Chased by My Possessive Ex (Dylan) novel Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Chapter 46

DYLAN

I couldn’t go to sleep knowing Hunter hasn’t come home. But now that he’s here, lying on the bed, drunk, that didn’t case the thoughts swirling inside my head. Not that he went home drunk; he went home with a woman he picked up from God knows where. And it makes me furious.

It awakens feelings inside me I’m not familiar with. The mere thought of Hunter flirting with another woman infuriates me. I felt like I can kill someone right now.

Instead of going back to sleep, I grabbed a glass and a bottle of whiskey from his expensive liquor cabinet. I sat on the single couch placed in the corner of the room. I placed the bottle on the side table before pouring some whiskey into my glass.

I leaned back against the couch, the cushions soft but doing nothing to ease the weight sitting in my chest. I brought the glass to my lips and took a slow sip. The liquor was warm now, almost unpleasantly so, and I felt it slide down my throat in a hot, sharp rush.

My gaze drifted to the bed. To him.

Hunter lay there on his back, breathing deep and even, as if sleep came easy for him–as if he hadn’t walked out on me just hours ago, leaving me alone with a bruised heart and too many unspoken words. His face was relaxed, entirely defenseless in sleep.

He looked almost peaceful. Almost innocent. As if he hadn’t completely unraveled me tonight.

I took another sip. The heat burned stronger, blooming into my chest, tightening everything inside me.

“How can you sleep so easily?” I whispered, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

My fingers tightened around the glass.

He shifted slightly, one hand curling into the sheet like he was reaching for something–or someone.

My breath caught. I hated that I wondered whether it was me he was reaching for.

I leaned my head back against the couch, closed my eyes for a moment, and exhaled slowly. The room felt too quiet. The silence pressed in on me, thick and heavy.

“I’m so tired of this,” I murmured, the words barely holding together. Tired of running from my feelings. Tired of pretending they weren’t there. Tired of being scared to lose someone again.

I opened my eyes and looked at him once more, and it hit me all over again. He wasn’t just someone I was forced to live with.

He had already carved a place inside me–deep, stubborn, and impossible to remove.

I didn’t realize how much time had passed. The room had grown still; the only sound was the soft ticking of the clock and Hunter’s quiet, even breathing. My glass had long since emptied. Somewhere between my thoughts and the silence, I had finished the whole bottle. The last drop slid into the glass.

:

I didn’t even like drinking this much. But it was easier than thinking. Easier than feeling.

I leaned my head back against the couch, letting my eyes drift toward the man sleeping on the bed. Hunter hadn’t moved much, although at some point the blanket had slipped down to his waist. His shirt was half unbuttoned, the soft glow from the lamp brushing across his skin. He looked so calm. So untouched by the chaos twisting inside my chest.

My head felt heavy, and my thoughts began to blur. The sun was already shining brightly outside.

I pressed my fingers to my temple and closed my eyes, breathing slowly, trying to hold myself together.

Then I heard it. A low groan. Soft at first, then clearer.

My eyes flew open. Hunter shifted on the bed, his brows drawing together as if something in his sleep bothered him. He exhaled, rolled onto his side, his hand reaching blindly for the pillow.

I froze, breath catching in my throat.

He let out another quiet sound, maybe a sigh or maybe a name. I couldn’t tell. His lips moved, shaping words too soft to understand, and then his eyes opened.

For a moment, he looked lost. His gaze was unfocused, heavy with sleep and whatever remained of the alcohol he had consumed earlier. His eyes wandered slowly around the room before settling on me.

“Dylan?” His voice was rough, barely audible.

I swallowed, unsure whether to speak. My heart beat faster just from hearing my name in that tone.

He blinked a few more times and sat up, dragging a hand over his face. His hair fell forward in a messy, unguarded way.

“What are you doing over there?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep. His eyes flicked from my face to the empty bottle on the table and back again. “Were you drinking?” he asked, but I remained quiet.

Images of him and that woman from moments ago haunt me up until now. To make matters worse, the alcohol added some scenarios in my head that agitated me even more. Things that I was imagining that happened between him and that woman.

“Dylan…” he calls my name once again.

Despite my blurry vision, I can sense something in his eyes. Fear, maybe? I don’t know how much he remembers from last night. But he probably knows he did something wrong last night.

His eyes were fixed on me as he watched my every move. He can probably sense the tension building between

1. us.

I pushed myself up slowly from the chair, my legs a little unsteady as the alcohol settled into my bloodstream. I rubbed at my forehead and let my feet carry me toward the small bar in the corner of the room,

The bottles sat there lined neatly on polished shelves. I rested my hand on the counter for balance, the cool surface grounding me just enough to keep my body from swaying. My gaze lingered on the scattered items

beside the decanter. A small fruit knife rested on the shelf, the same one I had noticed earlier while searching

for a drink.

I picked it up slowly, turning it in my hand. I ran my thumb along the smooth side of the blade, not the edge, just feeling the cold metal.

“Dylan, what are you doing?” Hunter panics when he sees me holding the knife.

I saw how he handles his men, so I’m not sure why he looked scared when he saw me holding a knife. I’m pretty sure that this will not do any harm against him, but I was so mad at him that I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel the pain I was feeling inside because of his actions.

“Dylan…” he calls out my name once again.

I walked toward him, still holding the small knife loosely in my hand.

Hunter did not move. He only watched me. His eyes tracked every step I took.

The room felt impossibly quiet, so quiet I could hear the soft drag of my breathing. The carpet gave beneath my bare feet, muting my steps, but the tension between us was loud enough to fill the entire space.

His gaze flicked down to my hand, to the knife, and then back up to my face. This time, he didn’t panic, didn’t flinch, and was far from the fear in his eyes that I saw moments ago. Instead, I saw how the corner of his lips twitched as if he was excited about what’s about to happen.

I stopped a few feet from him.

The silence pressed between us like heat.

My fingers tightened around the handle for a single, stupid moment. Then I pushed him hard. He did not fight me. He let his body fall back onto the bed like someone who had given up on resisting the pull of the tide. For an instant I felt ridiculous and enormous all at once, like a child pretending to be brave.

I crawled over him before I could talk myself out of it, the mattress dipping under our weight. Up close his skin smelled faintly of the cologne he always wore and the bitter trace of alcohol. My heart hammered so loud I thought he must be able to hear it. I pressed the blade to the side of his throat, light enough that it would not cut, heavy enough to remind him I was there.

I know he could throw me out of the bed with one hand if he wanted to. My frame was small, my strength nothing next to his. This pathetic little show of force was only a mirror for the turmoil inside me, a way to give shape to the chaos I could not name.

Instead of shock or anger, I got a laugh.

It was soft at first, almost a sound of surprise, then it grew warmer. He did not try to push me off. He did not snarl or call for someone. He watched me with the kind of look that made my chest cave inward: equal parts amusement and something gentler, something raw.

“I probably did something terrible while I was drunk last night, didn’t I?” he asked, his voice rough and carrying that slight, crooked smile that made everything inside me twist.

My checks burned instantly. The reality of the situation settled around me like a heavy blanket. The mattress beneath us, my thighs straddling him, the cold metal of the knife still resting between my fingers. The whole scene was ridiculous and frightening and painfully vulnerable all at once.

The anger I had clung to so fiercely began to loosen, unraveling into something softer, something I did not want to acknowledge. My fingers tightened around the knife only because it was the only solid thing I could hold onto in that moment. Not to threaten. Just to anchor myself.

“I’m the one holding the knife. Stop being cocky,” I snapped, irritation slipping through my voice without filter or thought. I sounded defensive, wounded. I hated how transparent it made me.

Hunter let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though not at me. More like at the irony of everything between us. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and unguarded. He could have easily grabbed my wrist, pinned my hand, and overturned the situation completely. He had the strength for it. I knew that. We both did.

But he didn’t.

He remained still beneath me, his chest rising and falling in calm, measured breaths, as though he knew I needed this moment more than he needed to correct it.

“Does killing me atone me for my sin?” he asked, teasing me.

“Do you think I can’t kill you?” I asked, raising my eyebrow as I pressed the blade against his neck deeper.

He smirked, “Sure you do, little dove. If there’s one person in this house that has the power to kill me, it will be you.”

“Should that make me feel better?” I replied mockingly.

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