Page 72 of Only the Hunter

“What—”

“Now.”

The word lands simultaneously with a firm hand on my shoulder.

The calm in his voice tells me this isn’t negotiable. And some part of me—the part that’s been running on adrenaline and guilt since the ravine—trusts him.

I go.

Inside, I take a seat near the window, back to the wall. Through the glass, I see Gabe step away from the storefront, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. He crosses the street like he’s noticed something in a shop window.

Casual. Unhurried.

Except I know better.

I’ve never seen him like this.

And I hate that part of me isn’t afraid.

I’m reassured.

He stops near a man in a dark coat—late twenties, bundled against the cold. The man startles. Steps back.

If Gabe speaks, he’s not shouting. There’s no noticeable movement of his lips.

He just closes the distance in the blink of an eye, and suddenly the man is against the stone wall, Gabe’s forearm at his throat.

It’s over in a minute.

The man’s phone clatters to the pavement. Gabe bends, retrieves it, scrolls. Pockets it.

Then he steps back.

The man runs.

No one on the street stops. No one even pauses.

Switzerland excels at discretion.

When Gabe crosses back toward the café, his expression is unchanged. Calm as ever. But I see the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes scan every face before settling on mine through the window.

Something low in my stomach tightens. I recognize the feeling and wish I didn’t. It’s attraction. Inconvenient and undeniable.

“Who was that?” I ask the moment he enters, my voice steady despite the adrenaline buzzing under my skin.

“Someone paid to photograph us,” he says. “Not to interfere.”

My stomach drops. “Paid by whom?”

He shakes his head. “He didn’t know. Or didn’t know enough.”

“What did he do?”

“Snapped photos,” Gabe says. “Of us.”

The cafe feels suddenly overheated.

I swallow. “That’s it?”