Hunter's Alpha (gxg) ✓

40. Escape

I found Pierce.

I see her through the window a one-story house, making something in the kitchen. My back is pressed to the California-style brick, and there is a gun in my hand. I hope the neighbours don't see.

It took work, but I traced her name back to a property here on the fringe of New Orleans, a small suburban area of cozy homes.

Is this where Jude has been staying for the past two weeks?

Evening is falling, and my shadow dances against the side of the house. Inside of the house, it doesn't like there is any murder or bloodshed or hostages.

It looks . . . surprisingly domestic.

Cozy, even. Pierce is grabbing her keys from a hanger and pulling on a jacket. I see her mouth open, but I don't hear what she says as she exits through the front door.

Where is Jude?

And then I see her.

As Pierce leaves, and a gust of winter air swirls into the foyer, Jude slips to the front of the house to lock the door.

I hear Pierce's car starting, and she pulls out of the driveway.

Now, Jude is alone in the house.

Once I am sure Pierce is gone, after five minutes, I shove my gun into my pocket and climb the stairs to the front of the house.

As ordinarily as if I am a door-to-door salesman, as normally as if I am a girl scout selling pistachio-chip cookies, I ring the doorbell.

My breath puffs out into the air. My hands shake in my pockets from the cold.

The door opens, and my thoughts dissolve.

Because Jude is standing there, and it is the first time I've seen her in two weeks, but it feels like it's the first I'm seeing her since the accident. I am immediately twelve again, seeing her in the hospital room, as her face pinches in confusion. I feel like I should know you. But she didn't then, and she doesn't now.

The winter air between us becomes hot with tension, thick with surprise and realization and shock.

"What are you doing here?" she breathes. "What—"

But before she can say more, I step forward and lock my hand over her throat, using my grip to gently push her back. She stumbles backwards into the house, and I close the door behind us.

Her back hits the wall. A picture frame rattles.

"What are you—?" she gasps, and then I kiss her.

Her mouth instinctively responds to mine, the way it always does. Her body softens against me, fitted perfectly to me, as though she was made for me. And she breathes into my mouth, whispering, "Hunter," as though she can't help it. I kiss her harder, my hand still locked around her throat, and her fingers drag down my back. I miss the scratches she gave me—the bruises that made me think of her.

I love this—I love that she can't resist me, even after everything. I love what my touch does to her. I love how she answers me, as though I am a question she is still trying to figure out.

Her lips against mine are hot and sweet, and my tongue slips against her. Claiming her as mine.

"Stop," she gasps, pulling herself back an inch.