“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“My uncle took me in afterward.” A bitter smile crosses his face. “Not out of familial love. My parents left everything to me in a trust. He wanted control of it.”
“That’s horrible.”
Hunter shrugs. “He provided a roof. Food. Private schools to keep me out of his way. Otherwise, I barely existed.” His eyes finally meet mine. “I learned to cook because he fired the staff who showed me kindness. But a few maids took pity on me anyway. Taught me things when he wasn’t around.”
I slide off my stool and move to him, placing my hand over his. “That must have been incredibly lonely.”
“I adapted.” His fingers intertwine with mine. “I built my own life. My own family with the Vipers.”
The pain beneath his controlled exterior makes my heart ache. I understand better now—why control matters so much to him, why he holds people at a distance.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For telling me.”
Hunter’s gaze softens, and in that moment, I glimpse the child he once was—abandoned, determined to never need anyone again.
I step closer to him, placing my palm against his cheek. The man who terrifies enemies and commands empires leans into my touch like he’s starved for it.
“You know you don’t have to be alone anymore,” I whisper. “Not ever again.”
“Aurora...”
“I mean it,” I continue, my thumb tracing his jawline. “I know we’ve been through hell, and there’s still so much ahead of us, but whatever comes next, we will face it together.”
Hunter pulls me against him, burying his face in my hair. I feel him trembling, his breath uneven against my neck. When he lifts his head, I’m stunned to see moisture in his eyes.
“Hunter,” I breathe, reaching up to touch a tear tracking down his cheek.
He catches my hand, looking almost surprised at the wetness on his own fingers. “I haven’t cried since I was a kid,” he admits. “Not since the funeral.”
I rise on my toes and kiss him softly, our lips barely touching—so different from our usual desperate hunger. This kiss feels like a promise, tender in ways neither of us is accustomed to giving or receiving.
When I pull back, another tear has escaped. I brush it away and find myself smiling. “Look at that. The great Hunter Reed, brought down by a few childhood stories and a kiss.”
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “Careful,” he warns, though his eyes remain soft. “People might think you’re melting all that ice around my heart.”
“Good,” I say, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It was getting a bit chilly there anyway.”
His arms tighten around me as he laughs again—a real laugh that transforms his entire face. “Only you,” he murmurs against my temple. “Only you could do this to me.”
His arms tighten around me, our forgotten breakfast cooling on the counter. In this moment, with sunlight spilling across the kitchen tiles and the world temporarily held at bay, Hunter’s vulnerability strikes me as the most precious gift he could offer.
I rise on my toes again, my hands sliding up to frame his face. His eyes—those blue-gray eyes that have looked at me with lust, possession, even rage—now hold something infinitely more dangerous: trust.
Hunter’s hands cradle my face like I’m something precious. His thumbs brush my cheeks as he deepens the kiss with aching slowness. I taste salt from his tears, feel the slight tremble in his fingers.
“I’ve never let anyone see me like this,” he whispers against my lips.
I press closer. “I know.”
When he kisses me again, I feel walls crumbling—not just his, but mine too. The barriers we’ve built around our hearts, the defenses constructed from years of loss and pain, dissolve with each gentle brush of his lips.
His forehead rests against mine, our breathing synchronized. “I meant what I said, Aurora. I love you.” He says the words carefully, like they’re new tools he’s learning to use. “I’ve never said that to anyone before.”
Tears sting my eyes. In all our passionate encounters, in all the possessive words he’s growled against my skin, nothing has ever made me feel more his than this moment of quiet confession.
“I love you too,” I whisper back, the words carrying the weight of everything we’ve been through, everything we still face.
