Chapter 16 Hunter
Hunter
I shut the door to my office harder than necessary.
The sound echoes, sharp, final, and for a second, it feels good.
It doesn’t last.
I drag a hand through my hair and pace the length of the room, my boots heavy against the polished floor. My chest feels tight, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. Every thought circles the same point, sharp and unforgiving.
I trusted her.
That’s the part I can’t get past.
I trusted Adaline with Aunt Jane.
And she left.
I stop by the window, staring out into the darkness where rain streaks down the glass, blurring the rose garden into shadows. The storm came out of nowhere, thunder rolling in low and angry, rain hammering the grounds like it has something to prove.
Figures.
I knew this day would come.
I always do.
Aunt Jane’s kindness has always been her weakness. She opens her heart, lets people in, and believes in them too easily. I’ve spent years protecting her from disappointment, from people who mean well and still end up leaving.
And somehow, I let myself believe Adaline might be different.
That’s on me.
My mind snaps back to the fall festival, uninvited and vicious. The lights and the noise. The way my blood went cold the second I saw her.
With him.
The man from the clipping.
The way he stood too close, leaning in as if he belonged there. Like he had history with her. Like he had a claim.
My hands curl into fists.
If the entire town hadn’t been watching, if there hadn’t been kids, families, and gossip waiting to explode—I would’ve punched him. I don’t even try to soften that truth. The urge was instant. Violent. Protective in a way I don’t like admitting.
Heat flares in my chest, immediate and uninvited.
I tell myself I was angry because she left Aunt Jane alone. That’s the reason I repeat. It’s the responsible reason, the rational one.
But beneath it, under the rules and the outrage and the lectures I delivered in my head, there’s something darker.
She went to see him. That’s what my mind insists.
She knew I was out of town. She knew Aunt Jane was resting. And she still chose the festival.
Chose him.
Just when I was starting to admire her. Just when I was starting to believe she truly cared. I sink into my chair and scrub my face with both hands.
Dammit.
I reach for my laptop without thinking. The one place I don’t have to be Hunter Rexon. The realization hits me mid-click, sharp enough to make me freeze. Lately, I only come here when Adaline gets under my skin, when she makes me feel too much.
Instead of facing what’s happening, what I don’t want to name—I run to Wind. Because Wind is safe, she understands. She listens without judgment.
I swallow.
Aunt Jane’s voice echoes in my head. “I see a future between you two.”
A future. The word terrifies me. I shove the thought away and focus on the screen. There’s a message waiting.
From Wind
Relief flares automatically—then I read it.
Wind: The town where I moved for my new job had a fall festival. I took your advice and stood up for myself, but I messed up.
I read it again, and again.
The room tilts.
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step on the stairs. Shock crashes through me—violent, disorienting. Something sharp slices through my chest and steals the air from my lungs. For a second, all I can hear is my own heartbeat, loud, erratic, and unforgiving.
No.
This can’t be happening.
I grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, grounding myself against the sudden sense that the floor has shifted beneath me.
The one corner of my life where I wasn’t Hunter Rexon—the man with the reputation, the rumors, the past that clings no matter how far I run, has been breached. HeartLines was supposed to be untouchable. Anonymous. A space where I could speak without armor, without calculation.
And she was there.
Every late-night conversation, every quiet confession, and every time Wind understood me without explanation, it all rushes back at once, recontextualized, stripped bare.
I stare at the screen, rereading the messages. My pulse pounds in my ears. My chest aches with something I don’t want to name yet.
For a moment, everything goes hollow like the room has emptied out.
I stay there, hands braced on the desk, breath shallow, until the feeling passes enough to move. Then the pressure snaps. Another message pops up.
She types.
Wind: I feel guilty. My client, who was under my care, fainted. I wasn't around to help. It hurts because I care, and she feels like family.
Wind: I went to the festival to spite my boss. To prove he couldn’t control me.
My hands shake.
I can’t reconcile the woman on my screen with the one who stiffens every time I touch her. The one who looks like she’d rather endure pain than accept my help.
I’ve lost her. The one person who I thought finally saw me. I don’t know how long I sit there feeling numb.
I shut the laptop and push away from the desk, unable to breathe in this room. My feet carry me down the hall before I know what I’m doing.
A soft voice stops me. I pause outside Aunt Jane’s bedroom. Adaline is reading to her.
The book. My mother’s favorite. Aunt Jane’s too. My chest tightens as I step inside.
Adaline looks up, startled. “Oh—”
“Don’t stop,” Aunt Jane murmurs. “I like that part.”
Adaline nods and keeps reading, her voice gentle, soothing. I move closer, quiet as a shadow.
“His heart was a fortress built from old wounds, closed to love, until the woman who saw past the shadows refused to turn away,” Adaline reads softly. “She was the one he feared most—the only one capable of freeing the man he’d buried beneath the armor.”
“Hunter,” Jane says softly, eyes half-closed. “Come sit with me.”
I hesitate. Then obey. I sit on the other side of her bed, facing her and Adaline. Aunt Jane is slightly leaning into Adaline.
She takes my hand, warm and familiar, and places it in hers. With her other hand, she reaches for Adaline.
“Stay,” she tells her.
Adaline’s fingers curl around Jane’s, tentative, caring. I look away.
We sit like that, the three of us, and I listen to Adaline's gentle voice as she continues to read aloud, until Aunt Jane’s breathing evens out.
Adaline’s voice trails off. I finally look up. Her eyes are closed. She leans against the headboard, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I watch her sleep. How can she be so peaceful after shattering my world? Taking away the one person I had hoped was the one.
I cling to the idea that she never knew, like it might keep the ground from giving way.
That Wind was real. That this—whatever this is, wasn’t a lie.
But as I sit there, my chest aching with something dangerously close to hope and heartbreak, I know one thing for certain.
I’ve never been this vulnerable. And I don’t know how to survive losing her.
Morning shows up like it’s mocking me. Gray light crawling through the windows, rain residue clinging to the glass, the mansion too quiet for what happened last night.
I haven’t slept. Not even close. My body runs on adrenaline and anger and something worse—shock that still hasn’t settled. Every time I close my eyes, I see that chat window. Those words.
So I do the only thing I know how to do when my head is in chaos, control something. I go downstairs before anyone else can. Before Mrs. Lane can start humming. Before Adaline can walk in and make the air feel… complicated.
The kitchen is bathed in pale morning light, cool and clean. Marble counters. Stainless steel. Everything is in order.
I pull ingredients out with stiff precision: eggs, bread, oats, a jar of honey, coffee beans. I cook like it’s a checklist, like if I complete enough tasks, I can stitch myself back together.
I tell myself this is about Aunt Jane. Responsibility and my routine.
It’s a lie, but it’s a familiar one.
Control has always been my default measure: contain, manage, because feelings don’t solve problems. They create them. And right now, control is the only thing standing between me and saying something I can’t take back.
I crack eggs, whisk, and pour them into the pan. The sizzle is too loud. The smell of coffee blooms, bitter. Toast pops. Oatmeal thickens slowly, steadily, obediently, unlike my thoughts.
I keep moving because if I stop, I’ll feel it.
I sense her. It’s stupid, animal instinct, like my heart recognizes her presence before my brain wants to admit it. A vibration under my skin.
The kitchen floor creaks. She steps in quietly, like she’s bracing to meet me.
And she looks… undone.
Messy hair yanked back in a careless knot, strands escaping around her face. Oversized sweater swallowing her frame. Sleep still clinging to her eyes like she fought it all night. No makeup. No armor.
She pauses when she sees me at the stove. For one second, neither of us moves. The air shifts, thickens, like the room is holding its breath.
I don’t greet her the way I have the past few mornings. No “morning” that almost sounded like peace. No shared routine.
I give her a clipped acknowledgment that could be mistaken for politeness if you don’t know me.
“Morning.”
Formal, cold, and no emotion. Internally, the irony slices right through me.
She looks like a mess… and somehow still devastatingly beautiful.
I hate that even now, especially now, my heart reacts to her like it has its own agenda. Like last night didn’t rip something open inside me.
She takes a cautious step forward, eyes flicking over the food like she’s trying to figure out what she’s walked into.
She clears her throat softly. “You’re… cooking?”
I don’t look at her. I flip the eggs with too much force. “For Aunt Jane.”
I can hear how stiff I sound. Like a man holding himself together with wire.
Adaline’s gaze moves over the pot of oatmeal and the bowl set out. She seems unsure where to stand, like her presence could trigger an explosion.
Then she says it carefully, like she’s offering information, not criticism.
“She’s been liking oatmeal with honey lately.” My grip tightens around the spatula.
A bristle runs up my spine. Sharp and immediate. I turn just enough to let her feel it. “I know how my aunt likes her breakfast,” I say.
Not loud.
But worse, the kind of tone that draws blood without raising volume.
Silence drops between us.
The clink of my spoon against the pot is suddenly too loud. The pop of the toaster sounds extra loud. The kitchen smells like coffee and toast, painfully normal as though my world isn't crumbling inside.
I feel exposed, standing here cooking while she watches. This was supposed to be neutral ground.
Neutral is control, and control is the only thing that’s ever kept me functional. Kept the damage contained. Kept me from wanting more than I can afford to lose.
It isn’t anymore.
Adaline doesn’t argue. She doesn’t snap back the way she has before. She just nods once, swallowing something. Then she starts tidying up.
She wipes a spot on the counter that doesn’t need wiping. Straightens the kettle. Puts a jar back exactly where it belongs. Like she’s trying to make herself useful without taking up space.
She’s cleaning up the physical mess…while I’m drowning in the one she made in my head.
It’s like she knows I hate disorder. Like she’s trying to keep me calm.
I hate that my mind wants to ask: Did you sleep? Are you okay? Did you mean it when you wrote that you care?
I say none of it.
I keep my distance like proximity is dangerous.
Because it is.
Because if I look at her too long, I’ll remember how Wind sounded when she trusted me. How she softened when she thought I was safe.
And then I’ll want something I can’t have. The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.
Adaline’s voice breaks it, small and careful.
“Hunter… I’m sorry.”
I don’t move.
“I shouldn’t have left,” she says, and there’s no defensiveness in it. No drama. No excuses. Just… honesty. “I didn’t mean to leave her vulnerable. I made a bad call.”
My jaw tightens.
“I was wrong,” she adds, softer. “And I… I hate that it turned into what it did.”
That somehow hurts worse. Because if she had argued, I could’ve stayed angry. Anger is easy. Anger is clean.
Regret makes everything messy.
I turn slowly, facing her fully now. She’s standing near the counter, hands fidgeting with the edge of her sweater like she doesn’t know what to do with them. Her eyes are tired.
As I listen to her, I have a thought, and it terrifies me.
I want to tell her everything.
That I know, that she is Wind. That the only place I felt safe was her. It felt like being let inside a warm room after years in the cold, and then realizing the room belongs to the woman who looks at me like I’m a threat.
But if I say it out loud… there’s no going back.
So I say nothing. I let the silence do the violence for me.
Adaline takes one small step forward.
Not touching me, just close enough that I feel it. Close enough that my body reacts, traitorous and immediate.
She looks me straight in the eyes. Regretful, earnest, and vulnerable in a way she probably hates.
And she waits. For anger, forgiveness. For something. Her breathing is shallow.
Mine is worse. I don’t speak. I just stare at her.
This is the woman who stood in my kitchen like she belonged… and also typed into my darkest hours like she understood me.
And all I can think, a thought impossible to silence…
Will you ever look at me the way you looked at North…or will you always see him as the safer choice?
The silence stretches, heavy and fragile.
The eggs cool, and the coffee sits untouched. The morning light turns brighter, like the day is insisting it will continue whether I’m ready or not.
And I’m trapped between two truths I don’t know how to hold.
The woman standing in front of me… and the version of myself she trusted without knowing my name.