The kitchen was warm, lit by the morning sun that poured through the small curtains. Mirabella stood at the sink in only one of Hunter’s shirts, the fabric so large on her tiny frame that it slid off one shoulder, baring her smooth skin. The shirt stopped just below her hips, leaving her long legs bare and seductively open. She hummed softly, her hands submerged in soapy water as she washed the dishes.

Behind her, the door opened and the sound of heavy footsteps approached. Slow. Steady. ...