That shimmer on his collar, proved him to be.
Hunter let it linger, tasting it. His lips barely moved, but the word came alive in the space between them.
Stacey stopped mid-step, the sound of his breath audibly hitching.
Hunter smirked, satisfied.
His shoulders stiffened, his spine going ramrod straight, but the rest of him betrayed the war inside—hands clenching tighter, breath dragging in a little too sharp, as if Hunter had snagged a hook into his ribs and pulled.
A shiver—small but exquisite—trickled down Hunter's spine, hot at first, then cold, then hot again. His pulse skipped, that wicked little flame licking higher behind his eyes. This was the part he lived for over the past few months—the crack in Stacey's mask, the moment before retreat turned into surrender, when he knew he had gotten under his skin.
