Page 49 of His to Hunt

I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve gotten good at hiding. Great at it. Gold medal in pretending I’m fine. Put me on a cereal box. But Victor looks at me like every mask I’ve ever worn is made of wet tissue paper.

The elevator dings, and the doors open into a private foyer. Not a hallway. A freaking foyer. For a hotel room!

There’s a small table with a flower arrangement, a lovely painting on the wall, and double doors ahead of us. Victor uses the keycard again, and the doors unlock with a soft click.

Then he opens them and I gasp.

The penthouse is enormous. Not big. Enormous. There’s a wide living room with plush furniture arranged around the fireplace. The fireplace! Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, showing the city of Covington below and the picturesque river beyond it that is on all our postcards. The afternoon light spills over everything. There’s a dining table big enough for a family I don’t have, a wet bar, a separate sitting area, and artwork that looks expensive enough to have its own insurance policy.

I take one step inside. Then another. My mouth is open. Stuck in a gasp. I know it is. I can feel it. Victor slams the doors behind us and it jolts my mouth closed.

“This should work for now,” he says.

“For now?” I turn to him. “Victor, this is bigger than my grandmother’s entire house.”

“It’s smaller than I’d like,” he complains. “I like lots of space and an open floor plan. Maybe some plants.”

I stare at him, unsure if I’d change a single thing. I’d be too scared of ruining it.

He just shrugs, like he’s looking over junk in a garage. “The ceilings are decent.”

“The ceilings are decent,” I repeat, glancing up at them.

“They are,” he chuckles.

I laugh. I can’t help it. The sound bursts out of me before I can stop it. It’s probably a little hysterical, but it’s real. Victor watches me like he’s fascinated by every second of it.

“What?” I ask, still laughing.

“I like that sound,” he says.

“My nervous breakdown?” I ask, my laughter dying off.

“Every sound you make is beautiful,” he says. “I’m still learning all of them.”

That quiets me fast. Warmth spreads through my chest, soft and dangerous.

“Oh,” I whisper.

Victor walks closer and brushes his fingers over my cheek. “Keep doing it.”

“I’ll try to schedule more emotional collapses,” I mutter.

“No, I just need to find more reasons to make you smile,” he says gently. “More reasons to make you laugh. One day, maybe all you’ll do is smile, laugh, and take my cock like a good girl.”

The words roll through me like warm honey. I hate that it affects me so much. Hate that something sweet and filthy and vulgar makes me wet. No, that’s not true. I don’t hate it. I don’t know what to do with it, but I don’t hate it. The mating bond makes sure of it.

I turn away before he sees too much on my face and drift deeper into the suite. The floor is so clean and glossy I’m afraid to step too hard. The couch looks softer than my bed. There’s a bowl of fruit on the table, a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket, and a plate of tiny desserts that look too pretty to eat.

“Did you order all this?” I ask, looking back at him.

“No. Hotels do that when you pay them enough,” he replies.

“Hotels have been holding out on me,” I chuckle dryly.

“You’ve been staying in the wrong places,” he returns.

“I’ve never stayed anywhere,” I admit, touching the back of one of the chairs. “Not really. We went to a motel once when Shana’s parents took us to the beach in high school, but Madison and I had to share the pullout couch. Shana got the bed. It was big enough for all three of us, but Shana’s parents were afraid we’d keep her up all night. They didn’t want her too tired to enjoy the vacation.”