Hunting by desire, Bound by love

Chapter 4

The air between them was not empty. It was full of his silence.

Jade stood beside his table, her shadow falling over his untouched drink. Her heart was a frantic bird in a cage of ribs. It beat wildly against her chest. But her face was a still pond. She had done this a hundred times. She knew the script. The words were simple, clean, and left no room for discussion.

She leaned forward, just enough. The wood of the bar stool she’d left groaned softly somewhere behind her. Up close, she caught the scent of him. It wasn't just the sharp, smoky smell of the good whisky. There was something underneath. Clean cotton. Soap. And a deeper, colder note. Like stone in a forgotten cellar. It smelled like grief.

She kept her voice low, a breath meant only for him. It held no warmth, no promise, no tease. It was a list of facts.

“There is a private room in the back. Behind the velvet curtain. No one uses it. We can go there for twenty minutes.” She paused, her eyes locked on the side of his face. He hadn’t moved. “Your silence for my discretion.”

That was the offer. The whole offer. Time, location, terms. In her world, it was as straightforward as ordering a drink. She expected one of two reactions. A slow, knowing look of a fellow hunter playing a game. Or a quick, grateful nod of a lonely man being handed an easy gift.

Garrett Thatcher did neither.

For a long, endless second, nothing happened. The noise of the bar seemed to fade. The clinking glass, the murmur of talk, the hum of the cooler all became a distant ocean roar. All that existed was the space between her lips and his ear, and the profound, waiting quiet of the man beside her.

Then, he moved.

It was just his head turning. Slow. Deliberate. Not the jerky motion of surprise, but the smooth, inevitable turn of a planet. His eyes left the empty space on the wall and found hers.

Jade’s breath caught in her throat.

His eyes were not glassy with drink. They were shockingly, devastatingly clear. The deep blue was not soft, but sharp as broken ice. And they were utterly present. The emptiness she’d seen from across the room was gone, burned away in an instant. In its place was a focus so intense it felt like a physical weight. He wasn’t looking at her body. He was looking into her, past the black dress and the clinical offer. He was searching for the engine that drove her. He saw the hunter, and he saw the fear under the hunt.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod.

He simply stood.

He unfolded himself from the booth in one fluid motion. He was taller than she’d realized, his shoulders broader. He didn’t slouch. He seemed to fill the dark corner, his presence pushing back the shadows. He was not a broken man in that moment. He was a force. The air around them crackled, like the feeling before a lightning strike.

He was waiting for her to lead.

Her brain screamed at her to stop. This was wrong. This was a massive, uncontrolled change. His silence was not agreement; it was a judgement. His eyes were not accepting a gift; they were issuing a challenge.

But the Hunger twisted in her gut. It was a sharp, serrated cramp of need. The clock in her head was ticking down. She had no other options. He was the only person in the room who would work.

Procedure. Just do the procedure.

She turned, her movements stiff, and began to walk toward the back of the bar. She didn’t look to see if he followed. She could feel him. His footsteps were silent, but his presence was a heat at her back, a pressure between her shoulder blades.

They passed the restrooms. The hallway narrowed. The air grew darker. At the very end was a heavy, burgundy velvet curtain. It was frayed at the hem and darkened with age. Most people thought it was a janitor’s closet.

She reached for the curtain. Her hand, usually so steady, trembled slightly.

Before she could pull it aside, his hand touched her.

It was a simple gesture. He placed his broad palm flat against the small of her back. It wasn’t a push. It was a guide. A claim.

The heat of it was an electric shock.

It burned through the thin fabric of her dress as if it weren’t there. The warmth was not gentle; it was possessive, absolute. It was a brand. Her entire nervous system short circuited. A jolt shot up her spine, and every muscle in her body went tight. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched her with any kind of deliberate, guiding pressure. Her usual encounters were collisions in the dark, fumbling and frantic. This was different. This was calm. This was intentional.

It was the most intimate thing that had happened to her in years.

An alarm blared in her mind, in cold, digital capitals: ERROR. SENSORY OVERLOAD. PROTOCOL BREACH.

She jerked forward, pulling the curtain aside too quickly. She stumbled into the tiny, dark room beyond. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old spilled beer. A single, naked bulb hung from the ceiling, but the pull-chain was broken. Faint light bled around the edges of the curtain, painting everything in shades of deep gray.

She heard the curtain fall closed behind them. The sounds of the bar became muffled, then disappeared. They were in a silent, velvet lined coffin.

She turned to face him, her back hitting a small, rickety table. Her heart was hammering so hard she felt dizzy.

He was just inside the curtain, a tall, dark silhouette. He wasn’t moving. He was just watching her again, those clear, sharp eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“The rules,” she said, her voice coming out thinner than she wanted. It was a weak sound. She cleared her throat, trying to find her strength. “No names. No talking. It’s over when it’s over.”

He didn’t acknowledge the rules. He didn't nod or shake his head. He just took a step forward. Then another. The room was so small he was in front of her in two strides. He didn’t touch her. He just looked down at her. His gaze traced her face, her throat, the frantic pulse he could surely see jumping there.

The Hunger inside her was screaming now. It drowned out the alarm bells in her head. The need was a physical pain, a fist squeezing her insides. It was the only thing that gave her the strength to move.

With clinical detachment, she reached for the hem of her dress. It was time. This was the step. Remove the dress, complete the transaction.

His hand snapped out, catching her wrist. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was unbreakable. It was warm and rough.

“No,” he said.

It was the first word he’d spoken to her. His voice was low, graveled by disuse and whisky, but it was not slurred. It was clear. And it was a command.

He released her wrist. Instead, his hands went to the back of her neck. His fingers found the tight knot of her bun. With a sharp tug, he pulled the pin holding it free. Her hair, thick and ash-brown, tumbled down around her shoulders in a messy cascade.

The sensation was violently freeing. It was an invasion. He had dismantled a part of her armor without permission. The tight control of her bun was gone. Now her hair was loose and wild. It felt like he had opened a door she kept locked.

Before she could react, his hands were at the back of her dress. He found the zipper. The sound of it sliding down was deafening in the quiet room. A slow, teeth-gnashing purr. He pushed the dress off her shoulders. It slithered down her body, a pool of black at her feet. It left her in only her plain, functional underwear.

The dusty air touched her skin, raising goosebumps. She felt utterly exposed. Not just her body, but her intent. The clinical transaction was gone. This was something else. He had taken charge, and she was just standing there, letting him.

He didn’t rush. He looked at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the gray light. Then he began to unbutton his own jeans, his movements efficient. He didn’t remove his shirt.

He closed the last inch of space between them. His hands settled on her bare hips. His skin was so much hotter than hers. He turned her, firmly but not roughly, so she faced the wall. The plaster was cold and gritty against her palms.