God. Hunter was completely and totally fucked. She’d let herself be talking into drinks with you, and then had let herself be coaxed back to your place. Now, you had pulled her into a slow dance in the living room of your Brooklyn apartment.
Your body was moving so damn well, figure lush and skin smooth. She was gulping down the saliva that pooled in her mouth, her hands shaking on your waist. Somewhere, deep in the back of her brain, she knew what you’d done. You were a Witch. She’d been taught that she should be attacking you. She had been taught to hurt people like you, to kill them.
You were dancing for her, to whatever was playing on your stereo. Your body was moving with the grace of gentle waves crashing upon the shore, showing off your expanse of creamy, unmarred skin. She was at war with herself.
On one hand, she wanted to wake up to you for the rest of her days, to wake you up with breakfast and kisses, to have your body to cherish and touch and hold. On the other, she wanted to snuff out the your Soul Candle. A Soul Candle was part of a ritual the members of The Council of The Ageless Hearth participated in. Their life was bound to the flame of the candle. When it went out they died.
Part of her wanted to kill you, and the other part wanted to pull you close and dip you. Instead she just kept slow dancing on your living room. She was a Hunter in her Pack, and was literally named for her position. She was supposed to track down and kill your kind. Instead, she was drinking wine in your living room and sipping you low.
She could excuse this when she came back to her Pack. She could say that she had to get close to you to do more damage to your Coven. She could say she was playing the long game, just biding her time. She knew her little sisters- Sage and Mona- would ask about how it went. What would she tell them?
What could she tell herself, so she didn’t feel so fucking guilty for wanting love? She tried to be good- really, she did. She deserved love and Pups of her own, didn’t she? She was good. Right?