The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(43)

Her last words were, “Hunt, it’s kind of creepy that you’re staring at me like this.”

I high-key agreed, but I couldn’t help it. She called me Hunt and told my da I was awesome and always knew what I felt like eating when she ordered DoorDash, even if we hadn’t spoken all day.

She had so much passion, and I had none. Yet I jerked off three times a day, and she didn’t even need to get dicked regularly.

Sailor Brennan confused me.

I fell asleep on her carpeted bedroom floor, like a goddamn tweaker.




The next morning, Sailor came out of her room wearing her rags training clothes. I was standing behind the kitchen island, sipping a cup of coffee in designer track pants and a hoodie.

I dragged a steaming cup of coffee her way as a pre-peace offering, before I unleashed hell on her. Sailor smiled gratefully, taking a sip and hoisting her archery equipment over her injured, slightly-less-swollen shoulder. Total demon. If I were a king going to war, I’d want her to lead my army. Bitch would destroy anything in her path to get what she wanted.

“Thanks again for yesterday. I owe you a huge one. And I’m going to start by telling your dad I think he should loosen the leash on you. You really are pretty rad.”

Her green eyes widened when she talked, like a kid telling a story.

“Take a mental picture of this moment, aingeal dian, because it’s about to take a sharp turn for the worse.” I grabbed my phone from the marble counter and tossed it into her hands. I jerked my chin toward it.

“It’s unlocked. Check my call log.”

Sailor hit the green button and looked at my last call.

“That’s Junsu’s number.” Her eyes flared. Her entire face twisted. First in confusion, followed closely by shock, realization, and finally, rage.

“I called to let him know what was up with your shoulder. Texted him a picture of the doctor’s orders. You’re out two weeks. Sorry, baby girl.”

There was silence.

A disproportionally good amount of it.

The uncomfortable, I’m-about-to-fuck-you-up kind of silence.

If I had the privilege of famous last words, they’d be, Sailor’s tits are a ten. I know they don’t look it in oversized hoodies and DriFit shirts, but it’s true.

Just then, the woman from the morning show on the flat TV screen behind us blurted from the living room, “And now I have a special guest. With us today is the gorgeous, talented, young—did I mention gorgeous? Ha-ha-ha—archer, Lana Alder!”

The camera zoomed out, and I saw that the woman, who sported more plastic than The Container Store, was sitting in front of a chick who looked to be my age, maybe slightly older, and wore a green mini dress. Real talk? She was bangin’. Think Margot Robbie with a mean-ass rack and legs to rival Sofia Vergara’s.

The two started chatting about Lana’s upcoming movie, which honestly sounded like a hot mess, and exciting love life, which—also honestly—sounded anything but exciting. They were five minutes in before there was any mention of archery. Sailor was so mesmerized by the TV, she seemed to forget she was about to gut me with one of her arrows.

The host said, “I hear that, other than the two veteran women archers representing the US, Joanna Dingham and Mary Turner, it’s a tight competition between you and Boston-based Sailor Brennan. That means you might represent us in the Olympics in Tallinn next year—as well as being an accomplished actress and model, and owning your own online clothing store!”

The hostess’ cloying sweetness gave me sugar poisoning. I wondered if she puked rainbows. Also, this Lana chick had more business ventures than Richard Branson. No wonder Sailor was bitter about her.

Lana giggled in a voice high enough to break a window, showing a mouth full of capped teeth. “Oh, I promise you, I will be there next year. Unfortunately, Miss Brennan lacks the focus and charisma to rise to this occasion, at least in my humble opinion. I’m going to make the US proud, and I’m going to do it wearing my new line of jumpsuits, so look out for it!”

I took the remote and turned the TV off. Without warning, Sailor picked up her shit and darted to the door. I was faster. I pounced, blocking her way out with my body.

“Two weeks,” I repeated. “Get your ass back in bed. Pronto.”

Rather than answering me with actual words, Sailor took a step back, grabbed her bow, and plucked out an arrow, her face void of emotion. She was vivid, loose-limbed. Also, completely deranged. But I saw the huntress within her.

She was a daring little thing, and that made me want to fuck her even more.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I said dryly. I was bailing on work for her, and if she was going to shoot me—literally goddamn shoot me—we were going to have a problem.

She raised the bow, using her injured side, and drew the arrow in a perfectly smooth motion, squeezing one eye shut as she zeroed in on me. The string pressed against her mouth.

“Sailor.”

“Three seconds to move from the door, Hunter. Three.”

“Sorry, aingeal dian, but I think you just met the one motherfucker who is dumb enough not to be scared of you or your family.”

“Two.”

“Meh. You don’t have it in you.” But was I convincing her or myself?

“One.”

She released the arrow.