"Not your concern." I advance on him, backing him against the dumpster. "Job's been pulled. Bounty's invalid."
He sneers through pain. "Bullshit. Twenty grand says different."
"Walk away," I warn, giving him one chance. More than he deserves for looking at what's mine. "Find another payday."
His hand moves again, faster this time. A glint of metal.
What happens next is muscle memory. Violence programmed into me through years of dirty work for dirtier men. I don't enjoy it. Don't hate it either. It's just necessary.
When it's done, I wipe my knife on his jacket. He's still breathing. Might even walk again someday. I'm not a monster. But he won't be hunting anyone for a long, long time.
I text Marge from Beck's phone, apologizing for a sudden illness. Then I find Beck restocking napkin dispensers, wrap my arm around her waist, and guide her quickly out the front door.
"Gray, what—" she begins.
"Gotta go. Now."
She sees the blood on my knuckles, the cold flatness in my eyes. Smart girl doesn't argue, just lets me bundle her into the truck.
We're halfway back to the cabin before she speaks. "Another bounty hunter?"
I nod, eyes on the road, scanning for followers. There won't be any. I was thorough.
"Did you kill him?" Her voice is small.
"No." I reach across the console, squeezing her thigh. "Didn't need to."
She's quiet for the rest of the drive, but her hand covers mine where it rests on her leg. Not pulling away. Not afraid of the blood drying on my skin. Progress.
At the cabin, she follows me inside wordlessly. Locks the door behind us. Then she's pulling me to the bathroom, gentle but insistent.
"Sit," she orders, pointing to the closed toilet lid.
I comply, watching as she wets a washcloth, kneels between my legs, and begins cleaning the blood from my knuckles. Her touch is tender, careful around the split skin.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, not looking up from her task.
"No." Nothing hurts when she's touching me.
She cleans each finger meticulously, revealing the damage beneath the blood. Not serious. I've had much worse. When she's satisfied, she reaches for antiseptic in the medicine cabinet, dabs it onto the cuts.
"You did this for me," she says, still not meeting my eyes.
"Yes."
"You hurt people for me."
"Yes."
Finally, she looks up, those hazel eyes searching mine. "Why?"
"You know why." My voice drops to a growl, hand coming up to cup her face. "You're mine to protect."
Something shifts in her expression—fear melting into something darker, needier. Her hands rest on my thighs, fingers digging into the muscle.
"Say it again," she whispers.
"Mine." I thread my fingers through her hair, gripping tight enough to make her gasp. "No one hunts what's mine."
