Chapter 17
Hunter
Tomorrow she’ll be back. Just one more night without her.
I close my eyes and try to think about the better days ahead, when she’ll be in my arms, in my bed. But my mind keeps circling back to what Logan said to me after dinner.
“I think I’ve got a lead on where Salvario is. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think he’s in Canada. I’ll confirm it soon, hopefully.”
I sit up in bed, running a hand over my face. If he’s alive, why isn’t he coming for her? No matter what his reason is, I have to make sure I reach him before he reaches her, by any means.
I get out of bed to go out for a smoke, but then my eyes land on the journal on my bedside table. Her journal. I took it from her room when I was going through her things to learn what she likes. I know her less than that motherfucker does, and I hate it.
I need to know every detail about her—what she likes to wear, what she loves to eat, what side of the bed she sleeps on, how much of the night she spends on her side versus her back, what kind of hair ties she uses, how much heel height she’s comfortable with, what her handwriting looks like, how she holds the pen in her beautiful fingers when she writes, what face she makes when she’s concentrating.
I need to know everything, from her breathing patterns in different situations to every material thing she likes to touch.
I know that bastard knows. She was in his house for eleven days. She’s written about those days in the letters to him, revisiting each one and telling him what she felt.
To my relief, these letters don’t contain any details of them fucking, God knows how that would have made me lose my mind. Maybe I would’ve helped Logan find him sooner just so I could kill him faster.
I have to kill him anyway, whether she loves him or not. I can’t let him breathe. He knows what her skin feels like. He knows how her face shifts when she’s aroused. The bastard knows the exact pitch of her moans—when she wants more, when she’s close, when she comes.
“Fuck you, Hunter.” The words scrape past my clenched jaw. Why the fuck does my brain keep dragging me there, when it only ever leaves me scorched?
To change the method of my own torture, I pick up the journal. I’ve already read it once; now I’m doing it a second time. There can’t be a better way to torment myself than reading how much she loves that motherfucker.
On the left side are letters she wrote to him, and on the right side of the same page are short replies from him. He doesn’t use more than a few words. Like in the reply to her New Year’s letter—three pages long—he only writes a few lines answering her question about whether he celebrated it well.
I don’t remember celebrating New Year or Christmas, Princess, in nearly two decades. But I’m looking forward to next New Year. We’ll celebrate it together.
He calls her Princess, which she is, but because of that, I’ll never call her that.
At the bottom of his reply, her hurried words are there:
Liar liar liar. You're a bloody liar. I hate you.
Half the journal is filled with her sweet, romantic letters about her daydreams and how much she longs for their next meeting. After that, only two more pages are written.
One of them is so wet it’s like water was sprinkled over it, but I know it’s her tears. And only one thing is written on the whole page.
Please come back.
Fifty-eight fucking times.
The other one is more like a suicide note:
I'm tired, Salvario. I don't want to wake up one more day only to search for you and wait for you to come when I know that won't happen.
You're not coming back. You've really left me to die little by little every day.
What wrong did I do to you that you'd punish me like this?
Is it because I lied about being Avi? I'm sorry, please stop punishing me.
I can't take it anymore. I don't have any more strength left to fight this emptiness that's consumed everything I could hold on to live.
This page is also filled with smudged ink—from her tears.
I close the journal and put it back on the nightstand. I read it for the first time this morning, and ever since, a thought has been coming to me every few minutes.
I can never replace this man.
She loves him so much that it’s impossible to remove him from her. I’ll have to live in his shadow for a long time, maybe my whole life. Even if this is the cost to make her mine, I’m ready to pay it.
???
I open the back door of the SUV, and her dogs bolt out, startling the people around us as they sprint toward her the moment she comes through the terminal doors.
She’s wearing a long light brown coat, and under it, pale pink sweatpants and a sweatshirt—her comfortable travel outfit.
Her shoulder-length wavy brown hair frames her round face, glowing under the colorful Christmas lights that reflect off her porcelain-smooth skin.
She drops to her knees and lets them lick and sniff her aggressively while she tries to hug them. It’s not easy to hug them as they jump all over her, and she’s giggling, looking as beautiful as the summer sunrise that breaks for the first time after the icy winters in Greenland.
I frown at my thoughts. Out of all the places, I have to think about Greenland, the very place where that motherfucker used to live. I’ve never even seen pictures of it. Maybe I went there once or twice before losing my memory, to know what the sunrise there looks like.
Logan and I don’t have episodic memories, but our semantic and procedural memory is intact, except for language. We recognize certain languages as familiar, but we cannot understand or speak them. English is the only language we can comprehend and use.
She slowly gets to her feet once the dogs have had their fill of her.
Her eyes finally settle on me. The feeling of déjà vu hits me, but I lose it instantly when she starts walking toward me.
My chest locks up, my heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free and get to her first. My palms ache with the need to touch her.
I stand straighter as she reaches me and hugs me.
I wrap my arms around her, breathing deep that rosy air.
How can a hug feel like getting the whole world?
“Merry Christmas Eve.” Her muffled voice, pressed against my chest, fills it with warmth.
“Merry Christmas Eve,” I murmur.
She pulls away, tilting her smiling face up to meet my eyes, her body still pressed against mine. “You’re looking like you missed me a lot.”
A smile finds its way to my lips without me realizing, and she grins. She reaches out and pokes my right cheek. “I love your dimple.”
I just stare at her, desperately—no, hungrily—committing the sight of her to memory. I know I’ll see her smile often in the future, but there can never be enough of these moments. Each one is equally precious.
“Are you planning to keep staring at me standing here all night?” she teases, pulling herself out of my arms. I don’t like the emptiness she leaves behind.
Is it possible to glue her to me?
I don’t think so.
I take her hand, it’s the second-best option right now. I pick up the bag she dropped before hugging me and lead her to the passenger side, opening the door for her. She slips inside, and I lean in, setting the bag on her lap before drawing the seatbelt across her body and locking it in place.
I close her door and open the back door. The dogs climb inside. Bruno instantly moves to the front. I’ve noticed he’s too clingy with her, Rosie isn’t like him; she’s satisfied once she’s had her fill of attention. But Bruno is like me. He never gets enough of her.
I climb into the driver’s seat. Bruno is now settled between her legs, his head on her thigh, while she pats him and coos at him like he’s a baby.
I eye him—no, I glare at him. How much of an attention-seeking bastard is that motherfucker’s dog?
Instead of letting her put all her attention on me, this son of a bitch has taken it all for himself.
If he hadn’t been so loyal to her, I would’ve gotten rid of him during those few days she was away.
I start the car, telling myself that getting jealous over a dog isn’t mature.
“Did you take them on evening walks?”
“Yes.”
“Was Bruno behaving well?”
I nod. “Apart from barking at strangers who tried to come close, he was perfect.”
“Who tried to come close? Everyone in our area knows Bruno doesn’t like being touched.”
I shrug. “Mainly it was a young woman with pink hair.”
“The same woman who went to meet you alone at your party?” she demands, her voice so angry I take my eyes off the road to see her.
I turn my head back with a smile. “Why are you getting so angry?”
“Why am I getting angry? She’s hitting on my man, should I feel happy about it?” she fumes, and my smile stretches wider.
“Your man? Since when?” I tease.
She grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me toward her. “Since forever. And how dare you ask me that?”
I slow the car and turn to look at her. She’s seething, her eyes blazing, her lips pulled down. I’ve seen her vulnerable, happy, and sad, this is something new. And I like it.
I kiss her lips. “I’m sorry, baby.”
She loses her grip on my collar, her anger vanishing instantly. “Baby?” she smirks. “Is that because you’re so much older than me?” She leans back in her seat. “Should I call you daddy then?”
Fuck. The word makes my dick twitch. Hard.
I focus back on the road, speeding up. “We’ll discuss that later.”
“Yes, along with the discussion that you’re my man.” She purrs the words, and the sound vibrates through me.
The twitching turns into throbbing. All these discussions will take place after I have my dick inside her.