Chapter 23 Adaline #2
His fingers are still wrapped around my hand firmly as he leads me down the stairs, and the strange thing is, my body trusts that grip more than my own thoughts right now.
I don’t fight him. I don’t even try.
The kitchen is dim, lit only by accent lights over the counter and the faint glow from the hallway. Rain ticks against the windows in frantic little taps. Somewhere deep in the house, the generator hums like a tired heartbeat.
Hunter pulls out one of the chairs by the small breakfast table and guides me into it like he’s not willing to risk me standing.
I open my mouth to argue, because that’s what I always do with him.
But then another shiver tears through me, so violent it steals my breath.
“Don’t move,” he says.
“I wasn’t—”
He cuts me off with a look and disappears for two seconds, returning with a thick throw blanket. Before I can even lift my arms, he steps close and wraps it around my shoulders, firm and careful.
It feels soft and absurdly warm. The blanket smells faintly like clean laundry and something else… something that might just be him because he’s everywhere in this house.
In the coffee, in the roses, even in the quiet.
He tucks the edges around me firmly again, like he’s sealing heat into my skin.
“There,” he mutters.
I blink up at him, thrown off by the intimacy of it. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” he says flatly. “I do.”
That shuts me up.
He has changed into a dry hoodie. His hair is darker, wet at the edges, a few strands falling forward when he leans down to open a cabinet.
Even with the kitchen so spacious, Hunter somehow fills all of it, broad shoulders stretching the doorway, height impossible to ignore.
His sleeves are pushed up, revealing strong forearms, muscles shifting as he moves.
Heat creeps up my neck. I was in those arms not long ago, pressed against his chest, and now I suddenly don’t know where to put my eyes—or my hands.
He moves around the kitchen with quiet purpose, no wasted motion, no hesitation. Like the storm didn’t rattle him at all.
Like, I didn’t rattle him.
But I saw his face out there. The panic in his eyes when he found me. And I felt the way his arms tightened like he was never letting go again.
My stomach growls, loud enough to embarrass me into heat. Hunter pauses mid-reach. His head turns slightly.
“When was the last time you ate?”
I swallow. “I… don’t know.”
His eyes narrow. “Adaline.”
“I had coffee,” I offer weakly, like that counts as nutrition.
He makes a low sound under his breath, half curse, half exhale, and starts pulling food out with the kind of controlled irritation he uses when he’s trying not to explode.
Bread. Cheese. Deli meat. A knife and cutting board.
I watch, wrapped in his blanket, perched on the chair like I’m in time-out.
He sets the bread down and pauses, staring at the tomatoes in the little bowl by the counter like they personally offended him.
Then he pushes them aside without a word.
My lips part. He doesn’t look at me, but his voice comes anyway, gruff, direct.
“No raw tomatoes.”
I blink.
“What?”
He finally glances over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “You don’t like them.”
My heart does something stupid and soft.
“How do you—”
Turning back to the sandwich like he didn’t just knock the air out of me. “You pick them out,” he says.
I stare at his back. The ridiculous part is… he’s right.
I do. Every single time. I didn’t realize he noticed anything about me beyond whether I’m breaking a rule.
Hunter slices the bread, lays down cheese, lots of it, then adds the rest with the same meticulous care he uses when he’s fixing a car.
It’s absurdly domestic.
It’s also… kind.
He slides the plate onto the table in front of me with a quiet clink.
“Eat.”
I look down at it. It’s exactly what I like. Exactly.
Hunter pulls out the chair across from me and sits, posture still stiff, like sitting down might be too close to surrender.
Since I arrived at the mansion, we’ve never sat together like this—just the two of us, sharing a meal in the quiet hours before morning.
It feels unexpectedly intimate, sitting across from him at the small breakfast table while the world sleeps, the silence loud enough that I can hear my own heartbeat.
The way he looks at me, careful, kind, like he’s choosing every expression—unsettles me more than distance ever did.
My chest tightens at the thought of losing this, of him closing himself off again.
Because I don’t know how I’ll handle it if he goes back to, like I don’t matter.
For a moment, all we can hear is the soft rain and the distant hum of the generator. I pick up half the sandwich, take a bite, and my body practically sighs in relief. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the food hits my stomach like warmth.
Hunter watches me for half a second, then looks away fast. We eat in silence.
Not awkward silence. Not tense silence.
The kind of silence that feels… careful. Like both of us are holding a glass object between our hands and trying not to shatter it with one wrong word.
Halfway through, my gaze drifts to his hands. His right fist is swollen, knuckles red, bruising already blooming beneath the skin. There’s a faint scrape near the edge, like he caught it on something.
He catches me looking. His shoulders tighten. He pulls his hand closer to himself, like he can hide it behind the table.
“You should ice that,” I say quietly.
His voice is flat. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
He lifts his eyes to mine, and there it is again, that storm-gray intensity, like he’s fighting something inside himself.
“I said it’s fine,” he repeats.
I don’t argue this time. I just take another bite. But the guilt sits heavy in my chest.
That punch was for me, whether he admits it or not. When we finish, Hunter stands and takes my plate before I can move.
“Stay,” he orders.
“I can help—”
“No.” He turns toward the sink. “Stay.”
“Bossy much?” I say. He smirks.
But his tone leaves no room for negotiation, and for some reason, I obey. I sit there wrapped in his blanket, watching him rinse plates and wipe the counter like he’s trying to scrub the entire night away.
The power flickers once, lights dimming for a breath.
Hunter stills.
Then the generator hum deepens and holds, and the lights return to their faint glow.
He exhales through his nose like he’s relieved and annoyed at the same time.
“I’m sorry about the power,” he says without turning around. “Some parts of the house are still out.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur, but my teeth chatter again, betraying me.
Hunter turns back, eyes narrowing. “You’re still cold.”
He starts making hot chocolate, and I just sit there watching him, quiet, attentive—tucking the image away somewhere deep inside me, like a moment I already know I’ll want to remember.
We don’t speak.
It feels strange to just sit here and let him take care of me. It’s intimate for me; it has been years, I can’t remember the last time someone went out of their way to comfort me.
He sets it in front of me, a mug, steam curling from the top.
Warm cocoa.
“I didn’t ask for that,” I say softly. I sound unthankful to my own ears.
“I know,” he replies, voice clipped, and then, almost like he can’t help himself, he adds, “Drink it.”
I wrap my hands around the mug. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Heat seeps into my fingers. The smell is rich and sweet, comforting me.
My eyes sting a little, and I blink fast. It’s… more than I’m ready for.
Too much kindness from a man who usually keeps his emotions behind locked doors.
I sip, and warmth spreads down my throat. My shoulders loosen a fraction.
Hunter watches me for a second too long, then clears his throat.
“The other guest rooms don’t have power,” he says, voice turning more businesslike. “If your room stays out, you’ll take mine tonight.”
I choke slightly on the cocoa. “What?”
His gaze snaps to me, hard. “It’s a room, Adaline.”
“That’s not what I mean.” My cheeks heat. “It’s your room.”
“And you need heat.” His jaw clenches. “This isn’t a debate.”
I stare at him, stunned. His room means his bed. His space. His scent everywhere.
It means proximity; I don’t know how to survive.
“I can sleep in the library,” I say quickly. “Or the couch, or—”
“No.” The word is sharp enough to cut. Then he softens it just a fraction. “You’re not sleeping on a couch in wet weather after tonight.”
After tonight.
As if he’s already decided he won’t risk it again. I swallow, suddenly unsure what to do with the fact that he cares.
“I… I don’t want to inconvenience you,” I manage.
“You’re not,” he says, and the way he says it, low, firm, feels less like reassurance and more like a promise.
He steps closer but doesn't hold out his hand again; he just gently takes mine without asking.
A decision he’s already made.
My heart beats too fast.
I stare at our hands for a long second, my brain screaming that my heart is not ready for this.
Hunter closes his grip around mine and helps me get up from the chair like I might wobble. My legs feel heavy, exhaustion dragging at my limbs. He starts guiding me out of the kitchen.
“Where are we going?” I ask, voice quiet.
“The library,” he answers.
My stomach dips. “I thought you said I’d take your room.”
“You will,” he says, like it’s inevitable. “But you’re going to warm up first.”
He leads me down the hall, past shadowed doorways and darkened sections of the mansion where the power hasn’t returned. The place feels like a sleeping giant, half-lit, half-dark, breathing quietly around us.
We reach the library, and the fire is already going, crackling softly, throwing orange light across the shelves.
Hunter releases my hand only long enough to guide me toward the chaise by the fireplace.
“Sit.”
And I obey inexplicably.
He tosses another log into the fire, sparks lifting like tiny stars. Then he gestures to the cocoa mug still in my hands.
I nod and take another sip, warmth spreading through me again.
Hunter crosses to the armchair opposite me with his feet propped up on the ottoman, opens his laptop, and pretends this is normal. Like it’s completely ordinary for him to sit here with me while I warm up.
He starts typing, the glow of the laptop screen lighting his face.
I watch him.
He’s all sharp lines and tension, even when he’s quiet. Even when he’s being kind. Like softness doesn’t fit him, like it has to be earned and measured.
The fire crackles and the storm rages outside.
And somehow… it feels like the safest room in the world. My eyelids start to droop. I fight it for a second, embarrassed.
Hunter doesn’t look up, but he speaks anyway. “Sleep,” he says.
“I’m not—” I start, but my voice is thick.
“Yes, you are.” His tone is firm. “Sleep.”
I place the mug on a side table. My head sinks back against the cushion, and the firelight blurs.
The last thing I see is him, shoulders squared, jaw tight, fingers moving across keys.
Like he’s staying awake to keep the world from touching me.
I drift.
In my dream, the storm is gone. The dark is gone. I’m warm, wrapped up in something that smells like safety. Like him.
And Hunter’s voice is close, so close it feels like it’s inside my chest.
My body relaxes in my dream, leaning into him.
“You’re home,” he says, softer. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I reach for him in my sleep, and his arms catch me like they always do.
When I wake, I smell him before I open my eyes. That same scent, clean soap, cedar, warmth.
My lashes flutter. I’m not on the chaise anymore. I’m in a bed.
A big bed.
A bed that is not mine.
My heart jumps. I sit up too fast and immediately regret it when the room sways.
I clutch the blanket.
His blanket.
I’m in Hunter’s room.
I stare around, pulse pounding.
The furniture is sleek and minimal, orderly, masculine, and controlled. The curtains are drawn, but faint morning light seeps through the edges. I don’t remember leaving the library.
I don’t remember leaving the library at all.
Which means… he carried me.
The image flashes in my mind so vividly it almost feels like a memory, his arms under my knees, my head against his shoulder, his warm breath in my hair.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
I freeze.
For half a second, my heart does something stupid, hopeful—like it expects him.
Then a familiar voice comes through the door.
“Adaline, dear? Are you awake?”
Mrs. Lane.
Disappointment flickers through me before I can stop it, which is ridiculous.
And alarming.
I clear my throat, scrambling to make my voice normal. “Yes, Mrs. Lane. I’m awake.”
The door opens gently. She peeks in, eyes soft and kind.
“Oh, good,” she says warmly. “I was worried you might still be chilled to the bone.”
I clutch the blanket tighter, still trying to piece together the night.
She stands in the doorway, her expression gentle and knowing, as if nothing in this house surprises her anymore.
“Hunter asked me to check on you,” she says softly. “He was worried.”
My heart skips a beat at his name.
“I’m better,” I reply, quickly, like admitting anything else might unravel me. “Just… tired.”
She nods, satisfied, then smiles. “Good. Come join us for breakfast on the patio when you’re ready. Jane is already out there, enjoying the fresh air.”
Before I can answer, she steps back and closes the door behind her, the quiet click echoing through the room.
I’m alone.
And suddenly, the weight of where I am crashes into me.
Hunter’s bed stretches beneath me, perfectly made except for the place where I’m sitting. The sheets are cool and impossibly soft, carrying his scent so fully it feels like he’s everywhere.
Strong, something deeper and unmistakably him.
My heart aches.
Last night wasn’t a dream. The storm. His arms. The way he said my name like it mattered.
I reach out before I can stop myself and touch his pillow.
It’s warm, like he was here a second ago.
I curl my fingers into the fabric, pressing my cheek against it for just a second, and the feeling overwhelms me, like being wrapped in him all over again.
Safe.
If this is the Hunter he’s capable of being, the one who runs into storms, who feeds me, who carries me without asking, then I don’t know how I’m supposed to stay distant. I don’t know how to keep my heart from reaching for him.
And the truth settles deep in my chest, heavy and undeniable.
If I let myself know this version of him…
I don’t know if I’ll survive choosing anything else.