Chapter 26 Hunter #2
“When I was in high school,” she begins, voice quieter, “my parents… died.”
The words hit the air like a sudden drop in temperature.
I turn my head fully toward her. She keeps going, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the ridge as if looking at the memory instead of me.
“It was an accident,” she says. “One minute they were… just my parents. Annoying me about college applications and curfews.” A small, bitter smile flickers. “And then they were gone.”
I don’t speak. I don’t trust myself to.
“I was seventeen,” she continues. “Old enough that people said I should be strong.” Her voice shakes slightly, then settles.
I swallow hard.
Adaline finally looks at me, and her eyes are too honest. Too open.
“And then,” she adds softly, “everything after that felt like… survival. Like if I stopped moving, I’d fall apart.”
I know that feeling. I know it like bone-deep familiarity.
For a moment, the wind is the only sound.
Then I hear myself speak, low and rough. “That’s… a lot for anyone.”
She shrugs, like minimizing it is a reflex. “I got through it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You did.”
I mean it. Not as praise, but as recognition.
Her throat works as she swallows. Then she turns her gaze away again, like she’s embarrassed to have said anything at all.
I didn’t bring her here to confess. But sitting beside her on this branch, with the town below us and the sky too wide above us, it feels impossible not to meet her honesty with my own.
“I was a mess as a teenager,” I say, surprising myself.
Adaline turns back, brow furrowing slightly. “You?”
I huff. “Hard to imagine, I know.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re still a mess.”
A laugh almost escapes me, almost. It turns into a breath.
“I struggled,” I admit, voice steady even as something inside me frays.
“School. People. I didn’t… fit.” Adaline watches me, silent.
“Aunt Jane took me in,” I continue. “She didn’t have to. But she did.”
Her eyes soften. “She loves you.”
I nod once. “Yeah.”
The next part catches in my throat. I stare out at the town, at the streets where people once looked through me like I was dirt.
“I never knew my father,” I say, the words flat because they have to be. “Not even a name worth keeping.” Adaline’s fingers curl slightly against the branch. She doesn’t interrupt.
And then I force the hardest truth out, just enough to be real without bleeding out.
“My mother…” I pause, jaw tightening. “She chose my stepfather over me.”
Adaline inhales sharply.
I keep my eyes on the horizon. It’s not the full story. Not even close. But it’s the edge of it, the part that still aches when I touch it.
Adaline doesn’t push for more. Instead, she says quietly, “I’m sorry.”
The words aren’t pity. They’re simple, honest like she means it. I nod once, unable to look at her because if I do, I’ll see that softness again. And softness is a trap.
Then she shifts slightly, her shoulder brushing mine again, and she’s close enough that her warmth cuts through the wind.
“You said it was amazing here when you were a kid,” she murmurs.
I swallow. “It was.”
“And then it stopped being amazing,” she says, not accusing. Just understanding.
I close my eyes for half a second.
When I open them, she’s looking at me the way she looked at the town, like she’s trying to see the whole truth, even the parts that hurt.
And I realize something that scares the hell out of me.
She’s not asking to be let in.
I already let her in the moment I offered my hand.
My thumb keeps rubbing the inside of my wrist like I’m trying to erase something that’s been etched there too long.
Adaline notices.
I feel her gaze before I look at her, quiet and careful. Her eyes drift to my wrist again, to the edge of ink peeking from beneath my sleeve.
I should pull my hand away. I should pretend I don’t know what she’s looking at.
Instead, I stay still.
The tattoo is a wild rose, black lines and shadowed petals, thorned stem curving around bone. People assume it’s about Rose Hills. About the Rexon name. It’s about none of that.
Adaline’s voice comes soft, like she’s testing the air between us. “Your tattoo…”
It isn’t a question, not really. It’s an opening.
I exhale, slowly. The wind tugs at the leaves overhead, and the branch creaks beneath our weight like it’s reminding me that even sacred places can break if you push them too hard.
“I got it when I found out my mother died,” I say.
Adaline goes still.
The words land heavier than I intended. I didn’t plan to tell her. I didn’t plan to say it out loud at all.
My thumb drags over the rose again, over a thorn that isn’t sharp enough to cut but still feels like it could.
“I hadn’t seen her in years,” I add, my voice rough. “Not really. Not… the way a son is supposed to see his mother.”
Adaline’s brows draw together. “Hunter…”
I shake my head once, shutting down the sympathy before it can open my chest too far.
“When I heard she was gone, I didn’t know what to do. So I did this.”
I tap the ink with a knuckle. “Something permanent. Something that hurt on purpose.”
Her lips part, and she looks at the rose like she’s hearing a language she understands.
“It’s a marker,” I say, quieter. “Of loss. Of survival.”
Adaline swallows, her throat working like she’s holding back her own history. “A wild rose,” she murmurs. “Because…?”
“Because she used to call me that,” I admit.
“Her wild rose. Stubborn. Hard to kill.”
Adaline’s gaze lifts to mine, and there’s something in it that makes my ribcage feel too small for my heart. Not pity. Not curiosity. Just recognition.
“That makes sense,” she whispers. “Why you… ” She stops, shakes her head. “Why you fight so hard for those kids.”
I blink. “What?”
She turns her face toward the town below us, but I can see the pain in her eyes. The wind lifts her hair, and she doesn’t tuck it back this time. She lets it whip across her cheek.
“The foster programs,” she says. “The scholarships and donations. The way Aunt Jane talks about it like it’s sacred.” Her voice tightens. “I get it.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. My throat feels too full.
Adaline draws a slow breath.
“After my parents died… I had my grandmother. Ruth.”
A small smile flickers, soft and sad. “She was everything. Tough as nails, loved crossword puzzles, made the best lentil soup, and pretended she wasn’t spoiling me while she spoiled me.”
“She died a year later,” Adaline continues. The words come steadier than they should. “And then it was just… me.”
The wind seems to fall away for a second. The world narrows to her voice, to the truth threaded through it.
“No one to catch me. People said all the same things they said when my parents died. You’re strong. You’ll be fine.” Her laugh is breathless and sharp.
“As if strength is a substitute for having someone show up.”
I want to reach for her. I don’t. The branch is already crowded with too much truth.
Adaline glances at me. “So when I see what you’re doing for kids who don’t have anyone… I understand why it matters to you. It’s not charity,” she says.
Her voice drops. “It’s personal.”
I stare out over Rose Hills, over the streets that taught me what it feels like to be judged without trial.
“Yeah,” I say finally. “It is.”
She turns her shoulders toward me, careful on the branch. “Thank you,” she says.
My eyes narrow. “For what?”
“For believing me,” she says simply. “About Connor. About… everything.” Her fingers curl around the bark, knuckles pale. “You didn’t assume the worst.”
The name Connor still makes something hot and ugly twist in my gut, but her gratitude hits harder than my anger.
I swallow. “I would never let someone do to you what—”
I stop.
The old sentence is a cliff. If I finish it, I fall.
Adaline waits anyway, her gaze steady.
I force the truth out in a different shape.
“I know what it’s like,” I say, voice low.
“When no one believes you. When you’re telling the truth, and it doesn’t matter because people already decided who you are.”
Her eyes soften. “Hunter…”
Something in me cracks. Just a hairline fracture, but enough that air gets in.
Internally, my thoughts burn and spiral—You should’ve told me. You should’ve come to me. I could’ve handled him. I could’ve protected you.
But the next thought follows like a punch: I didn’t make it safe for you to come to me.
I built a wall out of professionalism and rules and cold tone and control, told myself it was necessary. Told myself it kept everything clean.
All it did was shove her into the arms of an anonymous voice on a screen.
Into mine, without her knowing. The irony is bitter enough to choke on.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and the words surprise me as much as they must surprise her.
Adaline’s brows lift. “For what?”
I shake my head, because I can’t tell her the real answer. Not yet. Not when my confession would break the fragile thing between us.
“For… making it harder than it needed to be,” I manage.
Her gaze searches my face like she’s trying to decode what I’m not saying. And she’s good at that, too good.
A distant rumble rolls across the sky—low, warning, like the earth clearing its throat.
Adaline startles hard, shoulders jerking. Her foot shifts on the branch.
She wobbles. My arm shoots out without thought. My hand clamps around her forearm, firm and sure.
She freezes, breath catching. For a second, neither of us moves. My grip is protective.
Possessive. Too intimate.
Her eyes flick down to my hand on her skin, then back up to my face. Her mouth parts like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t.
The thunder rumbles again, closer. I force myself to let go, fingers sliding away.
She steadies, then lets out a shaky laugh that breaks the tension like a crack in ice. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” I say dryly. “Just trying to give me a heart attack.”
She snorts, cheeks flushing. “It’s your stupid tree.”
“My tree?” I repeat, offended. “You’re the one who’s apparently allergic to nature.”
She shoots me a look. “Nature doesn’t come with handrails,” she says.
I can’t help it, something warm, something real, tugs at the corner of my mouth. The heaviness doesn’t vanish, but it loosens. Like we shifted the weight together.
I glance toward the sky, listening. “We should head back,” I say.
“Before Rose Hills blames me when lightning strikes you,” I add casually teasing her.
Adaline’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“You’re prone to accidents," I say flatly. “It’s a public hazard.”
She glares. “I am not—”
Another rumble cuts her off, and she flinches again.
I raise an eyebrow. “Not scared at all.”
She presses her lips together, stubborn. “I’m not scared. I’m just… aware of the possibility of death.”
“That’s called being scared.”
“It’s called being sensible.”
I shake my head, shifting my weight. “Come on. Down.”
I swing my leg over the branch and drop easily, landing on solid ground with a soft crunch of leaves. I dust my hands off, then look up at her.
Adaline peers down, hair blowing across her face, her expression a mix of indignation and uncertainty.
I lift my arms. Open, steady, and offering. “Jump,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You’re out of your mind,” she says.
“Probably,” I agree. “But I’ll catch you.”
She stares down at me like I’ve asked her to step off a cliff. And maybe I have. Because it isn’t just a jump.
It’s trust.
It’s her letting go of the branch that held her up and choosing my arms instead. I hold my position, arms still open, refusing to flinch first. Adaline’s gaze drops to my hands. Then lifts to my face.
The wind gusts. The leaves shiver.
Her throat works as she swallows, and for a second, she looks exactly like she did in the storm, raw, uncertain, standing on the edge of something.
Then she inhales, slowly.
I watch the decision form in her eyes, even as she hasn’t let go yet.
And I don’t know if I’m more afraid of her falling—or choosing me.