“And your land?” I asked. “What is this, really?”
“A conservation trust,” he said. “Privately funded. Wildlife management. Controlled hunts. Land rehabilitation.”
A hunter who preserved what he hunted.
The contradiction sent a shiver through me.
“My aunt lives near Saratoga,” I said suddenly. “Mabel Quinn.”
“I know,” he replied.
I closed my eyes for a beat.
“And my mother?” I asked.
A pause.
“She lives in Albany,” he said carefully. “She won’t bother you.”
That, more than anything, confirmed how deep this went.
I’d spent years not talking about my mother. Years keeping that wound buried under professionalism and distance. He hadn’t needed to ask. He’d simply accounted for it.
“You planned this,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
The honesty was devastating.
He stood then—slowly—and the shift in the room was immediate. Predatory without aggression. Intent without threat.
“You’re overstimulated,” he said calmly. “Cold. Wired. Carrying weeks of anticipation in your body.”
I didn’t deny it.
“You’ll sleep tonight,” he continued. “Alone. In the room upstairs.”
My breath caught—disappointment flaring hot and sharp.
“And tomorrow,” he added, stepping closer, voice dropping, “we’ll begin properly.”
I looked up at him, pulse roaring.
“Begin what?”
He reached out then—not to touch me fully, but to place two fingers under my chin and tilt my face upward. The contact was light.
Devastating.
“Your unlearning,” he said.
My body responded instantly—heat, ache, want curling low in my belly.
His thumb brushed my lower lip once.
Then he stepped away.
“Eat,” he said again. “You’ll need the strength.”
