Chapter Five Kade
It’s been three days since the hunt. Three days since I lost control.
Three days of guilt eating me alive. I squeeze more ointment onto my fingers.
The bite mark on her shoulder is healing.
Fading from deep purple to yellow-green at the edges.
But it’s still there. Still visible. The shape of my teeth.
Branded into her skin. She’s sitting on the bathroom counter.
Morning light through the window. Wearing one of my shirts.
Nothing else. Her legs dangle. Relaxed. Trusting.
I spread the ointment over the mark. Gentle.
Careful. Like I can undo what I did. Like I can erase it.
I can’t. The guilt twists. Sharp. Vicious.
I’ve never felt guilt before. Not once. Not for any of them.
The women I killed. The target I was given.
I felt nothing. Not guilt. Not shame. Nothing.
This though. This is new. Harsh. And it’s swallowing me whole. The bite mark I can handle. That doesn’t bother me. The part that keeps me awake isn’t the bruise. It’s the second before it. The second when she looked up at me and the predator wanted more. Wanted her helpless.
Wanted her mine.
And for one terrifying second….
I liked it.
“Kade."
Her voice pulls me back. I look up. Meet her eyes. She’s watching me. That steady gaze. The one that sees everything.
“I’m fine," she says.
Not for the first time. She’s said it every day.
Every time I check the marks. Every time I apply the ointment.
Every time the guilt shows on my face. I nod.
Move to the bruises on her throat. Faded now.
But still there. The shape of my hand. My fingers.
Wrapped around her neck. Squeezing. I was too rough.
Too far gone. The predator took over. And I let it.
I fucking let it.
But she brought be back. Grabbed my hand. Shoved it down her pants. Made me feel how wet she was. How much she wanted it. But that doesn’t stop the guilt. Doesn’t erase the shame.
I could have killed her. In that moment.
When my hand was around her throat. When the predator was in control.
I could have squeezed too hard. Gone too far.
Lost her. The thought makes my hands shake.
I pull back. Cap the ointment. Set it on the counter.
“Kade." Her hand catches my wrist. Holds me there. “Stop."
I can’t look at her. Can’t meet her eyes.
“I was too rough," I say. My voice is rough. Raw.
“You weren’t."
“I bit you. Hard enough to bleed."
“I wanted you to."
“I bruised your throat. Your hips. Your thighs."
“I asked for it."
“I could have—"
“But you didn’t."
Her grip tightens. Forces me to look at her.
“You didn’t hurt me, Kade. Not in any way I didn’t want."
I want to believe her. God, I want to. But the guilt is there. Heavy. Suffocating. Because this is different. She’s different.
I love her. I’ve known for days. I just haven’t wanted to name it.
Not just want. Not just need. Not just possession.
Love. Real. Actual. Fucking love. I’ve never loved anything before.
Never felt this. This ache. This terror.
This desperate need to protect her. Even from myself. Especially from myself.
It’s new. Harsh. And I don’t know what to do with it.
“I’ve never—" I start. Stop. Try again. “I’ve never done that before."
She tilts her head. Waiting.
“Let go like that," I say. My voice is quiet. Almost ashamed. “Sexually."
Her eyes widen. Just slightly.
“Never?"
I shake my head.
“The women I killed. I never touched them. Not like that."
It’s true. I’ve killed twenty women. But not once did I ever touch them. Never let the predator and the desire blur.
Until her. Until that night in the graveyard.
And then again. Three days ago. In the woods.
Against the tree. I lost control. Completely.
Let the predator take over. Let the violence and the desire become one.
And it terrified me. Still does. Because I don’t know if I can control it.
Don’t know if I can keep her safe. From me.
“Kade." Her hand moves to my face. Cups my jaw. “Look at me."
I do. Her eyes are steady. Calm.
“I’m not afraid of you."
“You should be."
“But I’m not."
She leans forward. Presses her forehead to mine.
“You stopped when I said your name. Remember?"
I do. That moment. When my hand was around her throat. When I was losing myself. She whispered my name. And I came back. Let go. Stepped back.
“You have control," she says. “You think you don’t. But you do."
I want to believe her. And maybe. Maybe I’m starting to. Because she’s right. I did stop. I came back. And after. After the claiming. I took care of her. Carried her back. Washed her. Tended every mark. Brushed her hair. Showed her tenderness. Gentleness. Proved I could be both.
Predator and protector.
Monster and man.
And she stayed for both.
Didn’t push me away. Didn’t flinch. She knows I need it. The care. The gentleness. Especially after being so rough. It balances me. Grounds me. Makes the guilt lessen. Not disappear. But lessen. Enough that I can breathe. Enough that I can function.
“You’ve never turned away from me," I say. Quiet. Almost a question. She smiles. Small. Soft.
“No."
“Even when you thought I might be planted."
Her smile fades. Just slightly. That was a mess. But even when there was doubt she didn’t push me away. She was cautious. Smart. But she didn’t leave.
“Even then," she says.
I close my eyes. Let that sink in. She’s never turned away. Never rejected me. Not the predator. Not the man who loses control. She accepts it.
All of it.
All of me.
Maybe. Maybe this will work. Maybe I don’t need to feel ashamed.
Of who I am. What I am. Maybe she’s right.
Maybe I do have control. Enough. Just enough.
I open my eyes. Look at her. Really look at her.
The marks are still there. Fading. But there.
Evidence of what I did. What I’m capable of.
And she’s not afraid. Not angry. Not broken.
She’s here. Letting me care for her. Letting me show her the other side.
The tenderness. The love. Because that’s what this is. Love. New. Terrifying. But real.
“Thank you," I say. She raises an eyebrow.
“For what?"
“For not running."
She leans back. Studies me. Then nods.
“You’re welcome."
I reach for her hand. Thread my fingers through hers. Hold on. Tight. She squeezes back. And for the first time in three days. The guilt eases. Just a little. Just enough.
We eat lunch in the kitchen. Sandwiches.
Simple. Quiet. She sits across from me. Still wearing my shirt.
The collar loose. The marks on her throat visible.
I try not to stare. Try not to feel the guilt creeping back.
She catches me. Raises an eyebrow. Takes a bite of her sandwich.
Deliberate. Showing me she’s fine. I nod. Eat.
The food tastes like nothing. But I eat anyway. Because she needs me to. Because normal is what we’re trying to build. Normal. Lunch. Quiet afternoons. No spiraling. No hunting. No violence. Just. Us.
The sound comes from outside. Engine. Tires on gravel.
Vehicle pulling up the driveway. I go still.
Immediately. My hand moves to the knife at my hip.
Instinct. Amethyst’s eyes snap to mine. She sets down her sandwich.
Slow. Deliberate. No panic. But alert. We move together.
No words needed. We know how to do this.
Move to the window. Stay to the side. Don’t silhouette ourselves.
I peer out. Truck. Dark. Familiar. The Raven’s husband.
I recognize it. The dent in the passenger door.
The way the suspension sits. I’ve seen it before.
Amethyst leans in. Looks over my shoulder. Her body relaxes. Just slightly.
“It’s him," she says. Quiet.
I nod. The guilt is gone. Replaced by something else.
Anticipation. Hopefully there’s some news about whats going on.
Unless the Raven has a job. A target. Something to hunt.
The predator stirs. Wakes up. Hungry again.
But this time. This time it’s different.
This time I have permission. This time I have purpose.
I look at her. She’s already looking at me.
That steady gaze. The one that sees everything. She nods. Once.
We’re ready. We move to the door. She reaches for the handle.
I’m behind her. Close. The door swings open.
The Raven’s husband stands there. Solid.
Calm. His eyes move from her face to her neck.
To the marks. The bruises. The teeth marks on her throat.
His eyebrow rises. Just slightly. And the guilt slams back.
Hard. Someone else seeing it. Someone else witnessing what I did. Makes it real. Makes it undeniable.
Look at her. Look at what you did. But then.
His eyes shift to mine. Hold there. And I see it.
Not judgment. Recognition. Understanding.
He’s not looking at me like I’m a monster.
He’s looking at me like. Like he knows. Like he’s been there.
Done that. The eyebrow wasn’t condemnation.
It was acknowledgment. I see what happened here.
I know why. Because he does it too. He hunts the Raven.
Keeps his predator controlled the same way.
He gets it. His eyes shift back to Amethyst, she shakes her head.
Quick. Dismissive. “Please come in," Amethyst says.
Her voice is steady. Normal. The Raven’s husband steps inside.
His eyes stay on mine for another second.
That understanding passing between us. You’re not alone in this.
I’m not a monster. Not the only one. Someone else needs this too.
The guilt doesn’t disappear. But it shifts.
Eases. Just enough. Relief mixing with the shame.
He knows. And he doesn’t think I’m broken for it.
He closes the door behind him. Turns the lock.
Habit. Same as mine. Always secure the perimeter.
“Brought supplies," he says.
Gestures toward the truck outside.
“Wasn’t sure how much longer you’d need to stay off grid."
Amethyst moves past me. Into the living room. Professional. Tactical. The shift is immediate. She’s not the woman who begged me to unleash three days ago. She’s the assassin.
“How long?" she asks. The Raven’s husband follows her. I’m behind them both. Still processing. Still adjusting.
“That’s what we need to discuss," he says.
He sits in the chair by the window. Doesn’t ask permission. Doesn’t need to. This is business.
“The Raven’s gathered intel on Giltrude’s organization."
My spine straightens. Intel. Organization. Target. The predator perks up. Different than before. Not the frantic hunger. This is. Focus. Purpose.
“How much intel?" Amethyst asks.
She’s on the couch. Leaning forward. Hands on her knees. Ready.
“Enough," the Raven’s husband says.
His eyes flick to me. Then back to her.
“Enough to destroy it."
Destroy.
The word settles in my chest.
Heavy.
Solid.
Real.
Finally.
A mission. An actual fucking mission. Not just hiding. Not just waiting. Not just spiraling in isolation. Something to do. Something to hunt.
“When?" I ask. My voice is rough. But steady. He looks at me. Holds my gaze.
“Not yet," he says. “It’s not time for you two to surface."
Amethyst nods. She expected that. I didn’t. The disappointment flares. Sharp. Immediate. But then he continues.
“The Raven wants to meet with you both in the morning."
Morning. Tomorrow. Soon.
“She’ll go over the intel," he says. “The plan." He looks at Amethyst, “What we need from you."
What we need from you. Not if you want to help. Not if you’re interested. What we need. But with him looking at Amethyst, they must only need her.
“Where?" Amethyst asks.
“Here," the Raven’s husband says. “She’ll come to you."
He stands. Moves toward the door.
“I’ll unload the supplies. I’ll leave them on the porch.
" He pauses. Hand on the doorknob. Looks back at me. That understanding again. Passing between us. You’re stable now.
You have purpose. Keep it that way. I nod.
Once. He nods back. Then he’s gone. The door closes behind him.
Amethyst stays on the couch. Silent. Watching me.
I can feel her eyes. Assessing. Calculating.
“You okay?" she asks.
I turn to face her. She’s calm. Grounded. The marks on her throat are fading. But still visible. Still mine.
“Yeah," I say. And I mean it. For the first time in nine days. I mean it.
“Good," she says.
I move to the window. Watch him cross the porch. His truck is parked at the edge of the tree line. Practical. Hidden from the road. He opens the bed. Pulls out cases of water. Moves with precision. No wasted motion. Every step calculated. Every movement efficient.
He moves like I do. Every motion deliberate.
Every motion efficient. No wasted energy.
No wasted thought. Predator recognizing predator.
He carries two cases at once. Up the porch steps.
Sets them down. Doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t strain.
Just moves like this is nothing. Like his body is a tool and he knows exactly how to use it.
Back to the truck. Canned goods next. Beans.
Tuna. Chicken. Protein. Nothing fancy. Nothing that requires refrigeration.
He stacks them in a box. Carries it one-handed. Sets it beside the water.
The rhythm is hypnotic. Methodical. Like a hunt broken into pieces.
Clothes come next. Folded. Practical. Jeans.
Shirts. Underwear. Nothing unnecessary. He knows what we need.
How long we’ll be here. He doesn’t ask questions.
Doesn’t make conversation. Just works. Just provides.
He finishes. Stands on the porch. Surveys what he’s brought.
Nods once. Satisfied. Then he leaves. Doesn’t come back inside.
Doesn’t need to. The supplies are there.
We have what we need. And tomorrow, we hunt.
She stands. Walks to me. Her hand touches my chest. Light. Steady.
“We’ll get through this," she says. “Together."
I cover her hand with mine. Hold it there. Feel her pulse under my palm.
“Always," I say.
And the predator. The hunger. The spiral. It’s all quiet. Waiting. Ready. Because tomorrow.
Tomorrow we get answers.
Tomorrow we get a plan.
Tomorrow the hunt begins again.