Page 39 of Mine To Hunt

I laugh lightly, the sound surprised out of me, because a win feels abstract, but his question lightens the air, makes the session feel less like dissection and more like mapping a way out.

"A win? Not feeling like a fraud, maybe. Or sleeping without jumping at every buzz. Small stuff."

"Small stuff counts." He agrees, that handsome composure cracking just enough to humanize him.

"Let's aim there. No pressure to unpack it all today. This is your space, your pace. Tell me about your writing. Intake mentioned you’re a student. Creative writing major. Does that ground you when the shadows creep in?"

Relief floods because this veers safe, and I lean into it, hesitation fading as passion sparks faint. "It does, sometimes. Stories let me rewrite the endings. Give characters outs I can't find for myself. Lately, though... plots stall. Too much noise in my head."

"Fair." He says, his tone encouraging without patronizing. "Noise drowns creativity. What if we tried a quick exercise? No right or wrong. Just free-write one line about a character facing a shadow. See what comes."

The hour slips by in fits of hesitation and flow, his questions light touches that coax without cornering.

When the clock chimes softly, signaling time, I realize with a jolt. This is the first moment since the texts started, since the video shattered me, that someone's listening without judgment, without anger flaring or expectations weighing like chains. No pity from Maddie, no protective rage from Al. Just presence, unfiltered and patient.

And that realization terrifies me more than being alone ever did. Because if listening like this exists, what happens when I start believing I deserve it? What then?

Chapter 11

Him

Iwatch her from across the street, half-hidden behind a stack of crates near the vegetable stall. She moves through the market with that same quiet way she does everything, slow, deliberate, like she’s measuring each step against some internal rule only she knows.

Her long, wavy copper-red hair catches the light every time she turns her head, falling around her face and shoulders in soft, natural layers. The color is striking against her fair skin. Her delicate features arranged precisely.

Light eyebrows, softly defined cheekbones, a straight nose, full natural lips. Her eyes are light-colored, calm but with that underlying intensity that never quite leaves, like she’s always scanning for something she can’t name.

She’s slender, smooth shoulders and arms visible beneath the thin sleeves of her light sweater. No bulk, no excess, just clean lines that make her look fragile at first glance. Fragile things are interesting. They break in predictable ways if you apply the right pressure.

She pauses at a stall selling apples, fingers brushing over the fruit as if testing for flaws. I notice the faint furrow in her brow, the way her lips press together while she decides. She selects three, weighs them in her hand, then hands them to the vendor with a small nod. No bright smile, but no rudeness either. Just efficiency. Control. I like that about her already.

I keep my distance, blending into the flow of shoppers. She doesn’t notice me. They never do at first. My pulse quickens, not from fear of being seen, but from the simple fact of her existence in front of me.

The rush is immediate, adrenaline flooding my veins, sharp and electric. I haven’t felt this without a blade in my hand. No knife, no restraints, no pleas. Just her. Walking. Breathing. Existing.

What is it about her?

She’s not loud. She doesn’t demand attention. She doesn’t flirt with vendors or laugh too easily. She is contained. Self-contained. That makes her dangerous in a way the others never were.

Ethan was weak, crumbling under his own weight. The first two were the same, soft minds, soft bodies, soft wills. They folded quickly. She doesn’t look like she will fold quickly.

That thought sends another spike through me, hotter than the last. My fingers flex at my sides. I want to know how long she’ll hold out. How much pressure she can take before she cracks. I’ve never wanted to test someone this much without already having them tied down.

She stops again, this time at a stall selling herbs. A blonde girl around her age approaches, same height, same easyconfidence but louder. Friend. Definitely friend. The blonde says something, gestures with her hands. Iris listens, nods once, then replies.

I can’t hear the words, but I watch the way her mouth moves, the way her eyes flick toward the blonde andthen away, scanning the crowd like she’s waiting for something to appear.

She’s looking for me.

Not consciously. Not yet. But some part of her knows. Some animal instinct buried under layers of denial and politeness tells her eyes are on me. I feel the connection tighten, a wire pulled taut between us. My heart rate climbs higher. This is new. This is better.

They start walking together, away from the main stalls, toward the quieter end of the market. I follow at a measured distance, keeping other people between us.

The blonde talks the whole time, animated, hands flying. She answers in short sentences, her head tilting slightly when she speaks. She doesn’t interrupt. She listens. That control again. I want to break it. I want to see what happens when she can’t listen anymore, when she can only scream.

They head toward a car parked nearby, and I slip into mine, following at a safe distance as they drive off. The route twists into a poor area that looks like it's been abandoned for a long time.

Boarded windows, overgrown lots, the kind of decay that breeds the weak. The blonde's car pulls up to a rundown complex, she’s stepping out after a quick exchange. "Thanks for today." She says, hugging her friend through the open window.