Chased by My Possessive Ex (Dylan) novel Chapter 83

Chapter 83

DYLAN

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Time passed, slow and heavy, the kind that stretches and blurs until it loses meaning. I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the mansion, waiting for the door to open, waiting for his footsteps, waiting for Hunter to come back so we could talk, so we could fix whatever had cracked between us.

But he didn’t.

Minutes turned into an hour. Maybe more. My mind stayed trapped in a restless haze, too tired to think clearly, too wired to sleep. Every sound made my heart jump. I kept expecting him to return, but the room stayed empty and silent.

The loneliness settled in slowly, heavy and cold.

I finally pushed myself up from the bed, my body aching, my head spinning from exhaustion and worry. The room felt too big without him. I wrapped a robe around myself and walked to the door, hesitating for a moment with my hand on the handle, a strange fear twisting in my chest.

I opened the door quietly and stepped into the hallway, already planning to head straight for the kitchen and make something for myself, anything to keep my mind busy and my thoughts from spiraling. The silence of the mansion pressed in on me, thick and heavy, and for a brief second, I almost believed I could move through it unnoticed.

I was wrong.

Two men were stationed just outside the room.

They straightened the moment they saw me, alert and cautious, their presence immediate and unmissable. One of them lifted a hand slightly, not aggressively, but firmly enough to stop me. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t be out here. We can bring whatever you need to your room.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, forcing a calm smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “I’m just going to the kitchen. I’m hungry, and I don’t want to bother anyone.”

The other guard shook his head. “Orders are orders. You’re not supposed to leave the room. Tell us what you want, and we’ll bring it to you.”

I felt irritation rise in my chest, mixed with frustration and a growing sense of being trapped. “I don’t want room service,” I insisted, trying to keep my voice light. “I just want to make something simple for myself. I need to move, not sit in that room losing my mind.”

They exchanged a quick look, clearly uncomfortable, caught between protocol and the fact that I wasn’t a

threat.

“I just want to check the kitchen myself,” I added, softer now but firmer.

They didn’t move.

The hallway staved blocked by their bodies solid and unyielding their expressions tense with the kind of fear

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Chapter 83

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that didn’t come from me but from someone far more dangerous.

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One of them shifted uncomfortably, his jaw tightening. “We can’t,” he said quietly. “We’re under strict orders.”

“I just want to go to the kitchen,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, trying not to let the frustration spill over. “I’m not trying to leave the house. I’m not trying to cause trouble.”

The other guard shook his head, unease clear in his eyes. “Madam, I’m sorry, but we are under the strict order of Mr. De Marco.”

“We’ll bring you anything you want,” the first one added quickly. “Food, water, anything. Just tell us.”

I felt my chest tighten, the reality of it settling in. This wasn’t protection anymore-it was confinement. Good intentions wrapped in control.

“So I’m not allowed to walk in the house now?” I asked quietly. “Different prison, but the same situation.”

The words had barely left my mouth when a door down the hall opened.

Heavy footsteps followed.

I didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Hunter stepped into the hallway, his white polo smeared with dark red blood, staining his chest and sleeves, his hands still marked with it. His hair was slightly disheveled, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes burning with a fury that hadn’t cooled-only sharpened.

The guards stiffened instantly.

The air changed.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous, calm in the way that meant the opposite of calm.

I turned slowly, my heart dropping into my stomach as I faced him. His eyes locked on mine, dark and intense, not confused-angry. Deeply, violently offended.

“You think this is the same?” he continued, stepping closer. “You think this is anything like what Beckett did to you?”

Blood stained his shirt. His knuckles. His forearms.

The sight of it made my chest tighten.

“You think I dragged you here,” he said, his voice rising just enough to crack with restrained rage, “locked you up, hurt you, tortured you, broke you, and stripped you of your choice?”

I shook my head slightly, but the words stuck in my throat.

“I’m protecting you,” he snapped. “I’m keeping you alive. I’m keeping you safe. And you compare me to him?”

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Chapter 83

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The hurt in his eyes cut deeper than the anger.

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“That’s not what I meant,” I said quickly, my voice trembling. “But I don’t like you putting guards outside my room and treating me like I’m a prisoner.”

He stopped in front of me, chest rising and falling hard, his hands clenched at his sides. For a moment, it looked like he might explode.

Then his voice dropped.

“Don’t ever compare me to him,” he said quietly. “I’m nothing like that scumbag. I would burn this entire world down before I ever become the man who caged you,” he continued.

Then my eyes landed on his shirt covered with blood. I looked past the door behind him where he came from, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out who was in that room.

My chest tightened as his words sank in, the weight of them heavy and painful, and guilt crashed into me all at once. “I-I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. “I really didn’t mean to offend you.”

He didn’t respond right away, his jaw still tight, his eyes still dark with everything he was holding back. The blood on his shirt and on his hands made him look dangerous, but the man standing in front of me didn’t feel like a threat. He looked tired. Wounded. Strained in a way that went far deeper than the surface.

I blew out a long, shaky breath, trying to steady myself, then reached for him before I could overthink it. My fingers wrapped gently around his hand, warm, grounding, real. “Why don’t I help you clean up, and we’ll talk again after?”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his body still rigid, his emotions still too close to the surface. Then his grip tightened slightly around my hand, not rough, not forceful, just there. Present. Anchoring.

I turned and led him back toward the room, step by step, the guards parting silently to let us pass. Neither of us spoke, but the tension between us shifted, no longer sharp and explosive but heavy and fragile, like something that could break if handled the wrong way.

Inside the room, the door closed behind us, sealing out the noise from outside. The quiet wrapped around us as I guided him farther in, still holding his hand, trying to fix the damage my words had caused.

“Sit,” I said gently.

I guided Hunter to the edge of the bed, careful with every movement, my hand still holding his as if letting go might shatter something fragile between us. “Sit here for a moment,” I said softly, my voice barely more than a whisper. He obeyed, slowly lowering himself onto the mattress, his shoulders hunched as if the weight of everything still pressed down on him.

I reached for the buttons of his shirt, hands trembling slightly, and helped him remove it. The moment it came off, I caught my breath. His body was ripped, toned, and strong in a way that made my pulse spike despite myself. My stomach tightened, a fire igniting low and dangerous, but I forced my eyes down, focusing on the bloodstains, the cuts, and the mess I had promised to help him clean.

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