Hunter lay beside Stacey, his fingers brushing his knuckles, tracing lazy, possessive patterns over the back of his hand like he was testing the reality of what had just happened. The room still smelled like sweat and pine.
His mark.
His.
He thought of the ballroom. Last Christmas. There had been something that flickered for the first time that night.
Was that what made me say yes to you, even back then? There has always been something about you. Even when I never would have before.
Hunter kissed Stacey's forehead, his lips just grazing across his warm skin.
But beneath the afterglow, his mind wasn't quiet.
His veins hummed with venom and ache, his pulse still caught in that frantic rhythm that never fully stilled—not even now. His world might've slowed down for this moment, for this bed, but outside these walls, it still burned.
There was Batch 9 to worry about.
