Chased by My Possessive Ex (Dylan) novel Chapter 37

Chapter 37

DYLAN

“Track whoever was behind the attack last night. Set an example want everyone to know what will happen to anyone who tries to mess with me.” It was those exact words of Hunter that woke me up that morning.

Pain was radiating all over my body. I lost count of how many times we did it last night. Hunter was insatiable, and I’m not complaining.

Last night was the first time that I felt like a woman, an attractive and desirable woman. He was looking at me like I was the most beautiful woman in his eyes. He couldn’t get his hands off toe.

I was married to Beckett for three years, yet never once did he hold me like I was the most fragile thing in the world. Never once did he look at me with passion and desire burning in his eyes. I never felt anything like this before. How could I not fall for a man like this?

I slowly opened my eyes, and I was immediately greeted by his broad heavily tattooed back. He was holding his phone, and his eyes were too focused on it. I took the liberty of admiring this view for a little while. It was my first time seeing him naked in broad daylight.

I don’t know what got into me, but I suddenly had an urge to touch him. I wanted to explore every inch of his body. Despite us being in the same room, I had this sudden feeling that he was out of reach.

I gently slipped out of bed, careful not to make a sound. The sheets barely rustled as I padded barefoot across the concrete floor, drawn toward him like a moth to a flame.

Hunter stood by the open window, bathed in the early morning light. His back was to me, bare and strong, shoulders relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen before. He wasn’t tense or coiled like he usually was with his men. The usual sharp edge he wore like armor was gone–softened, somehow. The air around him felt quieter.

I wondered if it had anything to do with last night. If maybe, even for a fleeting moment, I had been the cause of that rare peace in him.

He didn’t turn and didn’t acknowledge my approach. That surprised me. For the past few days that I’d spent with him, I noticed that he is sharp–eyed and always alert–never missed a single movement in the room. He always watched everything, like a hawk ready to strike.

But now? He seemed too deep in his thoughts as he continued pressing his phone.

I paused just a few inches behind him, close enough to feel the faint heat radiating from his skin. My breath caught in my throat as my gaze swept down his back. What I saw made my chest tighten.

Faint, pale lines stretched across his skin–some long, others jagged–hidden beneath the bold, inked curves of his tattoo. Scars. So many of them.

Some looked old, faded with time. Others, not so much.

I lifted my hand slowly, almost instinctively, but hesitated before making contact. My fingers hovered over one of the longer scars near his spine. It cut right through the center of the tattoo, disrupting the design like a wound that refused to heal.

What kind of pain had he endured to carry these marks? What kind of life does he have?

My throat tightened with emotion I didn’t quite understand. The man who seemed indestructible, invincible even–was covered in battle stories inked into his skin. And somehow, knowing that made me want to reach for him even more.

As I was about to touch his bare back, he suddenly shifted and turned his back as he caught my wrist, stopping me from touching him. But what surprised me the most is when I felt a cold, hard metal pressing against my forehead.

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His eyes were dark as he aimed the gun straight at me. The barre gleaned under the faint morning light, a silent threat between us. My heart should have leapt into my throat. My instincts should have been screaming at me to run, to scream, to duck, to do anything but just stand there like I was.

But I didn’t move.

Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I should have been terrified–any sane person would be. But there was a strange stillness inside me, a quiet that wrapped around my nerves like armor. Maybe was foolish. Maybe it was reckless. But I stared him down, unwavering, and something in my chest said he won’t pull the trigger. Not on me.

He was far from the man last night who had held me close, whispered my name against my skin, and kissed me like I was his salvation. That man–the one I had shared a bed with just hours ago–was not here. In his place stood a stranger. Ruthless. Cold. Calculated. His face was a mask, sharp and unreadable. It was the same look he wore when giving commands to his men, when making decisions that danced between life and death

“Didn’t your parents teach you,” he said, his voice like ice scraping against steel, “that it’s rude to sneak up on someone?”

I tilted my chin upward, my hands still at my sides. I wouldn’t flinch. Not now.

“And didn’t yours teach you it’s rude to point a gun at someone’s head?” I shot back, my voice steady even as adrenaline pumped through my veins.

Something flickered in his gaze. A twitch in the corner of his jaw A split second of hesitation.

The tension between us crackled like a live wire. There was a fire beneath the ice, a war he was clearly fighting within himself.

But it didn’t take long before he finally lowered his gun. Softness was wrapped on his handsome face this time.

“I don’t trust people who can walk without making a sound,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing on me.

“Don’t blame me just because your ears are retiring before you do,” I retorted, arms folded. Any trace of kindness I was planning? Poof. Out the window.

I clenched my fists and spun around, storming out of the room, my bare feet hitting the cold floor with sharp, angry steps. My blood was boiling–not just because of his smug little comments, but because he had this way of slipping under my skin like a splinter. A beautiful, infuriating splinter.

I made a beeline for the kitchen, muttering curses under my breath as I yanked the fridge open. I didn’t even know what I was looking for–something cold, anything to cool me down before I did something stupid. I grabbed a glass and poured water with a little more force than necessary, then took a long, deep sip, hoping it would calm the storm swirling inside me.

But I could feel it. His eyes. Watching me.

I turned slightly, and there he was–Hunter–leaning against the doorway like he hadn’t just driven me up the wall. His arms were crossed, his gaze calm and maddening, like none of this was his fault. Like he wasn’t the reason I was seconds away from screaming.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare like a creep?” I snapped, slamming the glass down on the counter harder than I

meant to.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes moved over me slowly–lazy, unreadable, making heat rise in my cheeks. Then he took a step toward me. Then another. Until he was right there, so close I could feel the shift in the air between us.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said softly, his voice low and dangerous, like silk laced with fire.

I narrowed my eyes, nostrils flaring. “You’re annoying.”

“And yet,” he said, that smirk tugging at his lips, “you still ended up in my bed.”

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My jaw dropped slightly—not just because of the words, but because of the way his gaze dropped to my lips. He looked at them like he already missed the taste of them. Like he was seconds away from pulling me back in.

I turned away quickly, trying to ignore the flutter in my chest. Iocused on my glass like it was the only thing keeping me grounded.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I muttered under my breath.

“Too late,” he said, his voice closer now. “You already did that forme last night.”

I kept my back to him, gripping the edge of the counter as if it could anchor me. I wasn’t going to fall for his smooth words again–not when my emotions were still tangled from last night Not when the heat of his presence was still burning on my skin.

I needed space. Just a little breathing room.

But he wasn’t moving. I could feel him behind me like a magnet ugging at my spine. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me wanted to turn around and fall right back into that heat.

No. Not this time.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and faced him–keeping a safe distance between us, even if it wasn’t much. I folded my arms, hoping it would make me look more composed than I felt.

“If you’re going to keep standing there like that,” I said, my voice as firm as I could make it, “you might as well make yourself useful.”

His brow lifted, clearly amused. “Useful?” he said before leaning his hands against the counter, imprisoning me in between his well–sculpted biceps.

“Y–Yes,” I said, clearing my throat, gesturing toward the stove. “Breakfast. Go cook something. You can’t expect me to deal with your ego on an empty stomach.”

A ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “So you’re saying I exhaust you.”

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