Page 155 of Hunt for You

Would he?

I popped out of the chair, pacing the room, glancing at the screen every time I turned, waiting to see if he’d come back.

And he didn’t.

He fucking didn’t.

Was this how he took control? Leaving me uncertain, right up to the end?

Or had he actually bowed out?

And how the fuck was I going to figure it out in time if he didn’t show up tomorrow?

Fuck you, Cain.

Fucking fuck you.

48. Caged

~ BRIDGET ~

In the dream, I could feel him watching. Always somewhere behind me. Always just out of sight. And every time I turned my back he got closer. Until I was turning away from him on purpose, because it drew him nearer, faster.

Then he was there, breathing down the back of my neck, panting like he’d been running.

“I made it… I made it on time,” he croaked in my ear, wrapping his arms around me from behind and clinging, leaning over me, covering me.

“On time for what?” I gasped, suddenly near tears, even though I didn’t know why.

“You aren’t dead yet.”

“No,” I said, but that reminded me why I was sad, and I had to swallow the lump in my throat. “Nope. Not dead. Not yet…” I trailed off lamely.

“Bridget—”

“Can we just… can you just… stay here with me for a little while?” I whispered.

He sighed heavily, his breath rushing across my cheek as he curled himself around me until the rest of the world disappeared, and all I could see was the safety in his shadow. And all I could feel was the steel warmth of him.

I clung to his arms that were wrapped around me, and a weird noise came out of my throat.

“Bridget, what—”

“Don’t let go,” I whispered through numb lips. “Please… don’t let go.”

“I won’t, babe. I won’t—I’m here. I promise, I’m here.”

“But you won’t stay.”

“Yes, I will!”

I shook my head and he growled, tightening his grip at first, then whipping me around suddenly and staring into my eyes, his forehead furrowed, more lined than I’d ever seen it before.

I lifted a shaking hand to comb his thick hair back from those lines, and realized that I’d never done that before. Never touched his hair. Never buried my fingers in it. Never clawed at his scalp, or gasped his name.

So I did that—all those things. I grabbed for him with a little, broken whimper, pleading with my eyes that he wouldn’t say anything, because we were almost out of time and I was scared, and he made me feel safe… so why…? Why couldn’t we make this work?

“Bridget—”