and Jacob killed my family. Neither one of them is innocent.”

  He lets out a harsh laugh, then raises his brows and his glass, as if in toast. “Well, at least we have the same work ethic.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you’ve never hurt anyone innocent?”

  His jaw ticks. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I may have killed a lot of people, but none of them were good.”

  “What about children?”

  “Jesus Christ.” He smacks the glass down and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never killed a fucking kid. I never will.”

  “Women?” I ask.

  His chin lifts, almost imperceptibly, and he scowls at me. “One. Indirectly.”

  “How indirectly?” My pulse thunders in my throat as I wait for a reply.

  A myriad of emotions flicker across his features—annoyance, regret, determination. “I killed her husband. A week later, she killed herself.” He takes another sip, watching me. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  Yes. Everything.

  “For now, I’ve just got one more question.” I swallow. “Why did you save me tonight?”

  19

  Him

  I can’t lie to her anymore. I’m done playing games. “I was there tonight because I needed to see you. I had to make sure you were all right.”

  Her gaze rakes over me, probably trying to weigh the truth against the fabrication. Her attention is like a touch—A slight sweep of gentle fingertips against my skin.

  This is what I’ve missed, the addictive sensation that follows wherever she goes. Her scrutiny is like a drug. Without it, my insides scream and claw, begging to be sated.

  “But you had no intention of saving Brent.”

  I stare her down, determined not to lie. “My first concern was your safety.”

  “Did you even message Decker to ask for help?”

  “Yes.” It was the truth. Kind of.

  “And you left him to show up to an ambush?”

  “No. I messaged him after I got you in the car.” Again, truth. “A rental, I might add, seeing as though mine was stolen and stripped. Thank you very much.”

  Her lips kick at one side, but the satisfaction doesn’t reach her eyes. It touches my dick, though, makes it fucking throb.

  She lowers her gaze and stares at the kitchen counter. “So, that’s it?” She shrugs. “You just wanted to start the cat-and-mouse chase all over again?”

  “No. We’re not doing that anymore. You need to stay with me until things die down.”

  She turns her back and faces the room. “And when do you think that will happen?”

  My preference? Never. But the time for the finer intricacies of the truth will come later. “I don’t know. Maybe a few months.”

  She doesn’t respond with a sharp quip like I expect. Instead, she remains silent, her arms moving to wrap around her waist.

  “Will you stay?” I round the island counter, edging closer. She’s turned me into a needy little bitch, and I hate it. I hate every fucking minute of it, and still, I can’t ditch the hold she has on me.

  “I’ve got nowhere else to go,” she murmurs. “The police will be looking for me by now.”

  “Because of Brent?” She doesn’t need to worry about that.

  “That…” She nods. “And the car I stole in an effort to get to the bar in a hurry.”

  I raise my brows, impressed. “Did anyone see you?”

  “No, but it’s obvious. I stole it from the B&B owner where I was staying. One minute I asked to use her phone, the next I was walking out her front door with her car keys in my hand.”

  Her tone is full of regret, making remorse punch me in the gut. I stride for her, eating up the distance between us so I can place my hands on her waist.

  She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t protest. She lets me touch her, and fuck, am I thankful.

  “What did you do with the car?”

  “I parked it in someone’s driveway. I thought maybe the person who lives there would call the cops in the morning.”

  “That’s good,” I whisper into her hair. “No harm. No foul. Right?”

  She releases a barely audible scoff. “Yeah. Maybe. But I took off without packing my things. I left everything there. The few clothes I had. My purse.”

  Shit. “Your I.D?”

  “No. I don’t carry it. Only cash. I placed a few valuables and some money in a locked box a week ago, but apart from that…” She sighs, her shoulders falling. “I literally have nothing.”

  I rest my forehead into her hair and breathe her deep. The scent of flowers and candy slaughters me. “Can I show you something?”

  “Why not?” She releases a heavy breath. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

  I slide my palm over her wrist and lower it to entwine our fingers. “It’s down the other end of the house.”

  She stares where our hands meet, and I wait for a protest to the connection.

  “Okay.” She nods and meets my gaze.

  I could fuck her right here. On the floor. Clothes on. Face pale. Eyes filled with sorrow. I fucking could. But would I regret it?
r />   I doubt it.

  She wants this as much as I do. Needs it.

  Instead of succumbing, I start for the opposite side of the room, toward the far hall. She keeps her hand against mine, warm and gently clasping, until I stop before a closed door.

  “Go on.” I jerk my chin. “Open it.”

  She frowns as she releases my hand and steps forward to grip the handle. I can’t hear her breathe. I can’t hear anything but lust and anticipation rushing through my ears.

  She twists the handle and inches into the bedroom, her gaze scanning the furniture—her bed, drawers, mirror, and television.

  “You emptied my apartment,” she whispers.

  “I thought I owed you that much. Otherwise Torian would’ve sent someone to ransack it.” There is a slip of truth in there somewhere.

  “Did you go through my stuff?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t even pause. That won’t be the worst admission she hears from me tonight.

  “Everything?” She shoots me a glower over her shoulder.

  “From the kitchen cupboards, to your bathroom supplies, and all those pretty pieces of lingerie that turned my dick to stone.” I smirk, without an ounce of remorse. “There’s a black leather item in there somewhere that I wouldn’t mind seeing again.”

  There had also been other things she wouldn’t have wanted me to snoop through. Not just the sex toys, but the information. I’d found her hidden box of articles on Jacob after walking over the only creaking floorboard in her entire apartment.

  I’d read every word in my car as she slept in cheap hotels. There were details on her, too. Snippets of her life the Seattle newspaper had catalogued after her family died. There were details on the sale of her childhood home and her bank accounts. I know it all. At least everything that has been written down on paper.

  She kicks off her sneakers, pads to the far side of the bed, and pulls a pillow to her chest as she stands looking down at the mattress.

  “It still smells like you,” I murmur.

  She shoots me an are-you-fucking-kidding look with one hike of her brow. “Smells a little like you, too.”

  I shrug. “I may have slept in here a time or two since you skipped town.”