Page 115 of Only the Hunter

Because I know this. I’ve watched this exact maneuver my entire life—decisions made for my benefit, explained to me only after the fact, dressed up in language that makes resistance look unreasonable. My father calls it looking out for me. Gabe’s calling it strategy. I’m not sure the distance between those two words is as wide as he thinks it is.

“Evie.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “I’m not ashamed. But I won’t be cornered into sharing more than we’re ready to share. I won’t let Scott spin it into something lewd. I’m protecting you. Us.”

“By controlling the narrative.”

“If you want to tell your family, let’s tell them. We can call them in the car.”

He says it like a concession, not a choice—something he’ll do if pressed, not because he wants to.

That’s the part that actually stings. Not the timeline. Not Scott. The fact that I have to ask before I’m offered a say at all.

I know, somewhere underneath the anger, that this isn’t entirely fair to him. He hasn’t done anything my father would do. He’s trying to protect something new and fragile from two men who’d trample it without meaning to. But I’ve never had this—never cared enough, this fast, for someone to have this kind of power to disappoint me—and I don’t know yet how to want something this much without also bracing for it to be taken out of my hands.

“No. That’s fine. Your plan’s a good one.”

He doesn’t look convinced. He shouldn’t be.

The woman seated in the row ahead of Gabe glances over her shoulder, as if she’s been listening and wanted to put a face to the exchange.

The plane’s wheels touch down.

We don’t speak again until we’ve deplaned, the space between us filled with unasked questions and the uneasy knowledge that silence, too, is a kind of decision.

Chapter 23

Gabe

Back at Evie’s townhome, I stand behind her as she completes the form for the official complaint.

I’ve been here before—in her home. As friends. A family friend. Before she became mine in a way we haven’t yet named. Before we had our first fight.

Tonight the house feels smaller. Charged. Like the walls are listening.

My suitcase sits downstairs in the kitchen by the back door where I left it when we arrived from the airport.

She hasn’t asked me to stay.

But she hasn’t asked me to leave, either.

I’m staying—obviously—but whether that’s in her guestroom or her bedroom is up to her.

Atlas, her cat, greeted her with a meow that sounded like a complaint, swished his tail around her leg, and then disappeared. She said she had a pet sitter check in on him, but that mostly involves replenishing food and water and cleaning the litterbox, as Atlas is sometimes a challenge to locate.

He’s now perched on the back of an armchair, quietly observing.

Since Evie’s already completed most of the complaint, she does a lot of cutting and pasting to complete the online form, then attaches the document she prepared. The submit button is standard design, circa early 2000s, but as the mouse arrow hovers over the icon, she glances over her shoulder.

I give a slight nod, urging her forward.

There’s a global human trafficking ring operating with cover from US officials. There’s no going back on this. We need to root out the corruption.

The faint click of the mouse feels loud.

A spinning wheel appears.

It’s like watching a fuse burn.

I brace—not for what’s to come once she arrives at the confirmation page, but for her reaction to what happens next.