Chapter 24 Hunter
Hunter
Morning comes quietly, like it’s afraid to wake anything that might break.
Sunlight spills across the patio outside, soft and golden, and I can hear Aunt Jane’s laugh drifting through the open doors.
Mrs. Lane responds with her usual dry warmth, their voices rising and falling as they rehash moments from last night’s fundraiser, who said what, who wore too much perfume, and which donor nearly tripped on the steps last night.
I stay in the kitchen.
I tell myself it’s because I want coffee, because mornings are easier when I control them, when there’s something hot and bitter in my hands anchoring me to the present.
I don’t trust myself yet .
Not after last night.
The espresso machine hums as I grind the beans, tamp them down with more force than necessary. My body feels tight, wired, like it hasn’t fully come down from the storm or the moment I found her running toward me through the rain.
I haven’t slept much. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her soaked and shaking, clutching me like I was the only solid thing left in the world.
I pull a shot and stare at the dark liquid like it might explain something.
I don’t hear her footsteps, but I feel her presence, subtle, immediate, and the unmistakable charge I feel under my skin. My shoulders tense before I turn, like my body recognizes her faster than my mind wants to.
Adaline stands just inside the kitchen doorway.
She isn’t dressed up now. No gown. No jewelry. Just jeans, a soft top, hair loose around her shoulders in waves that catch the light. But there’s something different about her this morning. Something in the way she looks at me. Not cautious or defensive.
Like she sees me.
Not her grumpy, impossible boss. Not the man who snaps orders and hides behind rules. Just the one who ran into a storm and held her until she stopped shaking.
Last night changed something. I can feel it.
“Good morning,” she says.
Two simple words. Quiet. Polite. They land like a weight.
“Morning,” I reply, too evenly. Too careful.
The space between us hums with everything we’re not saying. I turn back to the counter, pretending to fuss with the machine even though the coffee is already done.
I clear my throat. “Did you… Sleep okay?”
I regret the question the second it leaves my mouth.
She hesitates.
Just a flicker—but I catch it. Her gaze drops, lashes lowering, fingers twisting together lightly in front of her. Shy. A little embarrassed.
She knows I carried her to my room. She woke up in my bed. Knows how intimate that is.
My mind drifts to last night.
Her curled beneath my comforter, breathing slow and even. I stood there longer than necessary, watching her chest rise and fall, like I needed the proof that she was safe. My hands shook when I wanted to reach out, to brush a strand of hair from her face.
She fit in my space like it had been shaped for her. Like she belonged there.
Like, I want to wake up to her every morning.
I swallow.
“Yes,” she says softly. “I slept… fine. Thank you.”
I nod once, unnecessarily, and take a sip of coffee that’s far too hot. The burn grounds me.
Pain, I understand. Before I can think better of it, she steps closer.
She doesn’t say anything. She just reaches for my hand.
My injured hand.
Her fingers close around my knuckles gently. Her thumb traces the edge of the bruising, careful and light, her brow creasing in concern.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
I barely hear the words.
All I can focus on is her closeness. The warmth of her skin. The faint scent of soap and something floral clinging to her hair. No one has touched me like this in years—not without wanting something, not without expectation.
I can’t remember the last time someone looked at my injuries with concern instead of calculation.
When she lifts her eyes, our gazes lock.
The moment stretches. Quiet, intimate, and feels dangerous.
For a split second, I want to pull her closer. Wrap my arms around her the way I did last night and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
Instead, I gently pull my hand back.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice grounded than I feel. “It’ll heal.”
I see it then, the slightest flicker of hurt cross her face before she smooths it away.
Something tightens beneath my ribs, sharp and uncomfortable, like my breath has nowhere to go.
“Why don’t you go sit with Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane,” I add, gesturing toward the patio. “I’ll bring the coffee out.”
She studies me like she’s weighing whether to say something else. Then she nods.
“Okay.”
She turns and leaves the kitchen. The space feels emptier immediately.
I take a breath, palms braced against the counter, it feels like I’m cutting off air.
A few minutes later, I carry the mugs out to the patio.
Adaline is seated between Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane. They’re fussing over her in a way that’s both gentle and relentless.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Aunt Jane is saying, patting Adaline’s hand. “You should have told us about that man bothering you.”
Adaline stiffens slightly. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
Mrs. Lane clicks her tongue. “Nonsense. Hunter would have handled him a long time ago.”
I freeze just inside the doorway.
“It’s over now,” Aunt Jane adds softly. “And you’re safe. That’s what matters.”
Adaline nods, but I can see the tension still coiled beneath her calm. The kind of tension that comes from being hunted for too long.
I step forward then, setting her coffee down. I glance toward her, and I take a sip from my espresso.
“I’m heading into town later,” I say. “Need to pick up parts to finish repairing Adaline’s car.”
Aunt Jane brightens immediately. “Oh, perfect! Adaline, you should go with him. Fresh air will do you good.”
I expect refusal. I already brace for it.
But Adaline hesitates only a moment before nodding. “Okay.”
Surprise flickers across my face before I can stop it.
“Good,” Aunt Jane says, clearly pleased. “That settles it.”
Adaline lifts her gaze to mine, something locked in the way she looks at me. Something trusting.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand yet, that terrifies me more than the storm ever did.
It’s just a drive into town.
Parts. Errands. Fifteen minutes of normal.
But when I step out to the gravel drive, and my truck comes into view, my pulse is already doing something stupid.
The sky is clear today, washed blue, crisp air carrying the scent of wet earth from last night’s storm. The mansion looks calm again, like it didn’t nearly swallow her whole.
I lean against the driver’s side door and wait. I don’t have to wait long.
The front door opens, and she steps outside. Still dressed in jeans and a casual olive green top from when I saw her at breakfast. Nothing dramatic.
Her hair falls in loose waves, catching light as she comes down the steps.
Wind. She’s walking toward me, she’s here. She’s real.
And she still doesn’t know my secret.
Our eyes meet before she reaches the driveway. She doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
The air feels thick, charged, like we’re standing too close to something live. When she gets to the truck, she stops a few feet away, lips parting like she might say something.
I beat her to it, because if she speaks first, I might break.
“Ready?” I ask.
Her mouth curves, small. “I think so.”
I reach for the passenger door and open it for her. Adaline looks at me, surprised. Her smile widens a fraction. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before climbing in, and that small gesture, casual, feminine, unguarded, makes my grip tighten on the door frame.
It feels like a date.
The thought hits hard and fast, and I hate that my heart agrees.
I shut the door gently, then walk around to the driver’s side and get in, keeping my face neutral like I’m not thinking about how her perfume is already in my truck, mixing with leather.
I start the engine. The tires crunch over gravel as we pull away.
Silence settles between us for the first minute, not uncomfortable. Just… careful.
I keep my gaze on the road. “About last night,” I say finally.
Her head turns toward me.
I don’t look at her yet. If I do, I’ll get stuck.
I add. “Davis won’t hurt you again.” She goes still.
The name is a knife.
“Hunter—” she starts.
“I’m not asking questions,” I cut in, voice steady, even though my hand tightens on the steering wheel. “I’m telling you. You’re safe at the mansion and even when you visit Rose Hills.”
Her breath catches. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can.”
I stare at the road again. I could tell her a hundred things.
That I hired my security team to protect her from Davis. That I would never believe Davis over her. And treat her the way the townspeople treated me all those years ago.
That leaving this town didn’t fix what people believed about me, it just gave them a cleaner story. But I don’t say any of it.
Because if I start talking about the past, the present follows. And the present is her.
In my truck. In my life.
I keep my voice flat. “It’s complicated.”
She huffs a humorless laugh. “Everything with you is complicated.”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “So I’ve been told.”
Another stretch of road.
Then, softer, she says, “Thank you.”
I blink. “For what?”
“For… rescuing me,” she admits. “Again.”
My throat tightens.
I don’t like the word rescue. It implies she’s helpless.
She isn’t.
She’s stubborn and sharp and brave in ways that make me drawn toward her. Yet last night, she ran into my arms like she’d been waiting for me.
I clear my throat. “You shouldn’t have been out there.”
“I know.” Her voice drops. “Lately, I feel like I need support more than I give it. And I hate that.”
My fingers flex against the steering wheel. I want to tell her she doesn’t need to earn support. Instead, I give her the safest truth I can manage. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
She looks at me again, and her expression softens.
Before I can stop it, the words slip out, too blunt, too careful, too revealing, and not revealing enough.
“You live at Rexon Mansion,” I say. “I’m responsible for you.”
The moment it leaves my mouth, I know it’s wrong. Her shoulders stiffen.
Her eyes drop, not to the road, down, like she’s trying to hide the disappointment.
Like she wanted something more. Maybe the truth, that she means more to me than just being an employee.
I can’t give her what she wants. Not yet. Not when my secrets are sitting between us like a third passenger.
Reeves’s Repair sign appears up ahead.
The sight of it brings a different kind of tension to my shoulders. Familiar. Old.
I pull into the lot and park.
The building looks the same as it always has, faded paint, oil stains on the concrete, the kind of place that smells like metal and work and second chances.
Adaline steps out, and the cool air lifts her hair again.
I move around the truck and head inside with her.
The bell above the door jingles.
The scent hits instantly, engine grease, rubber, something sharp and chemical. It’s like stepping into a memory. Here she is again with me in a place that holds all my past. And yet it feels comforting to have her with me.
“Hunter,” Mr. Reeves calls from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag. His beard is grayer than it used to be, but his eyes are the same, steady, assessing, kind in a way I don’t deserve.
“Mr. Reeves,” I say, nodding. He pulls me into a quick hug and pats my back.
He glances past me to Adaline. “And you brought company.”
Adaline offers a polite smile. “Hi. I’m Adaline.”
Mr. Reeves’s eyebrows lift, and something like recognition flickers in his expression, like he’s heard her name somewhere already. He offers her a genuine smile and greets her warmly.
Of course, he has. Rose Hills doesn’t keep secrets.
I gesture toward the back. “I came for the parts for the sedan. Alternator and belt. The ones you said were delivered."
He grunts. “Got ’em in the back. Thought you’d be in sooner.”
“I had things,” I say. His gaze sharpens like he hears the weight behind that.
He doesn’t press.
We step deeper into the shop, past the bay doors where a car is lifted high, past tool chests and oil pans and half-finished jobs.
Mr. Reeves talks through the parts, availability, timing, and what he can order if I need something else. I answer automatically, like this is the easiest conversation I’ve had in days.
Behind us, Adaline wanders. I track her without meaning to.
She moves slowly, careful not to get in anyone’s way, eyes taking everything in, shelves of tools, old posters of classic cars, a bulletin board crowded with photos.
Mr. Reeves’s voice fades to the background.
Because Adaline stops. Her hand reaches out. She lifts a framed photo from the wall.
I recognize it instantly.
Me, when I was sixteen, leaner, less angry, grease on my cheek, one arm slung around Mr. Reeves’s shoulders like he was the only solid thing in my life.
Adaline studies it quietly, head tilted, brows drawn together.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t tease. She just… looks.
Then she turns her head toward me. Her eyes are full of questions. Not the nosy kind.
The kind that says, I see you. I want to understand.
And the worst part is, I don’t know if I can survive letting her understand me.