Chapter 26

"Della!" 

The deep voice cut through the storm, and her head snapped up. Hunter was running toward her, his coat flapping behind him as the rain drenched his usually composed figure. Relief and something warmer flooded her chest as he reached her, his hands gripping her shoulders firmly. 

"What the hell are you doing out here?" His voice was sharp, but his eyes were filled with worry. "You could've been caught in the tide!" He shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders, the heavy fabric immediately warming her chilled skin. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms, carrying her effortlessly toward the house. 

"Hunter, I can walk—" 

"Not a chance," he interrupted, his jaw set. "You're freezing." 

She didn't protest further, too aware of the heat of his body against hers and the way his arms tightened protectively around her. 

Inside the house, the fire roared in the hearth, filling the room. Hunter carried her straight to the couch and set her down gently. The coat slipped from her shoulders as he knelt in front of her, his hands lingering on her arms for a moment. 

"Stay here," he said, his voice softer now. He disappeared briefly, returning with a thick blanket and a towel. He wrapped the blanket around her and used the towel to gently pat her damp hair as his eyes scanning her face. 

The tender gesture made her throat tighten. She looked up at him, his face so close, and felt an ache she couldn't name. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, his eyes searching hers. 

She nodded, her throat tight. "I'm fine. Just...wet." 

His lips twitched, but the faint smile didn't reach his eyes. "You scared me," he admitted, running a hand through his damp hair. "I thought..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Never mind." 

Della's heart clenched at his words. She hadn't meant to worry him. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. 

Hunter's gaze snapped to hers, and for a moment, the space between them felt tight. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her face. 

"You have a habit of making me feel things I'm not used to," he said quietly, his voice almost a rumble. 

Her breath caught, her pulse racing. She wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in her throat. His hand sauntered at her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin in a way that sent shivers down her spine. The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the hard angles of his cheekbones and the softness in his eyes. She felt her heart race as his gaze dropped to her lips, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. 

"Hunter..." she began, but the rest of her words caught in her throat, when his eyes dropped to her lips.

His hand stilled, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. "Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice low and rough. 

But she didn't. 

The first brush of his lips against hers was tentative, as though he were giving her a chance to pull away. But when she didn't, the kiss deepened, his mouth moving against hers, Her fingers found their way to his shoulders, clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself. The heat of his kiss, the press of his body as he leaned closer. 

Hunter's hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer as the blanket slipped from her shoulders. His touch was firm yet soft, as though he were holding something fragile and precious. When his fingers tangled in her hair, a soft gasp escaped her lips, and he seized the moment, deepening the kiss until she felt like she was drowning in him. 

"Hunter ..." She breathed, ashamed and thrilled by the molten lava of desire that spilled from the center of her ferminity.

With his head bending over her shoulder, he nuzzled his way along her shoulder, freeing the botten of her wet blouse, while taking the satin strap of her brassiere with it, letting his hand find the top of her swelling breast, he filled his hungry hands with her and rasped over her pink nipples, as his fingers circle them.

"Hunter....." She moans, while she clawed at his hair with one greedy hand. His tongue assaulted her mouth like a sword in it shealt. She sighed tremulously as he kissed her throat and the upper part of her chest.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. 

Reality crept in like the storm outside. She wasn't Emily, She wasn't EmilyShe wasn't Emily. She wasn't the woman he thought she was. 

"I—I need to change," she stammered, pulling away and clutching the blanket tightly around her. Her voice was barely above a whisper. He straightened, as he stepped back. 

 She fled up the stairs, her heart pounding and her mind racing. 

In the sanctuary of the master bedroom, she pressed a hand to her chest, trying to steady her breathing. Her heart still raced, her lips still tingled, and her mind was a mess. 

"What have I done?" she whispered, staring at her reflection in the mirror. 

Her damp hair clung to her flushed cheeks, and her eyes were wide, filled with both longing and guilt. She had kissed him. She had let him kiss her. And worse, she had wanted it—desperately. 

As she disappeared up the stairs, Hunter remained rooted to the spot, his hands braced against the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.

He searched her retreating form, desperate for any sign, emotion that could help him make sense of what had just happened. Her hesitance, her flustered movements. Did she regret it? Did she dislike him? 

He hadn't felt so unsure of himself since adolescence, when he'd first fumbled with the notion of desire. Hunter was a man who commanded rooms, who never doubted his appeal. Yet, in her presence, he felt stripped bare, vulnerable in a way he hadn't been, he wanted to pull her back and kiss her again, to demand she tell him what was running through her mind. He leaned back against the table, running a hand through his dark hair. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't reconcile her presence with the Emily Adley he once knew. 

She wasn't Emily. 

He'd known it from the moment she stepped into his life. The scent that clung to her skin was different—softer, sweeter, like wildflowers after a summer rain, not the sharp, overpowering perfume Emily had always favoured. 

And then there was her smile. It wasn't Emily's coy, executed grin. It was unguarded, shy, and almost hesitant, as if she wasn't used to someone seeing her so clearly. 

But the most damning difference was the way she kissed him. So soft, so innocent, it had almost driven him mad that first time. Emily had been bold and confident, but *this woman*—the one standing in Emily's place—kissed as if she were discovering desire for the first time, and it shattered something inside him. 

Even the way she spoke to him was different. Her words lacked the sharp wit and estimated charm he had grown used to. Instead, there was an earnestness, an honesty that disarmed him, made him want to lower his own security. This woman spoke simply, with no pretense or manipulation. It was in her tone, in the way she paused when she was nervous, the way she stammered when unsure. 

He closed his eyes, and the memory of the storm came rushing back. Finding her out there, drenched and alone, had ignited something in him. 

When he had first seen her, standing on the beach as the rain lashed around her, he had been furious. Furious at her recklessness, furious that she had put herself in harm's way. But beneath the anger had been something far more dangerous fear. 

The thought of her being hurt, of her being lost to him, was unbearable. He had draped his coat around her and carried her inside, and the feel of her trembling body against his had stirred emotions he hadn't let himself feel. 

She wasn't just an enigma. She was a temptation. He wanted to hate her. 

He should hate her. 

But he didn't. 

Instead, he found himself drawn to her in a way he couldn't explain. He wanted to be near her. He wanted to protect her, even though he knew he shouldn't. 

Hunter sighed, running a hand over his face. He had always prided himself on his control, but this woman was undoing him piece by piece. When she smiled at him, when she spoke with that soft, lilting voice, when her eyes—so full of yearning—met his, it was all he could do to stop himself from pulling her into his arms. 

He should demand the truth, ask her why she was impersonating Emily Adley or what had become of the real heir to the Adley fortune. He wanted to hate her. He truly did. But all he saw in her eyes was a woman longing to be loved, a woman who seemed so unlike the wily, self-assured Emily he had once known. 

What was he supposed to do with these feelings? 

He clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tightening. He should confront her, demand the truth. He should remind himself that she wasn't Emily, that she was lying to him. 

But all he could think about was the softness of her lips, the way she had fit against him. 

He hated her for deceiving him. 

And yet, he couldn't stop himself from wanting her.