Adriana's POV
The sunlight filtering through the curtains barely warmed the chill in the room. I stood by the window, arms crossed over my chest, watching him pull on his black jacket. Hunter's movements were fluid but tense like he had a hundred thoughts running behind those cold, calculating eyes.
He paused before slipping his gun into the holster. "I'll be gone most of the day."
I swallowed. "You said that last night."
He looked at me then, blueish-gray eyes softer than I expected. "Don't wait up."
I tried to hold back my worry, but it bubbled in my throat anyway. "Is it dangerous?"
He gave a faint smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Everything I do is dangerous."
I hated that answer.
Before I could ask more, he turned and left the room. The door closed behind him with a soft thud that sounded too final.
⸻
The day dragged.
I tried distracting myself. Cleaned up the room. Went downstairs. Flipped through TV channels without watching any of them. I even picked up one of the books from the shelf, but every word blurred together.
Hunter was out there—doing who knows what. Fighting, threatening, bleeding.
The silence in the house pressed on me. I caught myself glancing at the front door every ten minutes. He said not to wait up, but how could I not?
When the sky finally dimmed into night, the weight in my chest grew heavier.
Then, just past midnight, I heard the sound.
The door.
It creaked open, and a moment later, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.
I jumped to my feet and rushed out of the room.
"Hunter?"
He didn't answer. Just walked toward the stairs, slower than usual. His shirt was soaked at the shoulder, darker than the rest, and his posture was off. He was limping.
My breath hitched. "Hunter—what happened?"
"Don't," he muttered, brushing past me.
But I wasn't letting it go. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing. You're bleeding!"
"I said leave it, Adriana." His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and final.
I flinched.
He paused halfway up the stairs, breathing hard. For a second, I thought he might fall.
I moved before he could stop me, slipping under his arm. "Lean on me."
"I don't need—"
"Shut up and let me help."
He didn't argue again.
We made it to the room in silence. I sat him down on the edge of the bed and went straight to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit. My hands trembled as I returned, kneeling in front of him.
He watched me, jaw clenched, his breath ragged.
"Take your shirt off," I whispered.
He hesitated, then tugged it over his head with a hiss of pain.
I gasped.
His side was bruised deep purple, and a shallow cut along his ribs still oozed. There were older scars too, faint ones I hadn't seen before.
I soaked a cotton pad in antiseptic, but my hands paused above the wound.
He was staring down at me. Not with anger.
With something else.
"I told you not to wait up," he murmured.
"I couldn't sleep."
I dabbed at the cut gently, and he winced.
"Sorry," I whispered.
He didn't reply.
The room was quiet again, thick with tension. The kind that wrapped around you and didn't let go. His body was hot under my fingers, muscles twitching at every touch.
He was so close. His breath grazed the top of my head.
"Why do you care?" he asked, voice low, rough.
I looked up at him. "Why do you act like no one ever has?"
He didn't answer that either.
I taped a gauze over his wound and reached for his arm next—another scrape running down to his wrist. I cleaned that too. By the time I was done, we were both quiet. Too quiet.
I stood slowly.
But before I could step away, his hand caught mine.
"Thank you," he said, barely above a whisper.
It hit harder than any shout.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Then he let go.
I turned away, retreating to my side of the bed, my skin still burning where he touched me. The space between us on the mattress felt smaller than ever.
He didn't reach for me.
And I didn't move toward him.
But something had changed in that silence.
The air between us buzzed with something heavier than tension.
Something like longing.
Something like the beginning of a line we both knew we'd eventually cross.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling. My heart hadn't calmed since I touched him. Since I saw those bruises.
He was a storm. One I hadn't learned how to navigate yet, but tonight… tonight I had seen more than just thunder and rage.
I heard him shift behind me. The bed dipped slightly.
He was still awake.
I turned just a little, just enough to see his outline in the dark. He was sitting up now, running a hand through his hair. The moonlight cast a soft silver glow along his jawline.
I sat up too. "Do you need something?"
His eyes flicked toward me. He looked… tired. Not physically—emotionally. Like the weight of the world was pressing on his shoulders and he didn't know how to shake it off.
"I've seen worse," he said finally, nodding toward his injury.
"I'm sure you have," I whispered. "But that doesn't mean you have to pretend like it doesn't hurt."
He let out a short, humorless breath. "Pain isn't the worst thing."
I tilted my head slightly. "Then what is?"
"Being weak." His voice was almost too quiet. "Being the reason someone else gets hurt."
I stared at him. That wasn't just about tonight. That came from somewhere deeper.
"You're not weak," I said.
He looked at me again really looked and something flickered in his eyes. A crack in the armor.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he moved slowly, carefully, like it hurt to shift and leaned back against the headboard. "You should sleep. You've had a long day."
I wanted to ask him what had happened on that operation. Who had hurt him. Why he came back looking like a ghost of himself. But I didn't push it.
Not tonight.
Instead, I slid under the covers and lay beside him, the space between us still heavy, still charged.
Minutes passed.
Then, quietly, his voice broke through the silence again. "Adriana?"
"Yeah?"
"I didn't want you to see me like that."
I turned to face him. "Why?"
He hesitated. "Because you look at me like I'm something more. And I'm not."
My heart squeezed. "Maybe you are."
He didn't respond.
But his hand brushed the edge of the blanket between us. Not grabbing, just resting there, closer than before.
That was enough for now.
And maybe… just maybe… it was the beginning of something real.
The silence between us stretched, thick and hot, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Then he moved.
His hand slid further, grazing my fingers, then wrapping around my wrist. Slowly. Possessively. His thumb brushed over the inside of my palm, like he was testing the texture of me, learning the rhythm of my pulse.
"You keep looking at me like that," he said quietly, voice deep, "and I'll forget I'm supposed to be holding back."
I swallowed hard, my heart racing.
His other hand lifted, slipping into my hair. He ran his fingers through the strands, then gently fisted it at the nape of my neck, tugging just enough to make my head tilt back.
"You don't even realize what you're doing to me, do you?"
I couldn't answer. My breath caught as his thumb grazed down the side of my neck, slow and deliberate, until it reached my collarbone.
Then lower.
Under the hem of my shirt, his fingers explored featherlight at first, teasing, tormenting. He found my breast, cupped it, his thumb circling my nipple. I gasped when he pinched it softly, then again, a little rougher this time. The sensation shot straight through me.
"I shouldn't be doing this," he muttered, but he didn't stop.
He leaned in close, breath brushing over my cheek, jaw, neck. He didn't kiss me. But his lips hovered, tempting.
He pulled back just slightly, his face unreadable in the dim light.
Then he winced.
The pain in his side made him grunt under his breath.
I panicked. "Your injury—Hunter, you should be resting—"
But he just gave me a dark look. One hand still wrapped in my hair, the other now gripping my waist tightly.
"Come here."
"H-Hunter—"
"Sit on my cock."
My breath caught. My eyes widened.
I didn't move.
"Now," he growled.
Heat flooded between my legs as I shifted, hesitating only for a second before crawling over him. I could feel him under me hard. So hard it made me freeze. I wasn't even touching him directly, and I could already feel how much he wanted me.
His hands gripped my hips firmly, guiding me down to straddle him, the thin layer of clothes doing nothing to hide the pressure of his arousal pressing right against me.
"You feel that?" he murmured against my neck.
I bit down on my lip hard.
He wasn't moving. Not thrusting. Just holding me there. Letting me feel him. Letting the tension do its work.
"You make me like this just by looking at me," he muttered, voice low and rough. "That sweet little mouth… that attitude you pretend to have… but you're soft everywhere, aren't you?"
He rocked me once slow, controlled. The pressure made me gasp. I gripped his shoulders, feeling the tight muscles flex beneath my hands.
His hand returned to my breast, this time under my shirt. No bra. No barriers. His fingers worked my nipple again, and I arched into his touch.
He chuckled low in his throat.
"Still pretending you don't want this?" he whispered.
I couldn't speak. I was panting aching.
He hadn't even kissed me yet.
His injured side twitched again, but he didn't complain. He just grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me closer, our foreheads nearly touching.
"I'll kiss you when I know you're mine," he murmured.
I was trembling now. From his hands. From his words. From the dangerous heat in his eyes.
Then, just when I thought he'd give in…
He let go of me.
"I need a cold shower," he said hoarsely, lifting me off his lap with a grunt. "Before I forget what little control I have left."
I sat frozen, breathless, wanting more.
He paused at the bathroom door, back turned to me.
"Next time," he said, voice rough and promising, "you won't be leaving my bed untouched."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I just… sat there.
Panting. Shaking. Burning.
Every nerve in my body was screaming. My skin felt electric, hypersensitive to everything, the memory of his hand between my legs, the sound of his voice.
I should've been relieved that he stopped.
But I wasn't.
I was furious. At him. At myself. At the tension coiled so tight inside me I thought I might snap.
He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly how to wind me up, leave me breathless and soaked, clinging to a high he refused to give.
I ran my hands through my hair and let out a shaky breath. My legs were still spread slightly, my panties soaked, my body aching for more.
I had never felt like this before. Not even close. Not this desperate.
How could he walk away like it was nothing?
I slid off the bed on trembling legs, pacing like I could out-walk the desire still raging inside me. But it only got worse. The sound of the water running in the bathroom made it worse.
Because he was in there.
Naked.
His body, wet and glistening under the spray, was only a few feet away and all I could think about was how close I'd been to tasting him. How close he'd been to burying himself inside me and taking what we both knew I was ready to give.
My eyes fluttered shut. I pressed my palm to my chest.
I could still feel him.
His growl.
His breath.
His fingers.
I wanted more.
I wanted everything.
And I couldn't take the waiting. Not the teasing. Not another second of pretending I didn't crave him with every inch of my being.
So I said it shaky, hoarse, louder than I meant to, but I didn't care.
"I want to be yours."
Silence.
Just the water running. My own breath catching in my throat.
But I knew he heard me.
And that was all that mattered.