Pain hits me in full force. I suck in a breath, waiting for the damn tears to fall, but they’re held in by some fucked up force, and I just want to cry.
Instead, I finally look up at him.
The second my eyes catch his, I hold my breath.
He’s staring right at me, his eyes so dark, they look black. His hair is the shortest it’s ever been, almost a buzz cut but not quite; it completely opens his entire face up, and I see it all, the grizzly scars against the stubbled skin, the familiar one running down his face, cutting through an eyebrow, cheek, throat and collarbone. I feel a shudder run through me, the distant memories screaming to be remembered against the new abrasions that hold a story I don’t yet know—but I can guess, given the grizzly fight he’s just endured.
His voice breaks through the silence, sounding low, quiet. “Are you real?”
I swallow then nod. “Yeah… Are you?”
He pauses, his brows coming together. “I’m not sure.”
He doesn’t step to me, and I don’t step to him, either.
We stare at each other, studying every inch, our gazes guarded now; he’s dubious of my existence, while I’m terrified I’ve died somewhere along the way.
Finally, he takes a step toward me, and my heart jumps in my chest. Bug-eyed, I jolt back, keeping the distance between us. My hand comes out, as if to stop him from advancing, and Hunter pauses right there and then, his head tilting to the side, those black eyes loaded with—with something very predatory.
My arms break out in goosebumps as I stare at this giant man, choked with uncertain emotion. He’s Hunter, but he’s Savage too, and right now it’s Savage staring me down, his face shrouded with darkness. Standing before me is the monster that murdered that man in that fighting pit.
Savage is not Hunter.
He is a whole other being, one that reacts purely on instinct and extreme emotion.
One that took far too much from me.
And I—I don’t forgive him.
He steps to me again, and I do the same thing, jumping back. This time, he doesn’t stop. He continues to walk, his steps purposeful, coming at me as I stumble back, my arms stretched out, telling him with my open palms to stop, stop,stop—
Suddenly, my back hits a wall, my breath is knocked out of me, and my hands are pressed against a solid chest that stops the second I’m touching him. He sucks in a breath like I’ve shocked him, and then his chest moves rapidly against my palms. I look up at him, defenceless, tiny, my heart racing as the fear inside me triples.
I’m not scared of him.
I’m scared of what this means.
I’m scared that I’ve just undone years of processing.
Years of grieving.
Years of letting this man go.
My shoulders shake, and I can’t breathe because—
Because I’m on the verge of sobbing, but the fucking tears won’t fall.
My hands aren’t pushing him away. Instead, my nails are digging into his skin, raking at him, watching as the marks appear on his pale flesh. I do this because I need to know he’s real—
And then my nails are digging harder, piercing the skin until the pale lines are coated red with blood, and I’m staring up at him in disbelief and anger—
I’m so fucking angry.
And I’m so fucking sad.
And I’m so fucking elated all at once.
I want him to hurt.