My body reacted before my mind could catch up—heat, tension, a low, unmistakable pull toward him that felt instinctual rather than chosen.
He watched it all.
The way my breath shortened. The way my weight shifted forward without conscious permission.
“You came,” he said.
His voice was low. Controlled. Unhurried.
“Yes.”
One word.
He nodded once, like that confirmed something he’d already known.
“Come inside,” he said. Not a request.
I stepped forward.
The door closed behind me with a quiet, definitive click.
Warmth wrapped around us, the scent of wood smoke and pine and something distinctly masculine. He stood close enough now that I could feel him—not touching, not yet—but present in a way that left no doubt about the space he occupied.
“Coat,” he said.
I hesitated for half a second.
Then I slipped it off and handed it to him.
His fingers brushed mine.
Barely.
The contact sent a jolt through me so sharp my knees nearly buckled.
He noticed.
A muscle in his jaw tightened, just enough to be a tell.
“Good,” he murmured. “You’re responsive.”
My breath stuttered.
He stepped back, giving me room, and gestured deeper into the house.
“We’ll eat,” he said. “Then you’ll rest. Tomorrow, you’ll work.”
“And tonight?” I asked, the question escaping before I could stop it.
He turned back to me slowly, eyes darkening.
“Tonight,” he said, voice dropping, “you’ll get used to being here.”
The implication settled between us, heavy and electric.
I followed him down the hallway, every sense heightened, every nerve awake.
Because the hunter had finally stepped out of my imagination.
