Chapter 50 Sharp Confident Alive
SHARP CONFIDENT ALIVE
Hide And Seek - Klergy & Mindy Jones
Hatchet
Idon’t make a sound when she runs.
I never do.
Her laughter still rings down the corridor – bright, sharp, deliberately careless – and my body answers it before my mind finishes mapping exits and angles. I close the distance fast. Efficient. Inevitable. Fingers in her hair, head tipped back exactly as she wants it, pulse jumping under my thumb.
Alive.
Thrilled.
Safe.
She taunts me, breathless and bright. I answer with my teeth at her shoulder – not hard. Never hard. Just enough to remind her where the game ends. She beams like I’ve given her a prize.
Her hips surge into mine and I let myself feel it, let control loosen just enough to acknowledge the edge. God, I’ve missed this – the way she fits without trying, the way she trusts me to hold the line.
My hand slides to her waist, anchoring her. Stillness, firm and absolute. She melts into it, choosing to be caught over free without hesitation.
Perfect.
The building creeps back into focus – distant movement, voices not meant for us, time ticking down. I angle us into shadow without breaking contact, bodies aligned, practiced and quiet.
I register the environment first.
Always do.
Cleared corridor. Two entry points. One blind corner that buys us seconds. Lights humming overhead, flicker irregular enough to mask small sounds. Good enough.
Then I let myself focus on her.
Kayla smells like sweat and that sharp, laughing defiance that’s always pulled me off balance if I let it.
She’s vibrating under my hands, adrenaline still singing through her veins, pulse hammering where my fingers curl in her hair – exactly where she likes it.
Exactly where I can feel everything she’s feeling.
She never runs because she’s afraid.
She runs because she wants to be caught.
Her words spill out anyway, reckless and bright, needling for a reaction. I don’t give her one. Control isn’t absence of desire – it’s choosing where to aim it.
I lean in, forehead brushing her temple, breathing her in. She settles immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission. Like the fight drains out of her the second she knows she’s safe.
We don’t have much time. I can hear movement deeper in the structure. The others will find us if we linger.
My grip tightens once at her waist. A promise. A warning. Both.
She looks up at me, eyes bright, mouth soft, waiting.
I don’t answer her question with words.
I answer it by staying exactly where I am, by not letting go, by making it clear that caught means kept – even if only for a moment.
Quick doesn’t mean rushed.
And just because the hunt is over doesn’t mean the lesson is.
A month. That’s how long I’ve gone without this weight in my arms. Without her heat, her mouth, her voice saying my name like it belongs to her. The moment I have her again, everything inside me snaps tight and vicious and certain.
She’s real. She’s here.
I crowd into her space and she doesn’t retreat – she melts. That does something dangerous to my chest. Her hands are already on me, nails biting through fabric like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she loosens her grip.
“I missed you,” she breathes, wrecked and honest, and it guts me harder than anything else could.
I press in, claim the space between us, and she gasps like her body recognises mine before her mind catches up. I watch it happen – the way her spine arches, the way her lips part, the way she goes pliant and demanding all at once.
God. She’s always been like this. Soft only for me. Sharp everywhere else.
“Don’t you dare go slow,” she whispers, defiant even now. “I waited a month for you. Don’t you dare.”
The sound she makes when I move against her – when I finally stop holding back – scrapes straight down my nerves. She’s vocal, helplessly so, and I catalogue every reaction like I’m engraving it into bone. The hitch in her breath. The broken little sounds she tries and fails to swallow.
“Yes,” she murmurs. “Like that. Hatchet— Daddy, please—”
Her voice goes higher, needier, and instinct takes over. I cover her mouth, firm but careful, my palm a shield instead of a muzzle. She whimpers into my hand, eyes going wide – and then dark with understanding.
I’m protecting her. Even now.
Her hands clutch my wrists, not to pull me away but to anchor herself. She shakes beneath me, wrapped tight around every movement, and the sensation hits me like a vow I don’t get to take back.
Mine. Not owned. Chosen.
Every thrust – every controlled, relentless motion – is a promise carved deep: I’m not leaving again. I don’t care what the world says. I don’t care whose blood ties you to tomorrow. You’re here now. You’re choosing me now.
She says my name like a plea and a prayer.
“Don’t stop,” she begs, breathless and wrecked. “Please don’t stop. I need it – I need you. More. Hatchet, more—”
I feel it when she breaks. Feel it in the way her body locks around me, in the way her breath shatters against my palm, in the way she sobs my name like it’s the only thing holding her together.
I stay right there.
I don’t pull away. I don’t rush. I keep her grounded through it, forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in like oxygen. I hold her like something precious and volatile, like if I let go even for a second the world will try to steal her back.
It won’t get the chance.
When her shaking eases, I loosen my hand just enough for her to breathe freely again. She smiles – lazy, ruined, satisfied – and whispers, “I knew you’d come back for me.”
I press a kiss to her temple, silent and absolute.
I always will.
She’s the one who moves first.
Kayla lifts her head, fingers still curled in my shirt, and I feel the shift immediately – the moment where instinct gives way to awareness. Her mouth curves, soft this time, affectionate in a way that hits me harder than the heat ever did.
“We need to go,” she murmurs.
I don’t let her pull back.
My hand stays firm at her waist, thumb pressing like I can anchor time if I hold her hard enough. Leaving her again – even for minutes – sets my teeth on edge. I just got her back. The thought of space between us feels like inviting fate to take another swing.
“They’ll notice,” she adds, quieter now. “If we don’t.”
I huff a breath through my nose, jaw tight. She watches me like she knows exactly what war is playing out in my head. Of course she does. She always reads me better than anyone else ever has.
She leans in before I can argue and kisses me.
Not desperate. Not hungry.
Sure.
Her mouth presses to mine with a promise baked right into it, slow and grounding, like she’s sealing something in place instead of taking it away. My grip tightens reflexively, but she just hums softly and kisses me again, longer this time, coaxing instead of challenging.
“I’m fine,” she whispers against my lips. “I swear. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
I search her face – really look this time. No fear. No fracture. Just that familiar, infuriating calm she gets when she’s already decided how this ends.
“You’ll see me in a minute,” she adds, brushing her thumb along my jaw. “Scout’s honour.”
That earns a low breath of a laugh from me despite myself.
Reluctantly, I ease my hold. Not fully. Never fully. My hands slide down her arms like I’m memorising the shape of her one last time, just in case.
She steps back, already turning, already moving like she knows I’ll follow orders better if she doesn’t give me time to change my mind.
One last look over her shoulder.
One last smile – sharp, confident, alive.
Then she slips away, footsteps light as she heads for the elevator, disappearing just as the doors slide shut.
The space she leaves behind feels wrong. Empty. Charged.
I square my shoulders, force my body to obey, and head the other way – toward the others, toward noise and movement and the illusion of normal.
Behind me, somewhere deep in the building, systems hum and shift.
Something big is about to wake up.
And I already know – whatever happens next, I’m not losing her again.
Not ever.