OATHBREAKER

A DARK BILLIONAIRE ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

THE DEVILS IN D.C. SAGA

BOOK 2

ANGEL M. SHAW

CONTENTS

Content Acknowledgement

A Note About Representation

Prologue

1.  Winter

2.  Hunter

3.  Winter

4.  Hunter

5.  Winter

6.  Winter

7.  Hunter

8.  Winter

9.  Winter

10.  Hunter

11.  Hunter

12.  Winter

13.  Hunter

14.  Winter

15.  Hunter

16.  Winter

17.  Hunter

18.  Winter

19.  Hunter

20.  Winter

21.  Winter

22.  Hunter

23.  Winter

24.  Hunter

25.  Hunter

26.  Winter

27.  Hunter

28.  Winter

29.  Hunter

30.  Winter

31.  Hunter

32.  Winter

33.  Winter

34.  Hunter

Reverie

Afterword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Angel M. Shaw

Copyright © 2024 by Angel M. Shaw

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact hey@angelmshaw.com.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9899843-2-9

eBook ISBN: 979-8-9899843-3-6

First edition 2024.

Oathbreaker: A Dark Billionaire Romantic Suspense

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s and Love & Letters Press’ exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.

Editing by Wendee Mullikin, Purple Pen Wordsmithing

Cover images from 123rf.com

Interior images from depositphotos.com

Wherever they appear in this text, Angel M. Shaw acknowledges the following trademarks:

Adirondack® is a registered trademark of Adirondack Construction Corporation.

AK-47® is a registered trademark of Cybergun.

Barbie® Dreamhouse® is a registered trademark of Mattel, Inc.

Beretta® M9 is a registered trademark of Fabrica D’Armi P. Beretta S.P.A.

Betty Crocker® is a registered trademark of General Mills Marketing, Inc.

The Big Bang Theory® is a registered trademark of Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.

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Glock® 19 and G19® are registered trademarks of Glock, Inc.

Hershey® is a registered trademark of Hershey Chocolate & Confectionery, LLC.

Marlboro® is a registered trademark of Philip Morris USA Inc.

Remington® is a registered trademark of Ammunition Operations, LLC.

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Sleepytime® tea is a registered trademark of Celestial Seasonings, Inc.

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US Weekly® is a registered trademark of A360 Celebrity Publications, LLC.

CONTENT ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

My books are intended to be read by adults and feature dark, explicit material. I want you to go into this series forewarned that there are some heavy topics addressed—but there’s a lot of healing too. And spice. Lots and lots of spice.

Your well-being is important to me, so if you’d like to know the potentially sensitive topics you’ll encounter in The Devils in D.C. Saga, please visit my website at http://www.angelmshaw.com/content-warnings.

For more help:

Anyone affected by sexual assault, whether it happened to you or someone you care about, can find support from rainn.org. You can also call the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800.656.HOPE (4673) to be connected with someone over the phone who can help.

Contact the 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline if you are experiencing mental health-related distress or are worried about a loved one who may need crisis support. 988 is confidential, free, and available 24/7/365. To connect, call or text 988, or connect with a trained crisis counselor at 988lifeline.org.

A NOTE ABOUT REPRESENTATION

August, Hunter’s son, is an Autistic teenager who uses Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) to speak with others around him. August uses an iPad, but there are dozens of other ways to use AAC.

August’s method of speaking is based on a technique called Spelling2Communicate, and the headquarters for the organization that created S2C happens to be in Herndon, Virginia. I’m grateful for what S2C has done for my family, and I’m thrilled to feature this type of communication—and to give space to a character as amazing as August.

Another note: I use the same dialogue tags for August as I do for any other character. So, I write “he says” or “he replies” rather than saying “he types.” This is an intentional decision to emphasize that August’s mode of communication isn’t different from those of us who use our mouths to speak.

Also mentioned in the story is a startling fact: Autistic children are nearly three times more likely to experience abuse. If interested, you can find the 2022 article in the footnote below. [1]

P.S. August is my favorite character. I hope he becomes yours too.

1 Trundle, Grace, Katy A. Jones, Danielle Ropar, and Vincent Egan. 2022. “Prevalence of Victimisation in Autistic Individuals: A Systematic Review and Meta-Analysis.” Trauma, Violence, & Abuse 24 (4): 2282–96. https://doi.org/10.1177/15248380221093689.

For the survivors who want revenge.

We get it in this book.

PROLOGUE

Istand on the shore of Isla Cara as five men pray to the god of the island.

While the sun made its trek over the horizon, their screams echoed from the bowels of the mansion. They marched to the altar, and their voices lifted on the wind like the angel of death sprinting through Moses’ Egypt. Just like that one kid’s movie the nuns showed us on a rainy Friday afternoon.

The sound reached me in my room, where their pleas crashed into my eardrums.

It’s summer, and instead of staying at St. Regis Prep in Connecticut as I have for the last eight grades, Father decided it was time that I spend the entire summer with him on Isla Cara.

My schoolmates, who I’ve spent most of those summers with since kindergarten, were jealous.

Until now, I’ve spent a few weeks on the island here and there, but never this long of a stretch.

Father, five men, ten guards, the Polancos, and Alistair, my father’s right-hand man, make up the group on the beach.

And me. I’m here too.

A guard pushes me, and I barely catch myself before I hit the sand face-first.

“Are these all of them?” Father asks one of his guards once I am close enough to hear his voice.

Alistair’s cultured voice is low as he murmurs, “Yes.”

“Excellent,” Father says with a pleasant tone.

Five men settle into the sand, motionless.

Resigned.

I’ve seen this scene many times, so I flick my hands at the wrist to stop their shaking and keep my eyes locked on my father’s back. Still, I notice when Alistair’s eyes land on me, and I suppress a shiver.

Watching me. Watching me. He’s always watching me.

Miguel Polanco and his son, Leo, stand off to the side. Smoke billows from Mr. Polanco’s Marlboro, and Leo takes up space one step behind him.

I move to a spot near Leo—not in his space, but close enough to feel comforted standing next to my best friend. But the stink of alcohol rises off Leo’s father, making my nausea worse.

My father takes one step, then another, until he’s staring down at the man who used to bring Father’s friends from nearby Martinique to Isla Cara. The light tan linen shirt and matching pants Father wears—along with being barefoot—would have made anyone else look friendly. Vulnerable.

Benjamin Brigham isn’t a weak man. There’s nothing he cares about enough to make him so.

“Do you wish to confess your sins?” Father looks down at the dry-eyed man. Pressing his lips together, the man’s fists clench where they’re handcuffed behind his back.

“Very well,” Father says with a short sigh. He shakes his head with a look of disappointment I’ve seen often.

Father walks down the line of men and back again, taking slow, sure steps in the sand.

“Here’s the problem,” Father begins. “I’ve paid you well, have I not?” He pauses with his hands outstretched to emphasize his point. “Have I not set your families up to live a good life on your shithole islands across the ocean?”

He shakes his head while looking at the man in the middle. The accused stares at the sand as if he could count every grain.

“I have done all this, and yet you decided to go against me. What reason could you possibly have?” Father resumes his pacing and pulls a small device out of his pocket.

“A camera? Really, Johan?”

He spins the item—not much larger than a tube of lip balm—in his hand.

“Was it more money? Is that it? Did they offer you more money to spy on me?” If one didn’t know my father, they would think he sounded hurt. Upset. Sad.

I know better.

Father holds the camera up to his face, turning it in the dim morning light as if it were a jewel he wanted to assess for purity.

“And you, Johan,” Father says, not looking at the man who has been his butler for as long as I’ve been alive. “What could they have given you that would make you turn on me like this?” He shifts, leaning so his face is nearly level with Johan’s.

The butler doesn’t say a word.

Father paces again, tossing the camera in his hands like a hacky sack. He’s silent for almost a full minute, walking over to Leo’s father, before he stops. His abrupt movement causes sand to kick up at his heels.

“If you hadn’t tried to spy on Miguel here,” Father taps Mr. Polanco’s shoulder. “I would have never known. How can you sleep at night knowing this?”

Father rolls his eyes heavenward as if praying for understanding. “So now, here we are,” he says with a long, drawn-out sigh. “I can’t let a betrayal go unpunished. Surely you understand.” Father looks at each of the men one by one as if he were explaining why he couldn’t give them a raise rather than discussing their deaths.

He sighs again. “Any last words from any of you?”

The men are silent.

“Very well,” Father says again. He looks at Alistair, then to one of his guards, who steps forward to pull a gun out of his holster. My heart jumps in my chest and dread triples in my stomach.

I look at Leo. I can’t tell a thing from his expression, and he’s so still he might as well be a statue.

“Wait,” Father says, and I swing my head back to him. “Hunter. You’ll do it.”

He waves a hand at the guard again, and the beefy man walks over to me, slapping the pistol in my palm.

I would have dropped it if he hadn’t curled my fingers around the handle.

“W-What?” I say, speaking for the first time in many hours.

Father’s eyebrows drop, his face looking severe for the first time in this entire process.

“Hunter,” he says sharply, all patience and calm removed from his tone.

I swallow.

“F-Father, I—”

“Get your pussy ass over here now, Hunter!” he hisses. I stare at him and feel like I’m going to throw up or scream or pass out. He can’t possibly mean....

Father emits a low, frustrated growl, and when his eyes move from me to the guard next to me, I jump into action. I don’t feel like being manhandled or beaten today.

Not today.

“Good,” Father says, his face clearing once I’m next to him. “Hunter, these men here had the intention of betraying us. Betraying our family. Do you know why that is, Hunter?”

I shake my head, not daring to look at the men. I stare at my father’s face.

“It’s because they think they’re better than us, Hunter.” Father laughs, and the sound is so loud my ears ring.

“They think that we’re bad and they’re good. But the reality is—there’s no such thing as good or evil. There’s just existing. Living. Living life to the fullest. It’s nature. Some are meant to be predators. Some are meant to be prey.” He leans down so he is level with my eyes. When the winter semester started, I had a growth spurt, going from five-foot-three to almost five-nine. Still, my father towers over me.

“We have been given much, Hunter. This is true,” he says, as if embarrassed. “But it’s our responsibility to ensure that what we have stays with us. If we didn’t, what would we be saying to The Architect of all that is?” He grips my shoulder when I don’t respond for a moment, and I nod my head in affirmation.

“To protect our family, we must eliminate any threats. This is your first lesson, son. You will exterminate these threats,” he says, swinging his arm out to indicate all the men kneeling.

“You want me to...” I whisper, hoping to avoid embarrassing or angering him with my questions.

His hand tightens on my shoulder anyway.

“Hunter, it’s not about what I want. It’s about what you will do. You are going to put a single bullet in each of these men’s heads one by one. Got it?”

I want to scream. I want to run away.

Instead, I tremble.

My brain tries to come up with a way out of this—a way to not cross this line. Out of the corner of my eye, I look at the men. Johan has been my father’s butler since I was a child. He used to give me sweet bread at night when Father said I didn’t earn dinner. He wrapped my injuries and cleaned my cuts.

No solutions surface.

“I should do it too,” I hear from over my shoulder. Leo walks across the sand to stand near me and my father. He looks over to his dad. The elder Polanco flicks his cigarette butt into the sand and shrugs.

Leo has to see the terror on my face. “They tried to disrespect the Polanco name,” he says. “It’s not just a betrayal of your family, Mr. Brigham.”

Father sniffs and raises his eyebrow at Leo. “Whatever,” Father finally adds.

Leo walks back toward his father, who waves his hand at one of his guards to give him a weapon.

Mr. Polanco looks beyond bored.

Beretta in his possession, Leo walks back to me and nods. So much is communicated in the action, but the loudest message is: I’m with you in this.

“Well, what the fuck are you two gonna do, start kissing each other? Get the fuck on with it,” Father says, and one of his guards laughs. Alistair releases an amused huff of air.

“Right,” I say more clearly than I thought I could.

Leo and I take matching steps toward the men.

“It’s going to be okay, H,” Leo whispers to me, his gaze on the shoreline.

The ocean, for once, is calm.

“I’ll take as many of them as I can, but you have to do at least one, okay?” Leo’s still not looking at me, but I glance at him out the side of my eye. His face is blank.

“Okay,” I whisper back to him.

We part ways, him going to one end of the line and I to the other. I look to my father, and when I do, he waves his hand in the air as if to say, “Hurry up.”

I inhale past the restriction in my throat and look at Leo. He’s raised his gun, pointing it straight at the man’s forehead. I look away and squeeze my eyes shut.

Pop. Thud.

One.

My heartbeat is violent between my ears, a rapid woosh-woosh-woosh as my body urges me to flee.

Pop. Thud.

Two.

Bile surges up my stomach, balling in my throat. I’m going to vomit right at this man’s feet, and I’m sure Father will punish me soundly simply for embarrassing him.

Pop. Thud.

Three.

I close my eyes and think of the rose garden at Amelia Manor, my little sister’s laughter, and my mother’s smile when she’d visit me at school despite Father’s command not to.

Pop. Thud.

Four.

I open my eyes and look at the man kneeling before me.

Johan.

With my mind so very separate from my body, I lift my arm.

“I’m really sorry,” I whisper.

Johan looks at me hard for a moment. Then he says, “Fuck your ‘sorrys,’ Brigham.”

With each fraction of a heartbeat, I choke on all the words I want to say. I choke on fear and the sob held back by the tension pressing on my vocal cords.

My throat burns as much as my eyes do from the salty sea breeze.

“Right,” I whisper. There’s nothing else to say.

As my father swears, marching toward me as I hesitate, I close my eyes and do the thing I don’t want to do.

I fire.

ONE

WINTER

The force of my terror steals my vision for several seconds. My throat closes, and the tension narrowing my windpipe makes me dizzy.

I teeter on the fragile, ragged edge of insanity.

“Adam?” I croak, unbelieving.

He accelerates the car in response, taking us from fifty miles per hour on the dark country road to well over eighty.

“Adam!” The force of the inertia causes my arms to fling out wildly, and I scramble to reach the door.

I have to get out I have to get out get out get out getoutgetoutgetOUTOUTOUTOUT—

I scream again, a deep, guttural, ear-shattering scream, and Adam yells even louder to drown out my voice. Where mine is desperate, his is mocking.

Our voices rise to a piercing crescendo.

Get out. Get out. Get! Out!

My useless fingernails pad at the skin of his throat when I fling my body toward the back of the driver’s seat, so I wrap my arm around his neck, squeezing with all my might.

I don’t know what I expect to happen—but when he slams on the brakes while veering the car off the road, I’m caught off guard. My body launches over the center console, and my back hits the dashboard. The gearshift presses against my spine.

I don’t have a moment to orient myself before he grabs my hair, pins cascading everywhere, and pulls me from the Tahoe headfirst. Without the protection of my wool coat, the bite of the freezing rain against my skin feels like needles.

“Stop!” I beg, my hand clawing at his wrist as he drags me out the driver’s side door, and I crash into the rocky asphalt. Muddy slush paints my dress.

He kicks me in the side, and the world spins. I can’t catch my breath.

The delicate straps of my shoes that looked so fashionable online snap under the strain. They hang off my ankles, useless.

He pins me face down against the hood of the car.

“God, no! Stop.” Snot clogs my burning nose, making it feel impossible to breathe. I weep. Suffocating. Terrified.

I almost die when Adam presses his body into me.

He breathes in deeply, his face next to mine.

“Winter, Winter, Winter...” He breathes only a little harder than normal, and his pants warm my cheek. His straight white teeth flash in the darkness of the back road.

The headlights from the idling SUV are our only light source.

“You’ve been a bad girl, Winter. Are you not happy to see me? You haven’t missed me?”

I turn my face away from him, not wanting to see him.

He presses further into me.

I swallow down bile.

“Why are you here, Adam? How?” Tremors wrack my body, and not just from the cold.

“Why am I here? Well, that’s easy. The Commonwealth of Virginia decided I was rehabilitated enough to be in society. I’ve shown adequate remorse to be released and live as a free man. Except, no. I’m not free. I have nothing because of you. I get the privilege of living my life as a registered sex offender—because of you.”

He presses deeper against me, and my pelvic bone screams against the hard metal of the fender.

“You wrecked my life, Winter. So I’m going to wreck yours.” He kisses my cheek and then licks it from jaw to hairline.

“So that’s why I’m here, Winter. You’re mine to fuck with. You’re mine to have whenever I want you. You’re mine to ruin.”

“Fuck off—” I stop talking when he grabs my throat, choking me.

“Tsk-tsk, Winter. Use sweet words, princess.”

I gasp for air and retch when he decides to let my neck go several tense seconds later. I collapse against the hood.

“Adam, please, you don’t have to do this.” The restriction in my throat from pure terror turns my plea into a whisper.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

“Winter,” he sighs, rubbing his face into mine.

“Let me go.”

He tsks.

“Oh, Winter, don’t you know?” He spins me around and hauls me to his body. When he runs a hand up my ripped skirt, everything within me tenses. “I’ll never let you go.”

He grasps my ass cheek, clawing the flesh with no mercy. His fingers bruise me.

“No judge,” he rips my skirt in two.

“No jury,” he tears the spaghetti straps of my top.

“Nobody can keep me away from you. You’re mine until your last breath, Winter.”

He wrenches the entire dress off me. The strapless bra and thong do nothing to protect me from the elements. They do nothing to protect me from his gaze. His ownership.

“But you forgot that, didn’t you, Winter?”

My sobs fall on deaf ears. “Please, just let me go.”

He pretends to think about it for a minute.

“Nah,” he says happily. “It’s just you and me, baby.” He runs the back of his hand down my twitching cheek.

“I’ll forgive your sins eventually, princess,” he snaps. His face morphs as quick as a lightning strike.

“W-What?” He presses his body even harder against mine, and I try to force my hands between us to cover myself. To protect myself from him.

I’m cold. I’m so, so cold.

“I’ll forgive you, eventually. But you’re going to have to earn it.”

He shoves me to my knees. His cock is right in front of my face, pressing against the stiff fabric of his tactical pants.

“You remember how I like it. Right, Winter?”

I throw up all over his pants and shoes.

“Fuck!” he roars, and then he kicks me in the side again.

Static dances around the edge of my vision as I collapse on the ground into a puddle of half-digested champagne and canapés.

He kicks me again and again, pulls me up, and then punches me in the eye.

The socket crunches.

“Adam, please stop!” With the plea bursting through my bloodied lips, I flip onto my knees to crawl. Pebbles dig into my flesh. I place my hands in prayer in front of my chest—muscle memory from our days together.

His face morphs from maniacal rage into a soft horror.

“Oh, Winter. Beautiful Winter,” he says. He grabs my face, and I flinch away. His expression hardens.

“Don’t move away from me,” he says with a dead voice. He brings his hand back to my face, and his fingers whisper over the swelling beneath my eye.

“You’ll look ugly for days after this,” he says with a sigh.

Headlights cut into the darkness. The lights are far off. So far off. Too far off.

But still, I gather all my strength and lurch toward the road.

I hear him mutter “shit” when he sees the lights too. He grabs my leg, dragging me back onto the hard asphalt.

“Why couldn’t you just be good, Winter?”

With one last hot breath, I slip into unconsciousness as his fist smashes my face.

TWO

HUNTER

“Happy New Year!” An unfamiliar woman slings her arm around my neck once I push through the ballroom’s double doors. The party is in full swing—the celebration slated to go well into the early morning hours. The woman hanging off me smells like a nauseating mix of champagne, gin, and olive brine.

“Yeah, you too,” I mutter, pushing her away. She gives me a drunken smile and saunters away when her partner pulls her arm.

Just give it fifteen more minutes, and then you’ll be out of here.

A glance at my watch shows I’ve been gone for more than half an hour, and as I face the wall of people milling around the room and spilling out into the foyer, I want to turn right around and run away with Winter.

My chest grows tight at the thought of the intimacy we just shared. It’s not even about the sex, although that was…everything.

It’s deeper than that.

She is everything.

I never expected her love. I never expected to feel this way about anyone. But I do. Besides Leo, she’s the only person I’ve been able to share the entirety of my darkness with. And instead of writing me off—writing us off—she opened her arms and her heart to me.

But did you share all of it with her?

I crack my neck from side to side, shaking off the thought.

“You missed the ball drop,” Leo murmurs, coming up behind me. He’s dressed in a nondescript black tuxedo, intending to blend into the crowd. But at 6’3” and with his dark hair slicked back, he looks like a goddamn Latin movie star. He sticks out in the white-washed ballroom. Giving a side eye as he moves next to me, the corner of his mouth kicks up in a slight smile. He knows what I’ve been up to.

When I don’t respond, he says, “Misha Hroshko wants to meet tomorrow.”

“Oh?” I ask, still not looking at him. I scan the room for threats. Specifically, the biggest danger of all—Benjamin Brigham. My father.

“We’re going to him,” Leo says, talking about Misha. I nod as my palms tingle. This is what we need—to get a formidable adversary on our side. We can nullify my father’s power if we can convince Misha Hroshko to join us.

“Excuse me,” a young male voice cuts in. We both look to our left and see a pimple-faced teenager standing near us in an ill-fitting uniform.

“Mr. Brigham has requested your presence, sir,” he says.

I turn to look at Leo. The subtle tick of his jaw is my only indication of what he’s thinking. He doesn’t like this. With his mouth pressed into a thin line, Leo nods with a slight tilt of his head.

“Lead the way,” I say to the boy.

“Mr. Brigham requested you come alone,” the boy says, stammering. His hands shake. When I give him a withering glare, he looks like he’s two seconds away from pissing his pants.

“He comes,” I say with a flat tone.

“R-Right. Right this way.” The kid sprints down the hall, and Leo and I look at each other before following.

When we reach the private room, our usher stops and opens the double doors with a flourish.

We’re on the other side of the country club, opposite the main entrance and the restroom where Winter and I stole moments together. There are more than a dozen suites for the most prominent members to use between golf rounds, sipping brandy, and smoking cigars.

The room before me is one of the largest if I remember the layout correctly—second only to the President’s private wing. On one end is a desk with an oversized leather chair and two low-back seats for visitors. Across the room is a fireplace and a seating area.

That’s where I find Father.

“Hunter,” my father says. He’s seated with his ankle resting on his knee, slouched. He and Blair sit across from each other, a decanter and two full tumblers on the table between them. Near the lit fireplace, Morris Winthrope stands with his back to the room. He gives me the barest acknowledgment with a glance over his shoulder.

“Father,” I say back, just as formally.

“You missed the countdown. I believe Blair was waiting for a kiss.” He reaches for his drink, bringing it to his lips. “It would have been a great photo for the press,” he adds, looking at me over the rim of the Waterford crystal. In one gulp, he downs almost half the glass.

He stares at me with bloodshot eyes, and his hair doesn’t look quite as perfect as usual.

In the face of my silence, he says, “Is there a reason why you need backup?” He tilts his head in Leo’s direction.

I don’t respond.

He sighs.

“Have it your way,” he says.

“I’m glad you called for me, actually,” I say. “I wanted to tell you that this—” I wave my hand between Blair and me “is over.”

Blair sits straight in her seat, stiff.

Morris finally turns around, his face impassive—as if he already expected this to happen.

My father smiles. He’s amused. He’s annoyed. But his grin also holds an edge of something else unreadable.

“I’m unsure if you’ve considered the ramifications of that decision,” Father says, bringing the glass back to his lips.

The tremble in his hand as he lowers it again makes everything clear: My father needs me to follow through.

He’s not in control. My eyes slide to Morris Winthrope.

He is.

“Hunter, really. This is what you want to choose? Think about it before you throw everything away—”

“No,” I grind out, the single syllable landing hard in the room. “I’ve considered all of it. And here’s what I see: a man losing his grip on power. I see a man who thinks he can manipulate any situation to feed his objective. But the thing that gives you power? Your ability to instill fear.” I take slow, measured steps toward him. From where he sits, I tower over him.

I don’t know what reaction to expect. In the past, he would backhand me for my insubordination. Beat me to the floor and singe my skin with the end of a lit cigar.

Maybe he’ll attack. Maybe he’ll ignore me—wave off my aggression.

But he does the one thing I don’t expect.

He looks at me, our gazes clashing. And says not a single word.

That’s when it clicks. My father only has power over me because I’ve let him have it. Yes, he can manipulate events and circumstances, but me? He can only run me if I let him. I’m not a kid anymore.

Control. I am in control.

“I’m not afraid of you.” The words are low, measured. My voice is just for his ears. It doesn’t need to be a bombastic declaration. It simply needs to be said.

He blinks. And remains silent for a long moment.

For the millionth time, I feel loathing poison every cell in my body as my eyes shift from my father to Blair’s impassive face.

I despise him.

I detest her.

They set the price for my freedom as part of the fucked-up game they want me to play. The cost is the sale of my soul. But they can’t have it—Father can’t have it.

Not anymore.

So if I want to get on the other side of this and get to a place where everyone is safe, my father can’t hurt any more people, and I can go forward and live my life with Winter and August in peace…I have to get past this part.

I have to sack up and stand up to my father.

Because every last one of them can fuck all the way off.

Even if it means going to war.

Father blinks again. As if coming out of a fog, he stands and tilts his head to the side, considering me. “Afraid? Why would you be afraid of your own father, Hunter? I’ve always wanted the best for you.” His eyes, so much like mine, are frosty, and the skin around his mouth is tense, blanched.

A throat clears across the room. “That’s well and good, Hunter, but unfortunately, I cannot accept your decision. The ball has gone too far down the court,” Morris says, gesturing to the massive space around us. He leaves his perch next to the fireplace, coming closer and crowding me in a display of dominance.

My father moves to stand shoulder to shoulder with Morris Winthrope.

Benjamin Brigham, for once, seems small. Unimpressive.

A smirk crawls across my face, and it must do something to my father. He straightens his back, his shoulders broadening.

Now he looks more like the imposing man the world knows.

Fake. It’s all fake.

“You’re distracted,” my father says, and I smell his cologne as he moves even closer. The sweet scent of whiskey fans across my face.

I hold my ground.

With a quirked eyebrow, Morris moves to Blair and places a hand on her shoulder. Ice glazes over her green eyes, but she doesn’t look at all upset that I just dissolved all wedding plans at our engagement party.

“Now, that’s not to say that I haven’t had my dalliances in the past. A little strange here and there keeps you young.” My father taps my arm with the back of his hand to punctuate his words.

“But you can’t let pussy take you under, Hunter. So I’m going to help you clear the distractions. Help you understand the bigger picture.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder.

And smiles.

Vibrations of foreboding center in my chest. I’m going to murder him right here, right now. Forget the rest of the plan.

I feel the shift of air as Leo takes a step closer to me.

Father sighs.

“Enough with the theatrics,” Morris says. “If that will be all, I’ll leave you to make your rounds. The Senator from Virginia would love to speak with you, Benjamin.” Morris turns back to Blair, ignoring my father and cutting me out.

Winter. August. Ella.

Clearing out distractions.

What has he done?

What have I done?

Resisting the urge to run, I leave the room with Leo following behind me. As soon as we clear the doors, I say, “We need locations on everyone now. Where are Ella, August, and Winter?” I book it to the club door, aiming for the G-wagon, not stopping to grab my coat.

“I need to get Winter now.”

“Agreed,” he says.

Fuck her clothes. I’ll have someone get her dog and buy her new clothes.

I need her with me, in my home. Safe.

Leo and I break into the bitter chill of the dead night. It’s stopped sleeting, at least.

I pull my phone out to call Winter. When she doesn’t answer, I look at the time. She should be home by now. I send her a text and try to ignore the apprehension manifesting behind my breastbone.

On my way to get you. I know you want space, but you’ll be safest at Amelia Manor.

A few seconds later, I send another text.

I love you.

We reach the G-wagon. Seconds later, Leo stomps on the gas and we launch out of the portico and down the winding drive. Leo frowns with his phone up to his ear as he navigates the vehicle through the slick turns. He pulls the phone away before tapping the screen and putting the call on hands-free mode through the car’s system.

“Rio, what’s the location on Jose?” Leo says as soon as the man answers.

We pull out onto the main road. Leo taps the brakes but doesn’t stop for the right turn.

Rio has always been more than Winter’s driver and protection detail—he’s the head of our security team. While we assembled a crew to attend the party tonight, we left Rio behind to monitor everything at Amelia Manor.

“Checking now, boss,” Rio says over the line. He sounds alert, serious. And he should be—any fuck-ups security-wise are on his head.

My palms itch as my anger rises.

Leo pulls out of the spot, and we head toward the interstate entrance.

I check my messages to Winter.

The last two say “delivered,” not read.

“Leo.” Dread sits like a stone in my stomach.

He grips the steering wheel with tight fists—his knuckles blanch.

“Boss, his beacon is stationary. Jose’s stopped on some back road. Southbound.”

I pull up the GPS location app for Winter’s phone and push back the tinge of guilt cropping up. I haven’t told her I installed the tech, but I don’t consider it a violation. It’s my way of keeping her safe. I haven’t used it beyond checking the set-up weeks ago.

This is why she wants space. You’re running all over her.

I refresh the screen on my phone, pure terror filling all the empty spaces within my body.

Location: Not Found

I should have put a tracker in her. I should have—I’d know where she is right now.

There’s commotion over the line as other voices join and doors slam.

“Send me the location you have now,” Leo commands.

“Sent,” Rio says half a second after Leo’s edict leaves his lips. The map pulls up on the screen in the center console. “I have confirmation that Ella and August are back at Amelia Manor with Rex and Jared,” Rio adds.

I tap to call Winter, and when she doesn’t answer, I call her again.

And again.

And again, and again, and again—

“Winter’s not answering her phone, Rio. I can’t find her location. Do you have her location?” The side buttons leave deep indents in my flesh as I grasp the device in a tight fist.

Anxiety is a noose around my neck.

Tighter.

Tighter.

“Working on it,” Rio says. His voice is sharp, brittle. Crackling comes over the line, and then his voice is clearer. He put on a headset.

“Max,” Rio yells, and Max’s voice sounds far away from the microphone.

Rio gives tense orders to Max, who makes an affirmative noise in response.

“Rio! Do you see Winter’s location?” I repeat, pressing every word through tingling lips.

“No,” he snaps, “I’m trying to figure out what the fuck happened.” There’s silence over the line for a beat.

“Well, fucking find her!” I roar.

My hand stings. I look down, and it’s flat on the dashboard. I must have hit it.

Control.

“Hunter, breathe,” Leo says. When I look at him, his eyes fix on the road. But he takes shallow breaths.

He’s trying to stay calm so he can remain in control.

I want to collect myself.

But every part of my being screams with the chaos.

“Fuck!” I bellow, hitting the dashboard again. “Get me to Winter now!” I yell at Leo. At Rio and Max.

At the Universe.

Something is wrong, wrong, wrong. They have her. She’s gone. They’ve killed her.

I try to regain my senses—to reach a feeling of calm necessary to fix this situation.

Flashes of my mother’s face as unknown men dragged her away from my bloodied body rotate through my mind. My mouth dries with the memory of Isla Cara’s sea breeze.

I try to blink the thoughts away; nothing works.

You promised to protect her.

You promised, and you failed.

You failed.

You. Fucking. Failed.

My gut clenches, horror bubbling up like vomit.

Leo makes a sharp U-turn at the next intersection, gunning it in the direction of the country club. “Check Winter’s location again and give me the coordinates for—”

An SUV rams into the back of the G-wagon. In a second, the world rocks, and our vehicle lists onto the passenger-side tires for a millisecond before slamming back onto the pavement. We fishtail, shifting so hard from side to side that my head cracks against the window.

“Shit!” Leo shouts, and I grip the seat belt where it cuts into my chest. Punching the accelerator, Leo revs the engine to get distance between us and our attackers.

“Rio, you still with me? We’re being rammed,” Leo yells into the speaker.

“I have three cars approaching your location right now. Do you have a description of the vehicle?” As the tension rises, Rio becomes calmer. There’s a deadly focus in his tone. Maybe it’s the black ops training.

Maybe it’s something else. How did he lose Winter?

“Black SUV. Looks like a Suburban or a Tahoe,” Leo says.

I look behind us and see two more SUVs swerving around the car gunning for us.

“Those our guys, Rio?” I yell over my shoulder.

This is my father or Blair or Morris or all of them trying to send me a message. Or maybe they’re over me and my resistance and decided it’s time I become a non-factor.

“Those aren’t my guys,” Rio says.

We get hit hard on the driver’s side; the back end of the SUV skids off the pavement.

“Shit!” Leo curses and tries to regain control of the vehicle.

Fuck this. I pull the gun from beneath the seat as a bullet shatters the back window.

Leo shifts and swerves again, evading the cars following us.

Using the back of my seat as a shield, I pop three rounds into the front of the SUV following us.

A crack forms in their windshield, and the car closest to us veers into its partner.

Crash.

Two cars remain.

“Our guys have your position,” Rio says over the speaker.

“Motherfucker,” Leo shouts. His face is all sharp angles; his eyes rage filled.

This is the Leo who hunts—the Leo who maims and kills. I haven’t seen this side of him since we left Isla Cara years ago.

He’s gonna kill somebody tonight.

And so am I.

Leo cuts another right down a farm-to-market road, and I reach for the dashboard to steady myself against the sharp movement.

The car closest to us tries to make the turn but fails on the slick curve, popping on its driver-side tires before skidding down the opposite lane for several feet on its side. It stops when it careens into a thicket of trees.

The final car makes the turn and accelerates toward us.

We bounce over the ill-maintained road, headlights on bright as we navigate the two-lane path. Out here, we’re too exposed. Nothing but barren trees, farmland, and snowbanks surround us.

“We gotta lose ’em,” I yell. Everything is so fucking loud—the wind whips into the damaged SUV, slicing at my skin. Or maybe that’s broken glass.

“I know,” Leo says, voice hard.

The speedometer goes past ninety just as a concrete barrier materializes a half mile ahead. We draw closer to it in one second.

Two.

Three.

“Hold on!” Leo slams on the brakes. The car behind us stops short, cutting its wheel to the right and toppling over, rolling to a stop as it slides into an icy ditch.

The turn signal on the car flashes as the headlights hang from their housings.

For several moments, the only sound is our breathing. Leo clutches the steering wheel, and I sit there, gun still in my hand.

The sharp, sucking sound of Leo’s inhalation tears through the cabin before he jerks open the driver’s door. He pulls both guns out: one from the side compartment of the driver’s seat, the other from his waistband.

He starts over to the crash.

“Rio. Winter?” I feel wild when my voice cracks, and he breathes in and out over the line.

“Nothing, sir.” He sounds…incredulous. Angry.

Lost.

Air seizes in my chest as I grip the gun in one hand.

Winter. Gone. Winter is gone.

I rush out the door toward the scene of the wreck.

Leo has pulled the driver out of the car. Blood runs from the guy’s head, but he’s conscious.

I peer into the crushed vehicle.

The passenger hangs upside down against the seat belt, with his neck at a sharp angle.

“Who sent you?” Leo barks out. His voice is rough but steady.

“Fuck you,” the man spits. Leo kicks him in the side, and the driver groans, rolling over. He coughs up blood.

“I’m gonna put a bullet in your brain either way. Might as well tell the truth. A point in your favor when you meet God,” Leo says, his voice deceptively calm.

“You already know who sent me,” the man says with labored breathing.

I do know. I do fucking know.

A sheen of pain and resolute defiance glazes over the driver’s eyes. I’ve seen that look before in a man who’s about to die—in a man who knew his time was up but didn’t give a fuck anyway.

“Winter Vaughan. Where is she?” I must look deranged as I speak. With absent awareness, I notice a trickle of moisture rolling down the side of my face. A copper scent fills the air.

“Her?” The man smiles, baring his blood-coated teeth. “You’ll never find her again,” he says.

I shoot him right between the eyes.

In the shot’s reverberation. I am quiet.

Up. Down.

Goes my chest.

And every single part of my mind breaks.

Morris. Blair. Father.

Winter, Winter, Winter.

Gone.

In the darkness, my vision shrinks to a pinpoint—stops. Feeling ceases to register in my brain as my hands numb.

In the distance, Leo yells at me. He’s so far. So far away.

“Drop the gun, Hunter.”

Winter. Winter. I need to get to Winter.

What do I do? What do I do first?

“Drop the gun, Hunter,” Leo says. He’s closer now. Close. Grabbing my wrist. I look down. Bullets riddle the driver’s face and chest, transforming his body into a pockmarked monstrosity.

Did I do that?

With Leo’s hand on my wrist, I squeeze the trigger again.

Crack. One more shot.

Click. Silence.

My entire clip is empty with the slide of the gun pulled back—the rounds released into the dead driver’s body.

“H,” Leo says, squeezing my wrist. The gun falls from my hand and onto the rocky asphalt.

“Hunter,” Leo tries again. He moves into my field of vision. He’s giving me a look I recognize.

It’s the look of him saving me from myself.

“We’re going to find her,” he says. His voice is clear.

But in his eyes is the thing I don’t want to see.

Doubt.

“We’re going to find Winter. You’ve got to get it together so we can save her.” His voice hardens.

“Yes,” I rasp. My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

Winter. Winter. Winter.

Gone.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I rush to remove it. Winter. It could be Winter.

But my muscles rebel as I read the message from an unknown sender.

You were warned.

I lose control; the phone joins the gun on the ground.

Outside of myself, I hear Leo calling for me. I feel him reaching for me, attempting to pull me back into our dented vehicle.

But I resist, every part of me locked tight.

I scream into the blackness of the night sky.

THREE

WINTER

The first thing I notice when I regain consciousness is I’m not on solid ground. I dare to open my good eye and clamp my cracked lips together to restrain myself from screaming.

The dead driver stares at me.

His eyes are open and vacant; his body is tense with the early effects of rigor mortis.

As quietly as I can, I shift off the corpse. Moving is difficult with the restraints on my wrists and ankles. I can tell by the hazy sunlight coming through the windows that we’ve been driving for a while.

A frosty chill seeps through the cracks of the hatch door.

Goosebumps bloom on my arms and my naked nipples tighten to the point of pain in the frigid space. I can’t recall anything after running into the street last night. Or was it even last night?

Stop thinking.

I squeeze my thighs together and choke back a sob at the familiar soreness.

What happened? What happened? Whathappenedhappenedhappenedwhat—

Hunter, please find me. Please help me.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I catalog my injuries. My face, I’m sure, is all busted. I try to move my jaw from side to side in millimeters of movement and nearly scream at the pain. It hurts like hell, but I’m not convinced my jaw is actually broken. Looking down at the rest of my body, I hold in a gasp when I see my chest and side are one massive bruise. Testing a deeper breath, I stifle a groan. My knees are bloody, as are my feet. Dirt covers my skin.

Hunter.

All at once, the slow realization that I’ll have to escape Adam’s clutches somehow locks into my consciousness. Alongside that thought is that Hunter doesn’t know where I am. No one does. And while people most likely know I’m missing by now, how will they find me?

Will they find me in time?

I’m unsure if we’ve driven north or south, east or west. All I know is we’ve been driving for some time for the sun to have risen. We could be anywhere.

We begin to decelerate and then take a right turn. Tall leafless trees whip past the side window. I count the seconds in time with my heartbeat. Ten. Fifty. One hundred. Six hundred. Then the car curves and treks over bumpy terrain. Gravel.

We stop.

I still my body, imagining forcing the cells in my muscles to slow. When he opens the door, whipping frigid air into the already cold space, I pretend I’m dead.

“Wake up, princess,” he says. He slaps me on my ass and unbinds my hands and feet. I let out a low, slow groan as I open my uninjured eye and look at him.

My head pounds and I feel like it could crack open any minute. Moving inch by inch as to not upset my wrecked, fractured bones, I sit up under the open tailgate of the Tahoe. I look past him. The trunks of thick, overcrowded trees surround our spot.

I don’t see an opening within the tree line, even without foliage.

A sharp, icy wind blows through, disturbing the rotting leaves on the forest floor with a dry crackle against the frozen branches.

“Where are we?” I ask. My voice is hoarse and my teeth chatter against the frigid air. Forming words with my cracked lips feels terrible.

He smiles at me and doesn’t respond.

“Come, princess,” he says, stretching his arms to me. I fight my body to still instead of recoil—I don’t want him to hit me again. Another blow might just kill me.

But when he wraps his arms around my body, carrying me out of the car wedding style, I want to throw up again.

The warmth radiating off him is salvation for my naked, abused, chilled body. I want nothing more than to flee from it.

“Welcome home, beautiful Winter.” He rounds the car and presents a small hunting cabin that’s seen better days. The uneven porch lists to one side, and part of the railing hangs off at the far end of the house. Piles of snow cover parts of the roof and the amount of it makes me wonder if the ceiling will cave in.

Still, he stomps up the small staircase and pushes through the threshold with flair.

The cabin is one big room. On the far wall is a wood fireplace that’s covered in cobwebs. To the left is a small kitchenette with a sink, hot plate, and a fridge that looks like one in a hotel room. Off to the side is a narrow opening, and half of a chipped clawfoot tub and a toilet peek through the open doorway.

The uncontrollable tremors redouble, and my teeth vibrating together sends a renewed bolt of agony through me.

On the right side of the cabin, there’s a mattress on the floor. The quilted blanket on the thin bed looks like a small animal chewed on it.

He drops me on the bed, and I scramble to sit up. My back hits the cold wooden wall.

“Adam,” I say. “Please...” I don’t know what I’m asking him for. Please let me go? Please don’t hurt me anymore? Please call this whole thing off and bring me home?

Please kill me now so I can avoid what’s coming next?

“I love how you say my name, princess.” He smiles, and his face transforms. Many women would consider Adam to be a handsome man. His skin is smooth and creamy, like ebony varnish on soft pine. He has naturally straight teeth, and his face structure is strong and angular. He’s tall, and he’s always been muscular and lithe from playing basketball in high school. Now, his muscles are larger and more menacing from spending the last fifteen years in the penitentiary.

I look away from him. “Can I know where we are?” I ask in a small voice.

“Of course not,” he says with a laugh. He moves over to the kitchenette. The taps sputter a few times before releasing a steady stream.

A stench rises from the fetid water.

“What’s your plan, then? People will know that I’m missing. It won’t take long for them to put two and two together and search for me.”

“I know that,” he says happily, like I just told him he has tickets to the NBA playoffs. He pulls a red rubber bag from a bucket to the side of the sink.

“They’ll kill you when they find you,” I say. I pull the blanket from beneath my bottom, trying to cover myself, and I cringe at the stained sheet beneath.

“Eh,” he says, still smiling. “Some people will try to. But I’ve got protection now. I’m gonna get a new life, bay-bee!” He fills the rubber with water before capping it and putting it into the bucket. He smiles at me, his eyes roaming all over my face.

“Did you like the cookie?” He leans against the kitchenette counter, drying his hands with meticulous concentration.

“Cookie?” My lips go numb under his pressing stare.

He uses the tattered cloth to buff his fingernails, his eyes never wavering from me.

Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking look at me.

“Yes, Winter,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re so fucking rude sometimes. You kept going back to that café down the street from your apartment, so I thought you must like their food. I know you have a thing for chocolate.”

I stare at him open-mouthed, and he shrugs as if he hasn’t just admitted to stalking me.

He walks back over to the bed and sits on the edge. I pull the blanket higher on my body, up to my neck, covering my breasts.

He raises his hand and brushes it over my swollen eye.

“That’s a bad one, yeah?” He runs his hands into my tangled hair, pulling at the roots, and tears spring to my eyes at the pain.

Even my hair is sensitive.

“I’m sorry to say it, Winter, but you look a mess.”

I shudder. I hate that tears track down my face.

“Tell me about your little boyfriend,” he says. The playfulness in his tone is a mockery—pretending as if we were really family and close enough to talk about things like boyfriends and relationships and love.

Fear and dread coat my mouth, tasting metallic.

“What do you mean?” I mutter.

“Aw, Winter.” It takes a second for the searing agony to register as he wrenches my hair tight in his fist. “It’s not a good look to play dumb, princess.”

He yanks my head back and I screech. Ripping the blanket off me, he wedges his body between my legs.

“Winter,” he breathes into my neck. “Do you let him kiss you, Winter? Do you let him hold you?”

“Get off me—let me go!”

“Did you let him touch these?” He drags his hand down to my breast, palming it and squeezing it as if he aimed to rip the flesh away from my chest.

“Did you, Winter?” He squeezes harder.

“Please, Adam. Please stop,” I say between broken sobs.

He beams at my terror. “Oh, but no, Winter. Because you let him touch you here, didn’t you?” He breeches me with his fingers, pushing and stretching me with so much aggression I feel like I’m tearing.

I scream, my rage echoing off the walls and absorbed by the dead trees and silent snow.

“Scream, scream, Winter! No one can hear you!” He laughs, gleeful at my agony.

“Did you let him have what’s mine?” With savage punches, he breaks my body, most of his hand tearing at my insides.

“Ad-am,” I sob. I push at him, hitting him on the back, on the side of his head, kicking him, and thrashing in wild desperation.

“You did, Winter. I already know. You let him have something that wasn’t yours to give. You are mine, Winter. But you must have forgotten.” He lifts off me, but the reprieve is short-lived. He grabs my hair again, wrapping it around his wrist and leading me to the bathroom.

“Since you’ve decided to be a filthy whore,” he stops at the kitchen counter, grabbing the bucket. “You’ve got to get clean.” He throws me in the clawfoot tub, and I slip on the slimy mildew. Blood tracks down my legs. I scramble to run, ready to run and run and run away. He grabs me around the waist and bends me over his lap when he sits on the rickety toilet.

“Bad girls get clean,” he says. Then he shoves the rigid plastic inside me. I grab at the floor, his legs, but he has me pinned to him, and my broken ribs protest at the movement.

A feeling of fullness expands within my womb. Looking over my shoulder, my eyes struggle to focus past the pain as he holds the red rubber bladder up and forces the foul water into my body.

He’s cleaning me out. Literally.

“You’ve been bad, but we can make it right.” He squeezes the balloon tighter, and the rush of fluid makes me groan in pain. “You’re mine for the rest of your life. They may kill me, yes. But I get to have all of you until you close your eyes and leave this earth.”

He rips the douche out of me and throws all of it into the dirty tub.

“Let’s let it sit, princess. We’ve got to get you nice and clean.” He rubs circles on my lower back, and I’m still with shock. I can feel the fragmented parts of my psyche shattering as the seconds tick on.

My stomach roils, and I know I’d throw up again if there was anything left for me to expel.

“I really hate that I have to kill you, baby. But there’s only enough for one of us to survive out there, and, well, this is what you get, if I can be completely honest with you.” One hand tangles in my hair.

He rubs my ass, causing me to clench. The pressure is unbearable, and tears leak out of my eyes.

Nothing feels real, but the pain anchors me to the moment. To the reality that I’m here, in this room, in this fucked-up place, with the man I hate the most.

“Do you think about our daughter?” Adam asks after a sharp, short inhale. He shifts to rub my thighs. They tremble. “I do. She’d be a teenager now. I wonder all the time what she would look like. It’s a shame you couldn’t keep her safe.”

“I was a child.” I spit at him, venom thick in my words. “I was a child, and you raped me over and over. Getting pregnant was a horrible result.” I don’t recognize my voice.

“We made love, Winter! What we did was love because you are mine!” He stands up and places me over the putrid toilet. “Release,” he says. I’m helpless as tension leaves my pelvic muscles—they clench and unclench, and a rush of water exits my body.

“You’re a rapist,” I hiss.

“You’re a liar, Winter! You love me. You want to be with me. You always sought me out. You wanted to be by me. You wanted it as much as I did.” He slaps me across the face. Thankfully, it’s on my good cheek. My body smacks against the linoleum floor, and I’m flipped to my back.

“Winter, why can’t you be good?” He puts his hands up to his head. A dry raspy sound amplifies as he rubs his hands on his short, shaved head.

He drops to the grimy floor. Kneeling between my legs, he pulls me closer to him by my hips. “You just have to remember, Winter. That’s all.”

As his belt buckle clinks and I hear him unzipping his pants, I know this is it.

This is the moment I truly die.

Because no matter what happens after this, no matter when he does kill me, this is the moment where my soul gives up.

I stop crying. I stop feeling.

Hunter. I wish I could have had more time to love you.

I turn my head to the side, blind to his movements, the dank cabin, and the snowy forest as I stare at the cobwebs under the tub.

No one is coming to save you.

I let my soul fly away.

FOUR

HUNTER

If I don’t keep moving, I’ll die. I know this to be true. Because in the quiet, still moments where my heart surprises me with another beat and Winter’s not home, I die little by little.

Winter is gone. Winter is gone. I can’t stop moving because Winter is gone.

“What!” I yell at the closed door to the fishbowl when someone knocks. Leo walks in. He looks tired, and there are dark circles under his eyes. Trailing behind him are two more security personnel. Around us, everyone is on high alert, working without stopping to track down Winter. But the enraging truth is that we’re no closer to finding her than forty-eight hours ago.

“Have you found her?” My agitation rises with every move of the second hand on the clock across the room.

“Are you in pain?” He moves to the side table where I threw my Dilaudid script. My injuries from the car chase include a fractured collarbone, a few cracked ribs, a nasty gash at my hairline that required stitches, and an apparent concussion.

Leo walks back to me with the bottle, and I bat it out of his grip.

He watches the prescription roll across the floor. I want to feel the pain. I don’t want to numb it at all. Because out there somewhere, Winter is suffering so much more.

She’s scared and—

Stop thinking. Keep moving. Stop thinking. Keep moving.

I flex my trembling hands at my side.

Leo’s phone rings and he listens for a minute before turning to me.

“Do you know a Veronica Palmer?” he asks.

I drop my head back as far as my injuries will allow, staring at the ceiling.

“That’s Winter’s best friend,” I say.

Leo decides to let her in without my input. It’s the only right thing to do, even though my body tenses at the impending confrontation.

Five minutes later, when her shoes squeak over the polished floors, I’m prepared and unprepared for the level of vitriol she spews when she slams the door open. Rio stands to her side, ushering her into the work area, but even he struggles to contain her.

Veronica’s breaths come in short bursts. I presume the impact of her rage and the largeness of her pregnant belly limit her ability to inhale.

“I’m going to kill you!” she says. Blotchy red patches cover her face, and it’s a wonder she can see with her swollen, tear-filled eyes.

She moves faster than I expect. One second, she’s standing at the doorway, seething. The next, she’s in front of me, punching my face and chest with her tiny fists.

The action shoots searing pain across my broken bones.

I welcome the agony.

Rio lifts the woman off me, holding her arms behind her.

“I know you’re upset,” he says, releasing her a fraction.

“UPSET?” Veronica interjects.

“But you have to calm down. Can you calm down?” Rio holds Veronica to his chest and tries running his hands up and down her arms. He talks to her with a soft, calm tone, but Veronica appears immune to his charms because she struggles against his hold.

“Calm down, malen’ka mama.”

We all swing our eyes to the entrance of the fishbowl where the imposing presence of Misha Hroshko freezes out the room. I know limited Ukrainian, but calling her “little mama” is so opposite to the deathly stillness his arrival brings.

Veronica’s eyes land on him, and her body goes slack in Rio’s hold. She starts to cry as she looks at the tall Ukrainian man.

“Hunter Brigham,” he says in an unmistakable accent. “It’s wonderful to meet you again. It is unfortunate it’s under these circumstances.”

I look at him for a hard beat, then swing my gaze at Leo. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

For the first time, I see Leo freak out at something I’ve said or done. His eyes widen to a comical point, bugging out of his head.

My attitude has been insufferable over the last few days. I haven’t slept; I haven’t eaten. My every thought revolves around the urgent need to find Winter.

You promised to keep her safe and look what happens—not even hours later.

I don’t stuff down the thought. Instead, I let it wrap around me, whip at me until I bleed.

It won’t be enough.

I breathe in as deeply as my broken bones will allow me to. “My apologies. I’m not at my best at this moment.”

Misha doesn’t smile. He quirks an eyebrow at Leo.

He chooses to let me live another day and says, “As a favor to Leonardo, I have pulled in my resources to assist you in finding your woman,” he says. “It was very well hidden, but we’ve been able to track down who took her from your club yesterday.”

“Who is it? Where is she?” My mouth dries as I suck in panicked breaths.

Misha cuts a glance at Leo. The latter stares at me hard.

I lift my hands as a sign of silent apology.

Misha’s gaze returns to me, and with a smirk, he continues.

“Were you aware that Ms. Vaughan has a protective order against a man named Adam Collins? The reason for the order is sealed; it appears to be dating back to her adolescence.” He scrolls a bit more. “Of course, we got the sealed information, but that’s just background noise. The important thing is Adam Collins was granted parole five weeks ago.”

Veronica releases a strangled cough. “Parole? We were told he’d never be granted parole! How…?” She trails off, and she reaches for one of the chairs.

Rio helps her sit.

The bottom of my stomach drops out. In the grocery store, I’m confident she saw him. I know she did. He’s been stalking her.

Where does Father play into this? My head spins.

“Well, where the fuck is he?”

“I sent a man to check on him at his last recorded address. Mr. Collins was nowhere to be found. That said, we pulled the surveillance from that night at Appleton. Looks like a match. What do you think?”

Misha hands the tablet over to me with a side-by-side picture of Adam Collins’ inmate photo and a grainy CCTV still of a man standing in front of one of the Tahoes that our security detail uses. He wears a black hat low over his eyebrows when he opens the back door to the SUV.

I tap the screen, and the video footage begins to play.

Heat rushes to my face when Winter’s form appears in the display. My eyes trace the beautiful curve of her neck, the supple roundness of her ass, and her powerful thighs. She barely glances at the man before entering the car. Her eyes remain fixed on the phone in her hand. She’s distracted.

His profile comes into view when he turns to walk around the front of the car. When I analyze the image, it’s clear the man is Adam Collins.

I pass the tablet to Veronica, and Leo acts as the courier, handing it over to her. She studies the images for a long minute before looking at me and then at Misha.

“That’s him. That’s Adam,” she says with tight lips.

“Great, now we know who took Winter—” My voice cracks at the mention of her name.

Fucking weak. Fucking pathetic.

“Now, do we have any idea where she is?” I finish.

Misha’s mouth quirks up on one side.

“Potentially,” he says.

“Potentially?” I say with forced patience. It’s not that I want to piss the most powerful Mafiya leader off. I don’t. But maybe part of me revels in the idea of being pummeled by this guy.

He stares at me hard.

“What do you want?” I ask, as a deep quaking chill settles in my bones. Men like Misha Hroshko don’t give information for free. Nor do they do anything out of some deep-seated generosity. He wants something. And I know it won’t be something minor.

“Your latest project shows much promise, yes?” he says. I search for what he means by project.

“You mean Project Panacea?” I hedge.

“Yes, unless you have more projects close to being released,” he replies.

We don’t. Not really. The thought of any new technology isn’t even on the table right now. Maybe fifteen years from now, but to date? All we have is Panacea.

“What. Do you want my company?” I ask, exhaustion settling into my muscles.

He waves his hand away at my suggestion.

“What use do I have with yet another company? I have plenty,” he says. “I simply want to use your technology for someone important.”

We look at each other for several heavy seconds. Even Veronica stops sniffling.

“We’ve barely gone into human trials with it,” I tell him. “It’s not ready to be shared.”

He taps the top of the iPad in his hand. “I trust you to make it ready,” he says.

This man knows where Winter is. For that information, I’ll do whatever to whoever for whatever reason.

“Deal,” I say.

Misha Hroshko smiles, and it’s the most menacing look ever.

“Wonderful. It’s a shame your people couldn’t find her because it was quite easy. Nonetheless, he disabled many of the tracking options for us. His cellphone was found smashed on the side of the road. Your woman’s too. And it looks like he ripped out the tracking devices your team puts on all their vehicles.” He snorts, but the sound is humorless. Probably at the idea of our team being so sloppy that the security measures were in such a conspicuous place.

At least, that’s the thought that surges through my brain.

“But he didn’t remember the manufacturer’s tracking systems record every location, even if it’s deactivated.” Misha turns the tablet around, showing a map zeroed in on the middle of the woods on the side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

“North Carolina?”

The spot is stationary, deep in the mountains with proximity to Asheville. I scan the terrain on the map, and I’m dismayed that there aren’t any direct roads leading to where the vehicle is.

But if she might be there....

“There is something else we’ve uncovered looking for your woman,” Misha adds. “It has something to do with our mutual acquaintance.” He cuts his eyes toward Veronica, and she bristles.

“I get to know everything,” she says hotly.

Misha looks at her for a long beat, tilting his head to the side as he stares at her—as if she were a specimen at a museum.

A more fragile woman would have fainted at the aggression radiating off him. Instead, Veronica sits up in her chair, hand on her pregnant belly, and stares back at him with the same ferocity.

“She can know, Hroshko.”

Misha turns to me and raises his eyebrow. “Very well. Mr. Collins was up for parole last month, but the state was fairly committed to not granting it. But then your father gave the Virginia Parole Board Commissioner five hundred thousand dollars. Mr. Uvalde is laughably transparent with all his personal information. Two days after that meeting, Collins’ release was granted.”

It’s almost incredible how silently I break down. Inside my chest, my heart trips over its rhythm. It feels like I’m breathing through a coffee stirrer.

But I force myself to keep up the calm in and out and in and out of my breath. It’s a steady rhythm to keep my body alive.

But inside my mind—there, in the central cortex of the most primitive part of my brain—I know my father has signed his death warrant.

His executioner? Me.

“I see,” I say to Misha.

I activate my muscles and grit my teeth as I hobble across the room to the side table housing my prescriptions. “So my father did have something to do with this,” I say.

You know who sent me.

Yes, I already fucking knew.

I grab the bottle of Dilaudid that Leo must have placed back on the table and swallow a pill without water.

“It seems that way, yes,” Misha says calmly. “But we can discuss what to do about that situation later.”

Ella disturbs the tension by rushing in the room while balancing two coffee cups.

I let the humor that she doesn’t have candy in her hand settle in my consciousness.

But only for a moment.

“Having a party, Hunter? Who are you?” She directs this question to Veronica, pointedly avoiding Misha Hroshko’s manic gaze.

“Veronica Palmer. Winter’s sister,” she whispers. She rubs a hand over her belly. There’s a dazed look in her eyes.

Ella walks deeper into the room, giving Misha Hroshko a wide berth. She looks at me.

“Winter?” Ella asks in a breath.

“We know where she is,” I say, and Ella’s body sinks into itself. She places the coffee cups on the table.

“What are you waiting for? Go! I have August.”

I kiss her forehead. “Thank you,” I say.

“Just don’t die. Or almost die again.” She looks up at me with tears on her lashes. She’s a vulnerability for me too.

“Your father seems to be on the run, scampering like a rat,” Misha says to me as I hug Ella, and she stiffens.

“What about Dad?” she whispers. I squeeze her tighter, not wanting to destroy her world, but knowing I will anyway. Despite our father’s atrocities, Ella has a different experience with him. Her relationship is peaceful and positive, and he spoils her.

That’s why she’s never understood why Dad and I didn’t “get along.”

She pushes me away. “No, H. Dad? Did—” I pull her back to me, but she moves away, walking backward until she can get a full view of everyone. “Did Dad have something to do with this? With any part of this?” Her hands shake when she folds them across her chest.

Misha breaks in and says in a bored tone, “Your father orchestrated your brother’s woman’s abduction.” He turns to me.

My lips tingle, chilled.

Ella gasps, a choked sound rising out of her chest. “I don’t understand,” she stammers.

“Don’t you, Ella? Get your fucking head out of the sand and look the fuck around,” Leo grinds out, and we all look at him. He glares at her, and when I look back at Ella, she returns his gaze.

Devastation shines evident on her face.

“Ellie,” I say, walking over to her. “Please take care of August. We will talk about all of this later.”

Her mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out as tears trail down her face.

“Hunter, what…?” She looks around the room, her eyes bouncing from Misha to Veronica and back to me.

Then over to Leo.

She rushes face-first into my chest, and I wrap my arms around her. It’s a reflex. I want to be there for her—to help her process her hurt and confusion.

But I can’t. I can’t hold anything in my brain except getting to Winter.

She sniffs and pulls away from me. Her face is clear of all emotion, even though the rosiness in her cheeks and on her nose give her away.

“I’ll look after August,” she says, the words clipped. Choked.

She whirls out of the room without another word to any of us.

I look at Misha. “Can I add on to the favor?” I ask him.

The side of his nose twitches, and I suppose that’s the closest he’ll come to an amused smile. “Possibly,” he says in that same bored tone.

“I need more manpower. Can I borrow a few of yours?”

An eyebrow raise joins the nose twitch. “Sure.”

I will fix this. I will fix all this. And I’ll never let anything like this happen ever again.

An hour later, Leo and I sit on our plane along with eight of our security detail and eight of Misha’s.

As the jet engines hum, I allow the thoughts to rush in. They jumble in my brain, and I let them run free. The thought that’s at the forefront? I have to live with the reality that I have so, so utterly failed her. And if she never forgives me, that’s okay because I’ll never forgive myself.

FIVE

WINTER

The sun sets and rises twice.

I track the path of the shadows across the wood plank floors—the short tree in front of the porch gives a friendly wave as the snow comes in sideways.

On the first day, he raped me four times. After the first time, he left to take care of the body in the back of the car. He chained me to the exposed pipes in the filthy bathroom. A blizzard started while he was away, and it felt like the heavens and I were having a private moment, releasing torrents of unending grief. The wind whipped against the weathered siding as if the elements wanted to rage alongside me.

That night, he cried on my shoulder. He loves me, he said. He loves me so much, and it’s been torture not having me these last years.

You’re probably hungry, he said, so he hand-fed me cold beans from a can.

On the second day, he cut me. Methodically, he carved a tattoo into my thigh: a crude apple. We’ll be Adam and Eve, he said, starting our civilization in this fucking shack. He saw my c-section scar and drew lines across it. I threw up when he licked my blood.

Three more times, he took my body when he wanted. Then he made me sleep over the covers on the end of the bed. I was a bad girl and needed to be treated like one, he said as he handcuffed my wrist to his ankle.

When the sun crested today, a common refrain became a chant within the ruins of my soul as he unleashed his evil upon my body: No one is coming to save me. I have to save myself. Otherwise, I’ll die at the hands of Adam Collins.

My eyes snap open when Adam gets up suddenly from the end of the bed and bangs the front door open. He’s in clean clothes.

He walks onto the porch, and I hope—not for the first time—that he’ll fall through the splintered boards.

Each day, his paranoia grows. I can see it itching beneath his skin. I know as well as he does that the countdown is on for the end of this.

What the end of this will look like is the question.

“We need to move,” he says once he’s back inside the cabin.

“Move where, Adam? And why?” I rub my wrists, which are raw from the cuffs he keeps me in more hours of the day than not. The frigid air coming through the open door immediately freezes my toes and fingers.

“Don’t ask any fucking questions, Winter.” He moves from the door to the window to the kitchenette in wide, jerky steps.

“Is someone—”

“I said, don’t ask any fucking questions, Winter!” He launches himself at me, pulling me up by the arm. Ripping the blanket from the bed, he wraps it around me. It’s the only covering he’s let me have in the last two days.

I keep my lips pressed shut.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“I, uh,” I stall for a minute, not wanting to leave. I know the chances of me being found drop drastically if we move from one place to another.

No one will ever find you, Winter.

“I have to pee,” I say, and he sighs with a groan.

“Hurry up,” he says, shoving me toward the open door. He moves to the kitchen, grabbing the sealed cans.

I don’t have to pee. I want a moment to think.

No one is going to save you. You have to save yourself.

After flushing the toilet, I run my hands under the tap. The overwhelming smell of sulfur hits me, along with an irrational level of upset that there’s no soap.

“Hurry the fuck up, Winter!” Adam yells.

I jump and drop the blanket bundled around my waist.

There’s an edge of hysteria to his words.

I get down on my hands and knees to grab it. When my hands touch the cool linoleum, I’m suddenly scared to move. To breathe. To exist any longer in this world.

I know that leaving this cabin accelerates the timeline to my death.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t want to die.

I guess it’s true: When facing the Grim Reaper, everyone begs for a moment longer.

No one is coming to save you. No one is coming to save you. No one is coming to save you.

I swallow my panic, placing a hand on my chest as if I could press the emotion into my sternum.

Hunter is looking for you. Hunter will find you.

The joints in my fingers ache as I clench my fists open and closed.

Sunlight peeks through the small port window above the bathtub. It streaks across my fingers. The hairs on the back of my hand stand in gossamer-like strands, and I bring my palm up further into the track of light, reveling in this simple moment.

“Winter!” he bellows, his voice moving away from me. I put my hand back down on the floor near the bathtub, and I’m distracted by the sliver of paper sticking out beneath one of the claw feet.

The shaft of light illuminates it.

I pull at the paper and restrain my gasp when I reveal what it is.

A razor blade. It’s rusted and looks like it would have been part of a shaving kit. I touch the blade’s edge. It’s sharp.

“Winter, if you don’t fucking get a move, I will tear you a new asshole!” His feet stomp toward the bathroom, and I meet him at the doorway, the blanket clutched around my shoulders in tight fists.

“I’m sorry, Adam,” I say. I look down at his feet in submission.

“Whatever. Let’s go,” he says. He puts his hand on the back of my neck, leading me toward the door.

It’s now or never.

One.

One-two-one.

I whirl around, the edge of the blade firmly in my hand, cutting me. But enough of the sharp razor sticks out of my grip so that when I aim for his throat, the pump, pump, pump of blood through his severed artery sprays across my face.

He moves back from me on instinct, bending over and clutching his neck.

“Fuck!” he yells, stumbling wildly.

I keep the blade in my hand, shedding the blanket and rushing toward the idling SUV.

I lurch out onto the porch, rusty nails stabbing the bottoms of my feet when I trip.

I feel a pop in my left ankle, and fire licks up my calf.

He’s behind me, barreling through the door and wheezing as he draws closer to me.

“Winter, stop!” He takes three steps—clomp, clomp, clomp—and then my indecision proves near-fatal when he’s on me again, pinning me to his chest with an arm around my neck. His fingers are sticky, and a copper tang fills my nose.

“I say when this is done. Not you,” he hisses. Breaths bellow in and out of his chest. The edge of darkness creeps into the sides of my vision. I pitch us forward through the dilapidated railing, using the inertia of my body mass to tumble us off the porch.

We fall into a tangle of broken boards and dowels. The sharp shock of cold covers my body as we land on the snowy slush. His grip loosens, but I don’t have enough time to get away before he grabs me again. We’re face to face, and his rage sends icy fingers of fear down my spine.

“No, no, no, no!” he screams, slapping the ground near my head with each word. The feeling of him on top of my body morphs time.

Him then. Him now.

Me then. Me now.

When I feel his weight impaling the gravel into my skin, I scream with primal rage. Blinding rage.

No one is going to save you, Winter.

Time slows. My breath seizes in my chest. I spread my arms out straight from my side, seeking, seeking, seeking....

“I love you, Winter. I forgive you. I forgive you,” he pants, grabbing at all the parts of my body he can reach.

“Burn in hell, you sick fuck!”

The makeshift weapon—a nail affixed to a splintered dowel—in my bloody palm pierces the flesh at the base of his skull with the furious force of my stab.

He jerks, his body movements uncontrolled. I push him off me, pulling the nail out at the same time and rolling to straddle his chest. Adrenaline makes me strong; I don’t feel pain. I don’t feel anything but rage, rage, rage at the audacity of his fucked-up parody of love—at his obsessive, possessive sickness that’s metastasized through every part of me.

Using the board the nail is attached to as a handle, I plunge it into his right eye.

Animalistic screams come from him, piercing the air. So I aim the board at his mouth, stabbing him through his upper jaw.

His head jerks to the side when I rip the nail from his face, and I use the opportunity to stab him in the neck. Blood sprays from the artery there, and I wrench the nail out of his bloodied flesh, aiming for his temple.

His body spasms, his arms and legs flailing.

I slam the nail in his cheek. In his ear.

I ram it into his forehead one final time. Eight round stab marks pockmark his face.

Eight! Eight, seven, eight!

He stills, and his one good eye stares at nothing. Lifeless.

I roll over. Filth and ice-caked mud and blood cover me. Lying next to his dead body, I stare up at the sky.

I blink to bring moisture back to my dry eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm.

System by system, my tense muscles unclench. I feel myself beginning to drift away, so I latch on to a single thought: No one was going to save me.

So I saved myself.

I roll my head to look at Adam’s still body. Assessing each stab wound—one for each recent violation.

Yes, I saved myself. From Adam, at least.

SIX

WINTER

I’ve spent much of the last twenty minutes staring at the sky, divorcing my body from my mind. It doesn’t work.

I just killed someone.

Not someone. I just killed Adam.

My hands start to tremble as the finality of his death settles in, and the fresh kiss of reality I’m desperate to avoid starts to score into my flesh.

I just killed Adam Collins.

The tang of blood in my mouth alerts me to the severity of my injuries.

Ankle: likely sprained.

Ribs: fucked and probably cracked.

The rest of me:

The rest of me….

My jaw tenses and the shock of pain causes me to bite my tongue, drawing more blood. Hot tears rush to fall.

You will not cry. You will not break. Pull yourself together and get to safety.

I roll to my side, facing him as I do because even though I know he is dead, I can’t allow myself to risk turning my back on him.

But he can’t hurt me, not anymore. The sharp stab to his brainstem took care of that.

Forceful waves of nausea wash over me as I attempt to stand by getting on my hands and knees. There’s a puddle of blood where my palms meet the ground. It streams from the holes in his head, thick and dark red.

I heave, nothing but saliva coming up as I retch.

I killed Adam Collins.

Move one leg. Then the other.

I’m upright.

The Tahoe idles with the driver door open, and I hop over to it, testing what weight I can put on my ankle now that it’s had time to swell. I can walk, but not very well.

I grab the duffle bag from the passenger seat and pull out a fresh T-shirt and black basketball shorts to wear without looking at them—Adam’s spare outfits. The fabric against my skin feels warm yet rough. I welcome it. Also, I want to strip it off and peel my skin from my bones while I’m at it.

Control. Control yourself.

I reach into the bag again, and a wail of dismay escapes me when I realize he doesn’t have a spare pair of shoes.

“Of all the things he could overlook,” I say to the trees.

Something un-nameable forces me to repeat myself. “Of all the things he could overlook!”

A snort flies out of me, and that sound turns into a giggle which turns into a full-blown hysterical laugh. My broken ribs and the cracks in my lip protest, but I can’t stop.

I gaze at Adam’s body and contemplate stealing his shoes.

“He creates an elaborate plan to abduct me but forgets to bring more shoes!” I cackle, scream at the sky, a small kernel of my brain realizing I’m breaking, devolving into madness.

I slide behind the wheel, leaving the door ajar with my shoeless feet suspended over the running board.

My ankle is almost twice the size of the other, and the sight causes a new wave of laughter to bubble up.

Howling echoes around me and I snap my head up, looking along the tree line for threats. I haven’t seen any wolves or bears in my time here, but I wasn’t really looking for them.

The animal calling out in the woods right now is entirely too close for comfort.

I swing my body to face the steering wheel, slamming the door shut and locking it for an extra layer of protection.

Wildlife can’t work a car door, Winter.

The thought makes me snort again.

I stare at the instrument gauges.

“Put your foot on the brake and shift into ‘drive,’ Winnie.”

Daddy’s voice is so clear in the vehicle, I jump in the seat. It feels like he’s right there.

When I confirm that he’s not, I take a cleansing breath. A grounding breath. When I close my eyes, I allow myself to be comforted by the memory.

We’re in an abandoned church parking lot somewhere near Mom’s hometown. I still wear my Sunday dress—the lace on my socks scratches my ankles.

I’m on Daddy’s lap, steering our sedan around the parking lot while he drives in slow circles. The windows are down. Sade’s Smooth Operator blasts through the stereo. A bright smile shines from Mom’s face. She’s just a lawyer now, not a U.S. Representative.

“Smoooooooth,” Mom drawls.

“Operatooooooor,” Daddy chimes in.

I join them, singing along to the chorus of the song. We drive in circles for the whole ride. When it’s finally time for me to hop in the back seat, Mom and Daddy look at each other from their vantage points in the front seat. Their kiss is brief, but when they part, they smile.

I flex my bloodied hands against the steering wheel of the Tahoe and stare at Adam’s body. When the wolves come out of the shadows, I allow myself to feel. Because as they circle his body, I smile.

I killed Adam Collins. And I’m glad I did it.

I stay there until the first wolf attacks his leg. Then I put the vehicle in gear.

I sensed a larger road at the end of the crude path on the way into the cabin site, so I follow the nudges toward it. Hopefully, I’m going the right way and not off a ravine.

Over the past few days, I’ve determined that I’m at a higher elevation, considering the cold, snowy climate at the cabin. As I wind through the back country roads, I think I’m in the Appalachian Mountains. Maybe the Blue Ridge. But with no cellphone, no money, and no real sense of direction due to the overcast sky, my only option is to drive until I reach civilization.

So I do that. I drive, not thinking of anything for three hours until the throbbing in my ankle and the dwindling fuel supply takes my immediate attention. It doesn’t take very long for me to embrace the fact that I have no clue where I am.

I’m lost. I’m lost, I’m lost, I am lost.

My vision starts to narrow, and I go cold as if ice water were dumped on my head.

Keep it together, Winter. Breathe in.

My hands vibrate.

Breathe out.

My stomach clenches.

Ground yourself.

“Keep your hands at ten and two,” Daddy says.

“And when you get fancy, four and seven,” Mom adds.

Whispers of their voices circle around me.

What do you know is real, Winter?

Am I here? Is this real? Am I still on that floor in the cabin, broken into pieces? Am I dead?

“Smooth operator…” My voice cracks, pain shooting through my voice box and radiating from my wrecked jaw.

I try again, clearing my throat, desperate to hold on to my sanity. The pain snaps me into my body, but I feel my hold slipping.

Sunshine. Happiness. Mom and Daddy. Hunter, Hunter, Hunter….

“Smo—” I lean back to activate my diaphragm and push the sound out. My ribs scream at the movement.

Unleashing a deep, rough, frustrated sound, I slam my hand on the steering wheel and finally attempt to turn on the radio. A cut on my knuckle begins to bleed again.

Before my hand reaches the radio power button, a deer runs in front of the SUV, and I jerk the wheel to the right to avoid hitting it. Slamming on the brakes, my entire battered body revolts at the sudden movement. I skid to a stop, my breathing erratic. The deer leaps off into the dark forest.

The kick-start of adrenaline causes the fine tremor in my body to turn into quaking. It’s a deep, unsettling sensation starting in the base of my spine and radiating through every extremity. The feeling zaps the ends of my matted, tangled hair. The short-sleeved shirt I took from the bag grates against my skin.

I reach my quivering hands up to my face before pulling them down. Adam’s blood covers my arms down to my fingers. Mud and matter cake my nail beds. The manicure I took so much time giving myself, even with my short nails, is a lost memory. The shaking, the shaking, the shaking continues. My eyes twitch.

My teeth chatter.

The overwhelming urge to scream and vomit and rage, rage, rage batters against my shot nerve endings.

I blink and find myself standing on the abandoned road.

I blink and snap to at the agony in my ankle as I pace back and forth, back and forth.

So cold, so cold, so cold. Will I get warm again?

I hit a patch of ice and fall to my knees. The pain is so blinding, so searing, I start to scream.

And I don’t stop screaming.

The sound wrenches from the depths of my soul—the depths of my despair. Birds that should be far away, dormant, flap their wings as they escape the shattering power of my wrath.

I scream. I scream. I scream. I scream. I scream until my voice is nothing more than a rasp, guttural and hoarse.

The feeling of out-of-control fury and agony spins and weaves in my body. In the back of my mind, a whisper of cognizance touches my consciousness.

Ground yourself.

I gag. Sobbing. My body is wrecked. And then. I breathe in. Hold. I breathe out. Hold. I breathe in. Hold. I breathe out. Hold.

My vision starts to clear, and I’m able to take in other visual stimuli outside of the asphalt and the contrast of the dimming sky.

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough. It might never be enough.

I lay down on the cold, damp ground, turning my head so part of my cheek rests on the concrete. I remain silent, trying to breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

Hunter.

His name is a whisper, a painful hiss in my brain.

No.

I breathe in. I hold. I breathe out.

Hunter, where are you?

I breathe in. I hold. I breathe out.

“Where are you?” I shriek as sobs wrack my body. My soul’s anguish adds to the physical pain I’m soaked in.

I bring my hands to my chest and belly, trying to breathe in and out as I learned in all the therapy sessions I’ve been in.

So many therapy sessions.

So many therapy sessions because of Adam. Adam. Adam.

Hunter.

I try to fill the space where my palms touch my abdomen with the movement of my breath.

But my hands shake too much for it to register.

Hunter. Are you coming for me?

I squeeze my sore eyelids shut, pressing them so tight that the insides of my lids feel like they’re contorted into an unnatural position.

Yes.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“One. One, two, one. One, two, three, two, one….”

I repeat the refrain over and over. Time doesn’t matter; it ceases to exist.

“Sunbeam.” The voice is clear, unmistakable. But I know he isn’t here.

“Sunbeam, you did it.”

Spit threatens to choke me from the force of my wailing.

Then slowly and all at once, a blanket of peace wraps around me. I close my eyes and rest.

I EVENTUALLY GET up from the ground, but I don’t know how much time has passed. From one blink to the next, I’m off the side of the road and back behind the wheel of the car. Just as the sun begins to dip behind the trees, I start to see signs of civilization. Or rather, I see another vehicle.

I feel a strange combination of fear and relief as the rickety pickup truck rumbles down the road. After a few minutes, I turn the bend and see signs for a farm-to-market road.

Ten minutes later, I run across a diner attached to a gas station. There’s only one pump, and the diner has a lone late-model Honda Civic in the parking lot.

“I can’t go in there like this,” I say to the empty cabin. The heater hums. It’s been blasting for the entirety of the ride—Adam must have set it, and I didn’t notice that I’m boiling until just now. In the foot well of the passenger seat, there’s a pack of water bottles. I rip into it and run the water over my hands as they hang over the passenger seat.

Fuck this car.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection and want to cry. I look feral. My hair is a lost cause. I feel a pang of sadness that it might be so matted that I have to cut off the locs. Grime covers my face, and blood and tear marks streak down the mess. I use the water and rub myself clean.

This is as good as it’s gonna get.

Setting aside the fact that I’m barefoot, I exit and slam the door of the Tahoe as hard as I can, hoping to never see the inside of it again. A chime rattles against the door’s metal frame as I enter the diner. No one stands behind the counter and disappointment settles in my gut. I hop sideways and peer into the kitchen pass-through.

Silence.

“Hello?” My voice still sounds hoarse from my breakdown on the side of the road.

A door at the far end of the diner claps against the wall, and my head whips toward the sound. I allow myself a moment to blink against the resulting dizziness the sudden movement causes.

A large man strolls out of what appears to be the bathroom. He stalls when he sees me, scratching at the flesh that peeks out from where his shirt doesn’t meet his pants over his wide stomach. His eyes narrow when he takes in my appearance. Straightening, he adjusts his belt and kicks his leg a little, as if shaking ants out of his pants.

“We’re closed,” he says in a slow Appalachian drawl. So for sure not north of D.C.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I saw the light on,” I say. My voice comes out much more robotic than I intend. “If I could just—”

“Like I said,” he interrupts. “We’re closed. We don’t want no kind of trouble ’round here.” Then he waves his hand toward the door.

A distant part of my consciousness tells me to push back. To make him see that I don’t need anything from him besides a single phone call.

Instead, I stare at him, my body and brain not communicating because I don’t move.

“Go on, git,” he says.

I don’t try to stop the tears that fall. I can’t get my muscles to unlock from where I’ve grown roots into the worn linoleum.

He takes a step toward me with a huff.

“Joseph Tate, what the heck are you doing to this girl?” A voice comes from the other side of the diner, and I must look like an owl with how fast my head turns toward it.

The spinning gets worse.

An older woman, probably in her late sixties, walks quickly along the counter’s length to round out our unlikely trio.

I can tell her hair used to be blond, but now it’s mostly silver-white and held up by a metallic clasp. Her blue eyes are sharp, and her skin is such a pale white I wonder if she’s ever seen the sun.

“Hell, Jean, you know I can’t cook for shit! And with you havin’ to go pick up Terry for his shift, I was just doin’ what you tol’ me to do.”

Jean shakes her head, giving him a disapproving look.

“I step away for two seconds and...” She sighs, not looking at Joseph. Her eyes land squarely on me. She lifts her eyebrows, but she doesn’t give me anything besides that one reaction.

“Well, I’m gon’ back to the station,” Joseph says. He shuffles out the door, and I watch as he makes his way toward the fuel pumps adjacent to the diner.

“I…” I feel faint, hot, and cold. It’s been more than twenty-four hours since my last can of unwarmed beans.

“Honey, sit down. Let me get you somethin’. Terry! Fire up that griddle quick and get me some scrambled eggs and grits. And hurry up!”

She turns sideways, assessing me without saying anything for a long moment.

“Sit down, child,” she says, and I do as she commands, sitting on the stool attached to the diner counter. I can tell it used to be red, but now it’s worn—almost pink.

“Ma’am,” my voice cracks. “I don’t have any money for food. At least, not on me right now. I just...if I could trouble you for a phone so I can call someone, I’d be so grateful.”

She blinks at me, then leans closer.

“Who’s looking for you, girl?” Jean rests her elbows on the counter, lowering her voice even though it’s just her and me in the dining area.

I think about it. Is someone looking for me? My lower lip trembles as I think about Hunter.

“No one is looking for me,” I say in just as low a tone. “But I am in a spot. I need to call my friend, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

She looks at me, and I can tell she doesn’t believe my story. The smell of breakfast sausage cooking wafts from the kitchen. A man’s voice utters, “Shit!” and without turning around, Jean says, “Language, Terry!”

“Sorry, Ms. Jean!” he yells back.

“I tell you what,” she says, grabbing a glass. She pours apple juice into it and pushes it toward me. “I’ll get you that phone. Nothing but landlines out this way. Cellphones don’t work up here. But eat something. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Terry taps the bell twice, and Ms. Jean walks to the window. When she places the plate of food in front of me, I’m startled to discover tears tracking down my face.

I touch my wet cheeks and look at my damp fingers for a long moment. My eyes drift back to Ms. Jean, and she looks at me with a look I don’t quite understand, but it telegraphs that she does understand.

“You’re safe here, sweetie.” She pushes a napkin toward me. “Now eat,” she says and wanders down to the other end of the counter.

When my plate is clean, Ms. Jean places a cordless phone in front of me.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, and I dial the only number I know by heart.

When I hear Veronica’s voice on the other end, I let out a choked cry.

“Rons?” I whisper.

“Winter? Winter! Winter, Winter, Winter, oh God, where are you? Are you hurt? Are you safe? Do you need—”

I pull the phone away from my face and hand it to Ms. Jean.

“Please tell her where I am. I’m going to...” I look around the room and spy one of the four empty booths. Without a word, I shuffle over and curl up on the long bench of the corner table.

Then, finally, I allow myself to lose consciousness.

SEVEN

HUNTER

When we get to the spot where Winter should be, there’s nothing more than a dead body being torn apart by a pack of wolves. They growl at our intrusion but scatter when we advance toward them in three SUVs.

By the size and shape, I know it’s not her. And that’s all that counts in this exact moment.

We landed at the nearest airfield that could handle the 767, which happens to be two hours from where Misha located the vehicle that took Winter.

Misha’s detail stands behind the two vehicles in front of us, and I see our guys exit too. They suit up with the firearms they grab from the open trunks.

“Fuck,” Leo mutters, pulling his phone up to his ear to talk to Rio back at Amelia Manor, who is tracking the vehicle along with Misha’s tech guy. Out here in the forest, we’re relying on our satellite phones to communicate with our home base.

The problem is, as we discovered when our plane landed, hacking into the vehicle systems has someone in their data security pretty upset. They keep plugging our access points and we have to find new ones.

My lips go numb. The fact that the vehicle isn’t here makes me want to scream. Would we find pieces of it scattered through the woods? Is Winter nearby?

Did she escape?

Is she…?

I fling the door open.

“Wait a minute,” Leo says.

“The fuck I will,” I snarl. It’s been miserable. Two hours on the plane plus two hours in the vehicle has caused my muscles to tense, pulling on my injuries. But none of that matters if I can get to Winter.

God, please. Please let her be alive. Please let her be okay.

I don’t pray, but at this moment….

“H, let Misha’s people secure the area. You don’t know what you’re walking into out there.” He waves his hand around to indicate the men wearing assault rifles. Leo’s endless patience starts to wear thin. I can see it.

His phone pings and his eyes whip down toward the screen. I use his averted gaze as an opportunity to exit the car.

“Goddamn it, H,” he practically yells through the open door, but I leave anyway.

I approach the dead body and feel a wild energy course through me at his mangled form. He hasn’t been dead long. His body is still loose, but the wolves ate most of his face along with part of his torso. A thick nail affixes a broken plank to his forehead.

I rip the plank out.

And even though I had no doubt of the body’s identity, the energy sharpens when I’m finally able to confirm it’s Adam Collins.

White-hot rage pulses through me in time with my heartbeat.

“I’ll instruct the men to start our search around the area,” one of Misha’s men says behind me.

I nod.

“Give me a handgun,” I say to him. He gives me a strange look when I turn to face him but doesn’t protest. I remove the safety with a sense of precise calm and point the gun at Adam Collins’ face.

I shoot him.

Then I shoot him again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Over and over and over and over until the clip is empty.

Then, I spit on him. The grime of his splattered brain matter stains my legs and shirt.

I feel nothing. It’s not enough.

You won’t feel anything until Winter is back, Hunter.

She has to come back.

You will get her back.

I return the gun to the tall Ukrainian. I can tell by his expression that he understands why I did what I just did.

“We will take care of this,” he says, pointing to Adam Collins’ mangled body with the barrel of the gun.

The forest is quiet, near silent in the aftershock of the gunfire. Then a phone rings in the car I was just in. Moments later, Leo yells through the open door.

“We’ve got a signal! The car is moving.”

The car is moving. The signal is moving. Could Winter....

When I round the car to get in the back, Leo throws an extra pair of pants and a shirt at my chest. I catch them before they hit the ground.

“First, change your clothes. Then we’ll go get your girl.”

WE HAVE LESS than an hour of daylight remaining when Veronica calls to confirm she’s heard from Winter. It takes almost five minutes for us to understand what she’s saying through her hysterical crying.

Luckily, Ella was right there, and she took the phone from Winter’s best friend to explain.

Not that Ella was any less frantic.

Winter is here, in this old diner, almost a hundred miles from any major city.

As we draw up to the location, I note the Tahoe in front of the building. I swing the door open before the driver puts the vehicle in park.

“Whoa, wait—” Leo begins, but I’m already running toward the entrance.

Before I can open the glass door, a white-haired woman steps outside with a Remington bolt-action rifle pointed at my chest.

I pull up short, putting my hands in the air.

“What’s yer’ business here?” she drawls in a deep accent.

“Ma’am, I’m looking for—” I search for the right word to describe Winter. Calling her my girlfriend feels wrong, like it’s too small a label to describe how she consumes me.

“I’m looking for my wife. She’s a Black woman with long, curly brown hair. Her name is Winter.”

The thought jolts through me that maybe she dropped the car here and went with someone else. I look through the windshield of the Tahoe. Empty.

“Have you seen her?” I ask. I pull out my phone to bring up a picture of Winter. My hands shake, and a bead of sweat rolls down my back. My chest and head hurt, and the pain pills I took before the flight are wearing off fast.

I land on a picture of Winter taken at La Maison on our first date. She ordered French onion soup, and I snapped a photo of her as she smiled at me. A long string of Gruyère cheese stretches from her bowl to the spoon near her mouth.

“Hmm,” the woman says, gripping her shotgun tighter and ignoring my phone. She doesn’t look at all afraid to light my ass up. “I don’t reckon that I have,” she says.

Leo walks up behind me, offering the satellite phone in his hand like a peace offering. “Ma’am, could you talk to the person on the phone? She’ll explain who we are.” She eyes him for three solid seconds, but when Veronica’s frantic “hello? hello?” rings out over the phone, she reaches a slow hand toward Leo, accepting it.

She listens for a few seconds before she turns her eyes to the two of us standing at her doorway.

Then she steps aside.

“Winter!” I yell as I run through the entrance. I whip my gaze around the sum of the space, analyzing the empty diner.

“Winter, where are you, baby?” I spin around, going from booth to booth on one side of the restaurant. I’m about to check the bathroom when I hear a rustle. And then a sniff.

I turn and rush toward the sound. My muscles threaten to buckle where I stand.

It takes everything within me to not tear this place apart.

Winter is curled up on the bench of one of the diner booths. Her eyes are open, staring at the empty bench opposite her. Bruises mottle her face. One swollen eye has a cut over it. It’s green and purple.

“Winter?” I whisper. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether to touch her or speak louder or what the fuck to do.

“Winter. Sunbeam.” I can barely get the words out—they’re low, choked. She shudders. Then, with agonizing slowness, her eyes meet mine.

The light is dead in her fathomless brown eyes. “Hunter?” she whispers. She trembles, and even though she looks right at me, I know she doesn’t see me.

“I’m here, baby.” She lowers her head a fraction. A nod. Then she lays her head back onto the plastic-covered cushion.

“Winter, I’m here to take you home. Can we go home now?” I kneel on the cracked linoleum, my hand inches from her head.

“Home,” she whispers so silently that I almost miss it.

“Yes, baby. It’s over. This is all over.”

In fragments, I see her break. She weeps. Tears cascade down her cheeks, faster and faster, and her breathing turns erratic as her shoulders shake with sobs.

An inhuman keening sound comes from her gut.

I can’t take it. I shake with her as I scoop her into my arms, pushing the free-standing table to the side and causing the opposite bench to screech against the floor. I place her on my lap as I take her seat.

She clutches at me, and grime and the dark brown of dried blood are embedded around her cuticles. I make a sound in my throat when I notice the nail on her left ring finger is missing—ripped away from the bed.

She fought. She fought him hard. Agony wells in my throat, trapped, unable to release because if I do—I’ll break thoroughly. Completely.

Sunbeam. My Sunbeam....

I found her.

Burying my face into the riot of messy curls, I release a shuddering breath.

She’s here with me. Right here, in my arms.

You did this to her.

The burst of guilt causes the room to spin.

This happened because of me. I put her in this position. If I hadn’t drawn her into my life—this toxic, fucked-up swamp of depravity—this never would have happened.

I gave them the gun. But I’ll make them pay for pulling the goddamn trigger.

I press my lips to the crown of her head and don’t do what I want, which is to crush her to me.

Her body is so broken.

I look down at her wet eyelashes.

How can I help her if her mind is too?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“You’re safe, Sunbeam,” I grind out.

And if anyone tries to take her from me again, I’ll usher them to hell myself.

We rock from side to side.

“It’s over. It’s over. I’ve got you. You’re safe now. I’m so sorry. It’s over, it’s over, it’s over, it’s over,” I say. My voice fractures.

I will not break. I will not crack.

Control. Gather control.

I vow to fight against total collapse. It’s up to me to save us all.

EIGHT

WINTER

Ifloat above myself.

I can see the myriad of tubes streaming from my body and the thin threads of the stitches that pull my flesh back together again. The nurses take samples from my body—blood, urine—a vaginal exam.

I watch as the doctors shake their heads.

The team of nurses clean me from head to toe. They take the disposable washcloths from the warmer and scrub my body with them. They place a cap on my hair to shampoo it. A younger Black nurse comes in and conditions my curls. She detangles each knotted lock before braiding it down into two thick plaits.

I see it all from above myself.

The doctor comes in, and Hunter is there. I hear Hunter say that he is my husband. The doctor’s face is grim as he details the extent of my injuries. He tells Hunter about all of it. The medicines they will give me, the tests they will run.

How they will do their best to make sure my body goes back to normal after the assault.

Normal. What does it mean to be normal?

Hunter stands stone-faced as he talks with each medical professional—until he is alone with me in the room. Then, limb by limb, he breaks.

I am not within my body, although I breathe. My heart beats. Over and over. I continue to exist.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Goes the machines.

Then. He touches my hand.

Looking at Hunter is painful, so I avoid his gaze. But his hand on mine...I hold on to it like a lifeline.

It’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this realm and not floating to the next.

“Winter,” he says. He brings my hand to his lips and then to his cheek.

Sometime later, I say, “What happened to you?” My voice is still wrecked. It hurts to talk.

But then again, everything hurts.

“I was in a car accident. It was the night you disappeared.”

“Tell me what happened,” I say.

“Winter...” He closes his eyes, rocking with my hand pressed to his cheek.

“Tell me,” I say with more energy. “Please,” I whisper.

“Leo and I were leaving the country club. I went to tell my father to fuck off, and Blair was there. I was coming to you.” He brings my hand back to his lips, pressing a long kiss to the backside of it.

I ignore his last statement. Because if I hang on to it, it will sever this thread holding me in place—holding me together.

“So I take it that didn’t go well?”

He doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead, he closes his eyes.

“No,” he says, lips still pressed to my skin.

“Then what happened?” I ask. I’m getting tired again, and my eyes start drooping.

He presses a quick kiss, and then another, to my hand.

“We were driving for about five minutes when another car came from nowhere and rammed us. About four cars were chasing us until we could get rid of them. I got knocked around a bit. Nothing I can’t handle.”

A feeling settles in my chest. It’s blunted, as all emotions are within me at this moment. Cognitively, I know what’s happening to me: the effects of post-traumatic stress. But existing in this moment is so different than reading about it for a class or what I experienced in the past.

“My God,” I say through numb lips. Tears leak out of my eyes.

A knock breaks the moment. Hunter goes to the door, conferring with whoever is on the other side before turning around to face me with an armful of bags from Target. The voice I hear is familiar. Leo? I close my eyes, praying that I won’t see him any time soon.

“The nearest place with anything decent was forty-five minutes away, so I sent Leo to get all this,” Hunter says with a strangely efficient tone. “You would think they’d have more than a Dollar General around here.”

Hunter drops the bags on the plastic-covered sofa under the hospital window. The room I’m in has a view. Kind of. It overlooks the healing garden, as I heard one nurse describe it. I didn’t respond when she told me this information.

“You’ll likely be released in a few days,” he says while pulling the outfits out of the bags. “I had to guess what you’d be most comfortable in,” he rambles on, laying seven different types of sweatsuits on the back of the sofa.

“Thank you, H,” I say, and when I call him “H,” he fumbles the last piece of fabric.

“Also,” he pipes up with forced cheerfulness, “I got you a replacement phone. I had them reprogram it to your old one, so the number is the same.”

I grab the device from him, pressing the side button to light it up. My background is the same as my old one, even though this phone is newer than my last iPhone.

The wallpaper is a picture of cherry blossoms. Also on the screen are all the missed calls and messages over the last several days.

Hunter’s is near the top.

I love you.

I fumble the phone as I close the screen down, dropping the device in my lap.

Quiet covers the room when I close my eyes.

“Do you want me here, Sunbeam?” Hunter’s words are low. I hear the sadness in them.

Do I? Do I want him here?

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I look at him. I don’t see pity in his bottomless blue eyes. Instead, I see grief. Torture. He’s tortured alongside me.

I don’t say anything to him. Instead, I inch toward the edge of the bed nearest my IV pole. Then I pull the blanket back.

An invitation.

He shudders, and then he lowers the railing and climbs into the bed beside me.

When his body inches toward mine, I hold still. I’m nauseous at the thread of rejection that his touch weaves through me. And then, I smell his scent—that familiar cedarwood and campfire that brings me back to Amelia Manor.

To standing in the rose garden.

To becoming his.

He puts his hand on my shoulder, then down my arm. I unravel at his touch. And then, when his arm circles my torso, I weep when he grips me.

“I’m so damn sorry, Winter,” he says into my ear.

I put my hand on his and fall asleep.

NINE

WINTER

Transport from the hospital to the 767 is smooth, even though the tension in my stomach is anything but.

My OCD and anxiety have morphed over the past week. Before all this, I’d been relying on my rituals less and less, sometimes going through parts of the day without completing them. But since leaving Adam, I’ve been in a weird in-between state where my anxiety simmers beneath my skin but as if it’s behind a glass window. I see that it’s there, but I don’t feel it.

What a curious way to put it: Leaving Adam.

Everything feels bright and sharp. I don’t know what the solution is, but completing rituals feels like it calms the anxiety spiral a little bit. The dulling effects of the narcotics and fast-acting anti-anxiety meds the doctors prescribed also help.

I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m both in my body and very far away from it.

So I slip on the rituals like a worn coat.

North Carolina is a beautiful state, but I pray to never, ever return to it.

“Mrs. Brigham, we will take off in just a few moments. Can I get you refreshments before we do?” The blonde flight attendant wears a cool, professional mask, and her question is simple. So when I snap at her, I feel a little guilty.

“I am not Mrs. Brigham.” The sharp movement causes my injured eye socket to throb. I didn’t need surgery, thankfully, but the doctors said I needed to rest the muscles around my eye to prevent the non-displaced hairline fracture from becoming displaced.

Even though my jaw felt broken, I got away with only soft tissue damage.

The flight attendant raises an eyebrow at my words. “Oh?”

My head jerks back at her tone and the look of...relief? on her face. Hunter steps up to our seats after conferring with the pilots.

“Excuse me, Jami,” he says. His eyes fix on me when he moves around her.

“Do not call me Mrs. Brigham,” I repeat. This time, with a glance at Hunter, Jami looks flustered.

“I-I’m so sorry, ma’am, it said—on the manifest it—” She looks helplessly at Hunter, and a nugget of...something settles in my brain. I shove it away.

“Bring a whiskey for me and a sweet tea for Winter.” Hunter’s words are short, flat. I’ve never heard him speak to someone like that. Jami spins on her heel to hightail it back to the galley.

“Hunter, I get why you called me Mrs. Brigham while in the hospital, but I need you to stop telling people I’m your wife.”

He kisses the back of my hand. “Put your seat belt on, baby.” I stare at him, open-mouthed, for several heartbeats. Well, as open-mouthed as I can be with all the swelling.

Ba-dum. Hunter keeps referring to me as his wife.

Ba-dum. I love that so much.

Ba-dum. I hate that so much.

Ba-dum. Because I don’t know why he’s doing this.

It’s too much. “H, I’m serious. Stop having people call me that.”

He looks in my direction, searching my face. As if his muscles are reluctant to perform the action, he nods.

“I need the words, Hunter.”

I know that he’ll manipulate this conversation if he has his way.

But he’s saved by Jami’s return with our drinks. “Is there anything I can get for you, Mr. Brigham?” Twin pink spots settle high on her cheeks.

“No. Thanks.”

Jami leaves, and a confusing whirl of emotions bubbles to the surface of my psyche.

“What was that, Hunter?” I ask with a low tone.

“What?” he asks with a confused look on his face.

“The flight attendant,” I say. “What’s her deal?”

Hunter lifts his whiskey to his mouth.

I want to press, but the jet chooses that moment to start taxiing down the runway.

A wave of panic hits me, my throat closing and my vision narrowing. The reality that this is my first time flying since my parents’ death hits me in the face.

All of a sudden, this—this—sends me over the edge.

I catalog all the senses around me: Three things I can see. Three things I can hear. Three things I can feel.

What can I see? I see, I see, I— What can I hear? The whirring—the engines. I—

Hunter grabs my hand, lacing his fingers between mine. And as much as I want to pull away, I don’t. The press of his palm is the only thing keeping me in this seat.

We reach cruising altitude, and without a warning, Hunter turns to me and says, “Let’s go.”

I still hold Hunter’s hand. I start to pull away, but he tightens his grasp. Nothing about it is painful.

I don’t ask him where we’re going because, obviously, we can go only a few places on the airplane. He guides me through the aisle toward a pocket door near the back of the plane.

We slide into the main bedroom on the 767.

He starts to undress.

“H, what are you—what is…?” I’m stammering and stuttering, and I feel like the walls are closing in. I hate this feeling. I love his body. But right now? I cannot look at it.

He pauses with his shirt open and his hand on the button of his jeans. “We have an hour before we land in D.C., and I can barely keep my eyes open. I figured we could sleep together.”

At the look I must be giving him, he quickly adds, “To sleep, Sunbeam. Sleeping only.”

I feel myself nodding over and over, way more than necessary.

He gives me a sad half-smile and then buttons his shirt back up. Once he’s fully clothed again, he pulls back the comforter.

“Please rest with me, baby,” he says. He looks earnest.

I force my muscles to unlock, and I crawl into the bed. The soft mattress feels like a cloud compared to the hard, sterile bedding in the hospital. I block out the sensations of what my sleeping arrangements felt like while with Adam.

Block it out. Block it out. Block it out.

Hunter climbs beside me, keeping at least half a foot between our bodies. I count each square on the fabric-covered ceiling panels. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his profile—his locked gaze fixed on the area above us.

Does it count as the mile-high club if you only sleep with someone on a plane?

As I settle into the bed, I release a puff of air, a facsimile of a laugh.

I am safe. I am safe here. I am safe here with Hunter.

“What’s going through your mind?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper over the muted hum of the plane engines.

“I was thinking about what I’d imagined my first time on your plane would be like,” I reply just as softly.

“What did you think it’d be like?”

I release a puff of air again.

“I thought it would be a happy time,” I say. He doesn’t respond.

I’d hoped the first time I’d fly on Hunter’s plane would be an adventure. On the phone one night, I told him of my dream to go back to Paris and experience it as an adult.

“What do you find so attractive about Paris, Sunbeam? Most people who visit realize it’s filthy and smelly and not at all like that Netflix show.”

I laugh at him. “I’m not expecting to grab a baguette and put it in the front basket of my bicycle. Paris is the city of love, you know? It’s the icon of romance.”

He’s silent over the line. “Let’s go for Valentine’s Day,” he says.

“Valentine’s Day? First, that’s months from now.”

“So? You think you’ll be done with me after a few months?” It’s a rhetorical question, but everything in my body screams, I’ll never be done with you, Hunter Brigham.

I don’t respond. “Two, we can’t just go off gallivanting to Europe. I’ll have schoolwork most likely, and—”

“We’ll take my jet to and from, which cuts down on ninety percent of all travel headaches.”

I pause at his statement. “You own a jet? Why am I not surprised you own a jet? Of course, you own a jet.”

His laughter cuts me off. “It’s more Leo’s jet than mine, but I use it whenever I want because, technically, BwP owns it. And I want to take you to Paris and do it on the most romantic day on the calendar. I want to eat French pastries with you and get the helicopter to fly us around the Eiffel Tower.”

I choke up. “I’d really like that, H,” I tell him. I can feel his smile on the other end of the line.

The feeling of Hunter’s finger grazing the side of my hand brings me back to the plane.

“Tending the rose garden with my mom as a kid. Kissing you there,” Hunter says.

“What?” I turn my head toward his.

“Going to the Eastern Market and seeing your face light up as you talked to the shopkeeper about crystals,” he adds.

“What are you talking about?” He turns his head to look at me. Our eyes clash, and I see a tangle of sadness and comfort in his gaze.

“Waking up in your apartment with the sun blazing through the windows and you in my arms. Making pizza with August. Watching you two play video games.”

“H,” I say. My breath stutters in my chest.

“These are happy moments for me. Some of the best, happiest moments I’ve had in my entire life.” The side of his mouth quirks up. “Tell me some,” he says.

“Tell you some of my happy moments?” I reply. He nods.

“Okay.” I close my eyes. “Riding bikes with my mom and dad along the river. Paintball with August.” I swallow again. His eyes don’t waver from mine.

“Keep going,” he says.

“Going out with Kitty for the first time alone. Moving into my apartment.” A sob breaks through my restricted throat, and tears leak from my eyes and race to the pillow beneath my head.

“Tell me more, baby.” Hunter’s hand is all the way on top of mine now, and his thumb rubs the side of my wrist.

“Our all-day date. Our first kiss. Every time we’ve made love.” I sob, and he launches his body up, pulling me into his arms and rocking me from side to side.

“We’re going to make new happy memories together, Winter. I promise. I promise.”

I clutch his shirt and sob, wanting so desperately to believe him.

WHEN WE ARRIVE BACK at Amelia Manor, I don’t fight him on the added security or that we’re going to his home. If I’m honest with myself, I want nothing more than to be here, in his arms. I don’t know if there’s another place I’d feel safer on this planet.

“We need to talk about a few things,” Hunter says.

I lay in Hunter’s bed after taking a long bath. Hunter wanted to help me, but I declined. I didn’t want him to see my body—to see the new scars Adam left behind.

When I got out of the tub, I stood in front of the mirror and looked at the crude apple he’d carved into my skin. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to core it out of my flesh.

I did neither; I cried.

I’m so fucking tired of crying.

“There are a few things we need to do to move forward.”

I’m immediately wary. “Like what, H?”

He leans against the side table, his hands clutching the surface behind him as he reclines.

“First, I need to know how he died.”

My shoulders rise to my ears, and I cross my arms in a protective pose.

“He’s dead. Isn’t that what matters the most?”

He stares at me for a hard second. “Yes, that is ultimately what matters most. But I need to know how just in case someone asks questions.”

“Who would be asking questions, H?” He sighs heavily.

“Please just tell me, Winter.” Winter. Not baby. Not Sunbeam. His use of my given name impacts me more than I feel it should.

I feel untethered.

“Okay.” I inhale. I exhale. I retell the moments leading up to Adam’s death. How the Universe gave me that razor blade and how I sliced his throat, but it wasn’t enough. I told him about being naked and falling over the railing into the snow. I told him how I stabbed him to death.

“Is it...” I cut myself off.

“Is it what, baby?” His voice is hoarse and short. His muscles bunch as he leans further against the table. He’s affected. He’s angry.

“Is it bad that I’m overjoyed that he’s dead? That I’m thrilled that I was the one to end his fucking life? Does that make me a monster?” I whisper the last sentence. I feel like I’m vibrating. A part of my brain reawakens, the taste of adrenaline as I stabbed him over and over again sharp on my tongue.

“No, it doesn’t make you a monster,” Hunter says. “But if it does, that means I’m the motherfucking devil.” He walks over to me and kisses me on the forehead. It’s rough and hard as he clutches the back of my head, bringing my face to his lips. I close my eyes, breathing in his scent.

“We’ve dealt with him,” he says.

I don’t question what “dealt with” means.

“Thank you,” I say through numb lips.

“And the second thing,” he says, walking back to the door.

When he opens it and sticks his head out of the opening, I say, “What are you doing, H?”

But then I hear the tap-tap-tap I’ve become so familiar with, and I didn’t realize I’ve been missing.

“He’s really missed you, but I think we’ve become buddies now,” Hunter says as Kitty bounds into the room.

“Kitty!” I say, flinging my arms wide and sitting up more. He jumps onto the bed, tackling me. I hold him close, burying my face in his fur.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about my dog. It’s that if I thought about him and stuck with the thought that he was starving or harmed or anything terrible, I would have spiraled. I can’t break. I won’t break.

“There are a few people who want to see you. Ella, Veronica,” he says, trailing off. I don’t move my face from Kitty’s fur.

When I’m silent for too long, he says, “Do you want to see them?”

No. No, I don’t want to see anyone.

Instead, I say, “Do I have to?”

A sad look crosses his face. “No, you don’t.” He fidgets for several moments at the door before saying, “Are you okay with seeing me?” The level of vulnerability in his tone almost undoes me.

And I struggle to answer because he’s the only person I want to see.

But also, a large part of me is hesitant to be around anyone.

I’m a confused, confusing mess.

“I’m just tired right now,” I reply.

He nods. “I understand.”

He stares at me hard and is silent long enough for me to say, “What?”

His face takes on a cast that I’ve not seen him use before. He stands up taller, bracing his muscular legs apart. Domineering. Serious.

“What is it?” I say slowly, warily.

“I’m fitting you for a permanent tracker.”

I blink at him. “A what now?”

His face becomes even more severe, unwavering. “A permanent tracker. It will go under your skin, likely on your shoulder blade or hip. It’s no bigger than a grain of rice.”

My mouth hangs open.

“Is that—how is that even possible?” I ask.

“The tech is new. Top secret, actually, but—” My eyes drop to the hand at his side as he picks at the skin around the nail bed of his thumb with his index finger. “I know people,” he finishes.

“There you go, sounding like you’re in the mob again.”

His face remains resolute.

“H,” I say. I clear my throat. “I’m trying to be rational about this—”

“Rational? There’s no rational or irrational in this situation. You’re getting the tracker.” We’re in a stare-off.

It’s not that I don’t understand that our lives are risky, and it’s obvious that it would have been optimal if I could have been located sooner. But the high-handed way he demands my acquiescence drains my already decimated well of patience.

“And if I say no? Will you force me, H?”

He jolts at the question, and we’re close enough that I notice when the muscle in his jaw ticks.

The temperature in the room drops several degrees, and I don’t know if it’s from a rush of anxiety or the heaviness of his stare.

As he continues to gaze at me as if he is looking through me and into my soul, I clutch Kitty tighter to my chest.

“Do you understand what it did to me not to know where you were?”

Kitty’s panting is the only sound in the room for several seconds after Hunter’s raw statement.

He walks closer to me, his arms still crossed as if to prevent himself from touching me. “Do you know what it did to me to know I could have done this long ago, but I didn’t want to push you? That I let you roam free even though I knew people might try to get at you?”

“H—”

“No, Winter.” He hovers over me, his face so close to mine that I can see the whorls of gold in his blue eyes. “My heart was ripped out of my chest the moment I found out you were gone. I died over and over as every hour passed without knowing where you were. If you were suffering—”

He steps back and spins, walking to the side table. He doesn’t turn around to look at me.

I cover my mouth to prevent the wail I know that’s bubbling up from escaping. I fold my body into itself, literally holding my insides together. In my silent struggle, Hunter leans against the table, his head hanging low.

The low breath he releases shudders, and his anguish is palpable.

My tears race, one after the other.

“What happened here will never happen again. I’d have to be dead and gone for anyone to be able to touch you, and even then, I’ll protect you from the grave.”

He turns back to me with wild, glassy eyes. “Do you understand, Winter?”

I close my eyes against the force of his intensity.

“Yes. I understand, Hunter.” I open my eyes again in time to see him run his fingers through his lush, ebony locks.

“Good,” he replies. He doesn’t look at me. “Get some rest, baby. I’ll tell Ella and Veronica to come by another day,” he murmurs. And then he’s out the door.

Kitty huffs, settling deeper into my side. I know Hunter suffered while I was missing.

How could he not?

It’s been a struggle to look outside of my own pain, my own world of suffering. And maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t care. I want to stay locked in my world of grief. Maybe one day I can leave it.

Today is not that day.

I’m fragile. I’m hurt. I’m not removed enough from this situation to carry Hunter’s or anyone else’s needs.

I can’t hold his pain and mine too.

I rub Kitty’s velvety ear.

I have to look out for myself.

With that thought, I settle down into the pillows that smell like Hunter and sleep deeply for the first time in almost a week.

TEN

HUNTER

It’s funny how his home looks like many others I’ve seen. It’s cookie-cutter, suburban—the house's layout is one of three boring, safe design options.

I run my hand across his gleaming oak desk and my leather gloves whisper across the surface. He’s neat, I’ll give him that. A yellow legal pad sits on the desk at a perfect right angle to his keyboard and a cup of pens.

His leather chair is cheap, though.

I’ve been hunting him for the last two weeks. He’s so easy to spot it’s almost comical. He does the same things, goes to the same places, over and over. No one would have known that anything had changed. But then he went off to buy his newest Porsche in cash.

Paid for it with money coated in Winter’s blood.

Max, our resident tech expert, found him in under thirty minutes and gave me all the information on his habits. I didn’t know Mr. Michael Uvalde before he participated in harming Winter, but I know him intimately now.

I move through his house, stopping in his bedroom. This is where it will happen. In the corner, I sit. I don’t turn on the lights. I want to absorb the silent darkness until it’s time.

It’s an hour before the low hum of the expensive engine echoes outside his bedroom window. The next sound is the mechanical whirring of his garage door opening and closing. It’s loud in the empty house.

He stumbles in, drunk. This will make it easier.

I don’t want easier. I want painful.

He’s in the room, stripping off his clothes as he walks through. The pressure of his piss stream hitting the porcelain toilet bowl makes me smile. Maybe I’ll cut that off too.

Don’t be so dramatic.

He climbs into bed, flat on his back. One minute. Two minutes. Ten. He’s asleep.

I move out of the shadows.

He opens his mouth to scream when I settle fully on top of him, his arms and legs pinned beneath my weight. He stops when my blade touches the tender flesh of his throat.

“You can scream if you want, but no one is coming, Commissioner Uvalde.” My smile feels a little deranged.

Have I finally snapped? If so, I’m ready to fucking revel in it.

His glassy eyes struggle to focus.

“Who the fuck are you?” he spits out.

It’s so curious what his body is doing. There’s a sickly pallor his skin takes on, like three-day-old milk. He sweats, his breaths shallow and rapid.

His body knows he’s going to die. His brain probably thinks he can still get out of this.

I breathe in. His terror smells ripe.

“Adam Collins,” I say.

He pales even more. “Y-You’re not him,” he stutters.

I shake my head slowly. “No, I’m not, commissioner.” I press the blade into his throat, and I feel comfort as the flesh begins to give away under the knife.

“I didn’t do anything!” He tries to press his body further into the mattress, moving away from my blade. He can’t move his arms or legs, even though he tries.

I’m glad he’s trying.

“That’s one way to put it, right? You should have never taken that bribe, Michael.”

“He made me do it! He said if I didn’t—what does it matter!”

I slap him across the face. It’s a move so disrespectful that I almost laugh as I see tears spring to his eyes and hear the resulting howl rip from his throat.

“You’ve hurt a lot of people, Michael. And actions have consequences.”

He cries now. “Please! Please, I’ll give the money back. I’ll give you double—”

“You think I want money?”

“If not money, then what do you want?”

I lean closer to him, putting my left hand on his forehead.

“Michael,” I say, grasping his hair so hard I feel a few strands rip out. “I want revenge.”

With a sharp jerk, I tip his head back and cleanly slice through the muscles, ligaments, and vessels of his throat.

He chokes as his brain tries to reconcile that his death is imminent. With wide eyes, his mouth opens and closes as his brain begs for air. He continues his desperate movements, slowing until he stills. As his life force leaves his body, I feel mine returning.

Control. I am in control of everything—even life itself.

Now I’ve taken Michael Uvalde’s.

Fifteen minutes later, once Michael Uvalde’s blood has slowed its trek out of his body, I call Leo to come with the cleanup crew. The call lasts ten seconds at most, and when I hang up, I take pictures of the corpse.

It’s not a trophy. It’s insurance. I step closer to his body, ensuring I capture his wide-eyed stare—his mouth open in an endless scream.

It was too quick.

I should have toyed with him more. Drawn out his torture. The only reason I ended him here was because I didn’t want Winter to somehow learn of it.

She doesn’t need to be touched by any of this any more than she has.

I turn the commissioner’s head away, examining my handiwork, when I notice a black blob on his neck, behind his right ear.

I don’t turn on the side lamp. Instead, I take out my penlight and shine it on his face.

I stare closer at the tattoo, trying to make sense of the markings.

It’s blurry, like the ink is old and perhaps done with crude tools. But the longer I stare at it, it takes shape.

An eye.

A buzzing takes up under my skin, a blend of the drop in adrenaline and unanswered questions.

“H.” I hear Leo’s voice call out from the front of the house. In the weeks following Winter’s return to Amelia Manor, he’s been even more severe, keeping his thoughts to himself more than usual.

He rarely leaves the estate these days.

Leo walks into the bedroom with three of our men and one of Misha’s.

He sighs. “Did you have to stick him like a pig? You couldn’t have just taken him to the crypts and done this clean?” The other men move around the room, analyzing the setup.

“It had to be here.” My plan to kill Parole Commissioner Michael Uvalde for his role in freeing Adam Collins came to me quickly. As I held Winter’s trembling body in my arms, I knew the only remedy to the impotence I felt at not being able to protect her or save her was to kill.

First Michael Uvalde. Then Benjamin Brigham, Morris Winthrope, and whoever else participated in harming Winter. They will all die by my hand.

Leo gives me a stern look. A concerned look. “We’ll clean this up, H.”

And then, I leave.

AMELIA MANOR IS QUIET, just like the commissioner’s house. Except here, I feel the life between the walls. I feel Winter’s presence, even though she rarely shows herself to me these days.

We’ve been home for two weeks, and Winter and I have fallen into a simple yet distant existence. She stays in the room down the hall from mine—it’s just as big and faces the rose garden. When I brought the doctor in to insert the tracker, she barely flinched.

Every morning, I accompany our housekeeper to deliver her breakfast. She has proven she won’t interact with anyone else otherwise. I make sure to open the curtains. The next morning, the curtains are always closed.

Leo had the forethought to make sure someone covered my car with plastic, and I strip naked after I pull the vehicle into the garage.

Rio will handle burning all the evidence. I use the back staircase to reach my room, heading for the shower.

I resist groaning as Uvalde’s blood races down the drain, filling me with renewed satisfaction.

I am in control.

Hanging my head in the shower spray, I close my eyes against the onslaught of memories. Not the memory of the recent past—of killing Uvalde. My memories transport me back to all those years following behind my father.

My brain takes me back to Isla Cara. I was ten.

They writhe on every surface of the ballroom. Combined, there are at least a hundred naked bodies swirling together. They look like snakes as they move on the floor. Across the balcony where I stand overlooking the scene, a bright red light flashes in a steady rhythm. Blinking, pulsing.

Flash.

Father takes my shoulder and leads me to the place he never allows me to see. He’s proud of me now because I did what he wanted and didn’t cry.

Flash.

Father dials in the combination for the metal door, and when we enter, he flings his hands wide, spinning slowly to show the enormity of his treasures—diamonds, rubies, gold bars, art canvases, cash.

Flash.

“This will all be yours, son. It is your birthright.”

I’m in awe.

I touch the gold coins—their weight heavier than I'd imagined in my palm. I lean forward to draw the scent of the pyramid of dollars into my nose. The stacks are taller than I am.

Flash.

A VCR/DVD combo sits on a wooden crate. It doesn’t look like it belongs there. A videotape sticks out of the device, with smeared handwriting on the white label. I start to pull it out of the TV. Father stops me.

Flash.

“What is it?” I ask him.

He puts his hand on my shoulder again. “It’s what keeps us in power.”

Flash. Flash. Flash.

As the shower rains over me, I ground my body into the feeling of the slick tile beneath my palms and focus on the water running down my spine.

I am here. I am in control.

I revel in the fact that the commissioner is dead.

Commissioner Uvalde. Morris Winthrope. Benjamin Brigham.

I exit the shower and rummage around for a T-shirt and pants to use as pajamas. I’m used to sleeping naked. When Winter and I shared a bed, I usually wore only a pair of boxers for her benefit.

Now I cover up because if she needs me in the night, I don’t want to add to her fears. That’s also why I sleep with the door open…although sleep is rare these days.

When I leave my bedroom, I fight the urge to go to Winter. She’ll come to me when she is ready. I need to give her space if we’re ever going to come back together.

I continue to the kitchen but stop short when I see August there.

We haven’t spoken to each other much. I get the sense that he’s avoiding me, but I’m ashamed to say I haven’t sought him out either.

It’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s just that I’ve been so caught up in my shit. I’ve been so caught up in my inability to keep Winter safe. Can I keep him safe, or will I cause him to be hurt too?

“August,” I say. The sharp drop in adrenaline causes my voice to sound hoarse.

August doesn’t say anything to me. He looks the other way before shuffling from side to side and going to the pantry.

I freeze. I should say something.

He rifles around the pantry for a few more seconds before moving to exit the kitchen with an unopened box of Cheese-Itz.

“How have you been, August?” I say to him before he can leave.

His tablet hangs from a woven strap across his chest.

He faces me, but he doesn’t look at me. Not that I expect or require him to. Then he walks to the island to put the box down. He types on the tablet.

“I have been okay.” He grabs the box of crackers again, hugging it to his chest. He sways from side to side, completely turned away from me.

“I’m sorry that I have been so absent,” I say to his back. His shoulders rise, but he keeps rocking. Tap, tap, tap.

“I am used to it.”

Ouch.

“I should have...” I trail off. I should have what? Stepped out of my anger and devastation to see him? Maybe. But I’m new to this and honestly don’t know how to do that.

“No one has told me anything. They said you were in an accident. That could mean several things. What kind of accident? Where? When? Are you hurt?” His breathing gets faster and faster, and distressed sounds warble from his throat. I step up to the island to stand next to him. Close. This feels like the right move.

“Let me answer your questions. I was in a car accident a few weeks ago. The same day Winter went missing, actually.”

He flinches and snaps his fingers in rapid succession.

“Leo was in the car. We got dinged up a bit, but we’re both okay.”

He makes a sound of distress, rubbing the side of his face and his eyes. He taps his cheek. “How can I get Winter better so she will be my friend again?”

I turn to him fully now and do something I haven’t done before. I touch his shoulder. And he lets me.

“Winter is still your friend. She will always be your friend. She was—” I feel the pressure grow in my throat. “She was hurt pretty badly, and that will take time to heal. She’s not talking to anyone right now. It’s not just you. She loves you.”

I keep my hand on his shoulder for several seconds, thinking of what to say, when he turns into me and hugs me.

And I hug him back, putting my cheek on top of his head. The truth settles in: He doesn’t just need someone. He needs me. And I want to be there for him.

We hold on to each other for five full heartbeats before he releases me, grabbing the Cheese-Itz again and hugging it to his chest.

He turns to leave the kitchen, and I call out to him, “Want to make a pizza tomorrow for dinner?” He tilts his head in my direction, tapping his cheek with one finger in a slow cadence.

“I want to knead the dough. You did not do it right last time.” And with that, he leaves the room.

And my chest hurts more than ever. I’m sure it’s my heart.

ELEVEN

HUNTER

There’s about sixty thousand dollars in cash, the account numbers for a bank account in Switzerland in Winter’s name, and weapons—handguns and knives that I didn’t own before last week—laid out in the wall safe in front of me. Also in the safe are three passports. Mine, August’s, and Winter’s, except our names are different.

This is my insurance.

My father got to me once, and I’ll be damned if I let it happen again—if I’d let Winter get hurt again.

I pull a handgun out and tuck it in the waist holster I carry now. Securing my suit jacket over it, I turn to the door as Leo knocks to enter. I lock the safe and return to my desk as he walks in.

“Misha Hroshko wants to speak with us,” Leo says without preamble. I blow out a breath, running my fingers through my hair.

On top of finding Winter, Misha has let us know that he’s still on board with getting rid of my father. It is a tentative commitment.

A commitment that has been made more complicated by the fact that no one has seen my father since that night at the Appleton Country Club.

At first glance, it should be simple for anyone to get rid of my father. He’s human, and we all die at some point. But with my father’s influence and all the dirt he holds over hundreds of the elite, they’ll do whatever they need to protect him—so they can protect themselves.

They don’t want their dirt getting out.

But what do animals do when they’re cornered? They bite. That’s where Misha comes in. As the pakhan of the Ukrainian Mafiya, the ultimate leader of the organized crime unit, Misha has thousands of soldiers and generals at his fingertips. He’s ingrained in the government. He’s just as influential as my father. But I know what he wants: He wants the leverage my father keeps hidden away in Isla Cara and access to Project Panacea.

I suspect I’ll get clarity on the latter point in a few minutes.

“Call him up, then,” I say to Leo.

Three minutes later, we’re patched through to Misha Hroshko.

“Hunter Brigham, I trust that your woman is healing from her ordeal,” he says when he answers.

I startle. Is she healing? I have no clue. On the outside, yes. But on the inside? I don’t know where she is in her brain.

“She’s getting well. Thank you,” I say, closing the topic.

“It was easy to find her, yet you needed help. I’m curious why that is?”

Leo and I exchange a look. I know that Misha Hroshko doesn’t ask a question he doesn’t already know the answer to.

“Expediency,” Leo pipes up. “With Hunter’s attention split, we needed reinforcements to bring Winter home. We’re grateful.”

“Your gratitude is noted,” he says. The line goes silent.

“Project Panacea,” he says, the words sounding interesting in his accent. “I want access by the end of the week.” His tone brooks no argument, no room for negotiation. I feel his deadly, icy seriousness over the phone line.

“Of course, Misha. We’re in your debt,” I say truthfully. “Can I know more about who we are helping?”

Misha is silent for a moment. “My wife,” he says shortly, and I startle. Who would have known that Misha Hroshko would be married? “She was diagnosed with stage IV ovarian cancer two months ago. Those fucks at Johns Hopkins and all those other trash fucking hospitals want to put her on hospice. But your treatment will cure her.”

There’s so much resolve in his voice. I know that if we fail to do this, he will kill all of us and slaughter the generations after us on principle.

Misha isn’t just a pakhan wanting control of an uncontrollable situation. He’s a man who has something to lose.

“I understand,” I say to him. Because I so, so do. “Our center is in Chevy Chase. It’s where all the trials are to be held. The FDA has been a pain in our assholes—”

“Do not worry about them,” Misha says dismissively.

Leo stares hard at his phone. “I’m confident in our treatment, Misha. We will ensure your wife is taken care of,” he vows.

After a beat, Misha says, “Hunter, I want you and your woman to come to my home. My wife would like to meet her.”

I look at Leo and he shrugs.

“Leo, you come too. Bring your woman,” he says.

“Sure,” Leo replies with a silent, bewildered expression.

“It’d be my pleasure, Misha,” I say. I’d rather run through fire, but I’m indebted to this man.

“Very well,” Misha says. “Let’s plan on two months from now. By that time, my wife will be much improved.” And then the line goes dead. He hung up.

Leo and I both blow out a breath. “Fuck,” Leo says, drawing out the word for several beats.

“Why do I get the feeling that we just sold our souls to the devil?” I ask Leo while staring up at the ceiling.

I don’t look back at him when he replies, “It’s because we did.”

Leo leaves my office sometime later and I throw myself into work. Or, at least, I try to.

Since the accident and Winter’s return, I’ve been forcing myself to care at all about BwP, which makes me feel horrible. So many people are going to live because of the technology BwP releases. So many people rely on BwP staying afloat. Solvent. Engaged.

And I can’t make myself give a fuck about it.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and unlock it. My home screen is a candid picture of Winter and August in the game room. They’re on opposing teams in some zombie game, and it was difficult for me to know who was winning. But August was effervescent with his amusement, and Winter radiated happiness.

My Sunbeam.

So when Winter peeks her head into my office, I jump up on high alert.

“Are you all right? What’s wrong,” I ask, rushing over to her. My instinct is to cradle her face, to touch her in some way, but I keep my hands firmly at my side.

“Am I interrupting?” she replies, not answering my question.

“There isn’t a scenario in which you could interrupt me. Are you all right?” I pull her from behind the door she uses as a shield and close it behind her.

“I’m fine, H. Are you all right?” Her eyes search my face.

“Winter.” I resist growling her name. “This is the first time you’ve ever sought me out and the first time you’ve ever been in my office. There has to be a reason besides you telling me you’re fine.”

The side of her mouth kicks up. “You’re right.” She moves to rub the skin between her eyebrows. “I need a favor.” She looks nervous.

“Anything, Sunbeam.”

“It’s a little stupid,” she says.

“Nothing you do is stupid. What do you need?” She avoids my gaze. With a short sigh, she asks, “Can you please take me to the doctor?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Yes, of course. Are you sick?” I grab my phone, prepared to call her doctor to come to our house immediately—I don’t care what they’re doing.

“No, I’m fine. It’s a scheduled checkup. It’s just that... Um.” She stops talking again.

I grab her hand. “Talk to me, baby,” I say in a low voice.

“I haven’t left the house since coming home. I don’t—I can’t—I…” she blinks and swallows. “I don’t want to be alone with Rio. Could you bring me?”

Then she looks me in the eye and my heart breaks for the hundredth time since we left that diner outside Asheville. She is asking me for something of her own free will. This has to be progress, right?

“Of course I will.”

THE LIGHTS ARE TOO damn bright in here. The harsh and cold fluorescents overhead highlight the dated décor—an unexpected sight, seeing as this is one of the best doctors in the nation.

I question whether the heat is on because I shiver.

Or maybe it’s the coldness I haven’t been able to shake since learning that my father was the conductor behind Winter’s abduction.

I should tell her. I should give her the choice to choose me after she knows what pain I’ve brought her.

But I’m not a good man. And I can’t let that info slip.

Because I cannot lose Winter again.

I tasked Ella with finding Winter the best care with the most empathetic doctor on the Atlantic seaboard. When Ella told me we wouldn’t have to go far, just to their office in DuPont Circle, that made life easier.

Winter didn’t object to seeing a new doctor.

Her leg shakes as she flips through a year-old home and garden magazine. Kitty wears his service animal harness and whimpers as she jerks him up and down in a rapid staccato from his position on her lap.

He looks at me with his naturally wide eyes even wider, as if saying Dude, do something!

I run my hand over my mouth before bending over and resting my elbows on my knees.

When Winter flips a page, I notice she’s bitten her nails so short that crusty scabs run from her nail beds.

The sight makes me sad, which then morphs into fury.

Adam Collins. My father. Morris Winthrope. Uvalde, the commissioner. I’m glad her abuser is dead. I’m glad Uvalde is dead. Now every other person who played a role in putting her in this situation is next.

Her leg shakes, jostling the magazine pages so a constant rustle sounds out. I put my hand on her knee, hoping the presence will help ground her and stop her nervous fidgeting. Selfishly, I hope she’ll let me soak in her warmth.

Two seconds after my palm hits her thigh, the medical assistant opens the door.

“Mrs. Winter Brigham?” she calls out. Winter’s head snaps from her magazine and to the bubbly nurse. Her mouth gapes open when she turns to me with narrowed eyes.

“Mrs. Brigham?” Winter asks. Her eyebrow quirks up.

My mouth twists. “Fight me about it later?” I’m unsure if it was the wrong thing to say or not. She blinks at me for a heavy beat before standing, ushering Kitty to the ground.

I stand to go with her, but her soft hand on my arm stops me.

“Alone, please.” There’s no anger or aggression in her voice.

“I don’t want to leave you alone, Winter,” I reply.

“I don’t want—” she breaks off, looking back at the attendant and raising her finger to let her know she’ll need just a second. “I don’t know what I’m walking into here,” she murmurs.

Understanding dawns. She doesn’t want me to be there if something comes back wrong.

“I can be there to support you through whatever, Winter.”

She shakes her head. “Not this time, Hunter.”

I don’t know if she means I can’t give her support this time or not to go into the office this time, but I’m not given clarification as she spins on her heel and walks through the door.

I settle back into the seat and drop my head in my hands, running my fingers through my hair.

We’re not making progress. We’re not moving forward. Sure, she’s welcomed a few platonic touches, but those instances are few and far between now. Those first few days, she needed me. She wanted to be around me. But now, I don’t know if I’m pushing too much or not enough; I don’t know if I’m saying the right things or completely wrong things.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

I don’t know how to help Winter come back from this tragedy. I drop my head even further.

My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen.

“Talk,” I say sharply, and Leo blows a breath on the other side of the phone.

“The guys in New York came up with nada. Isla Cara is deserted—not a single soul in sight. And the houses in London, Paris, and Thailand are empty. Your father has officially gone ghost.”

The phone protests as I squeeze it in my palm.

“As much fucking money and time as we spend on technology, we can’t catch this one motherfucker?” My voice is raspy and low. I’m the only person in the waiting room, and that’s by design. I didn’t want Winter’s anxiety to get triggered, so I made sure they cleared their calendar for any other patients except Winter for the entire afternoon.

The receptionist moves from her spot behind the closed glass window.

“I’m getting creative. Who else would protect your father and hide him?”

“I don’t know, Leo. I’ve given you a list. Ella has given you a list. Short of knocking off everyone who has had interactions with Father over the last decade—”

Leo’s beleaguered sigh stops my tirade.

“Just—fuck,” I say.

The need to make my father pay for his sins, to make him beg for mercy at the end of my gun before I blow his brains out, sits sharp and metallic on my tongue.

He can’t hide forever.

“We’ll keep looking, H.” Leo goes silent, and the soundlessness feels heavy.

“What else?”

“Panacea is DOA at this point.”

I pinch the skin between my eyebrows. “The fuck, Leo?”

“The FDA wants to come in and get access to our proprietary tech.”

“Well, obviously, they can fuck right off with that.”

“That’s what I told them.”

I blow out a breath. “To be completely fucking honest, I don’t care.”

“Hunter,” Leo begins.

“I don’t, Leo! I don’t care what happens with it at this point. Later, maybe. But right now?”

Right now, BwP could completely implode, and I would not give a singular fuck.

“We’ll revisit this later,” he says finally. “But no one is getting the tech.”

“Sure,” I mumble.

“God-fucking-damnit,” Leo snaps, and then he hangs up.

I run my fingers through my hair again, taking a moment to press at the corded muscles in my shoulders when my phone vibrates again, drawing my attention away from the sterile waiting room.

Glancing at the screen, I find a message from an unknown number.

A Scar.

A Liar.

The coldness in the room seems to intensify, mirroring the chill that now grips my insides.

Who the fuck is this?

I stare at the screen for several long moments, and the unknown number doesn’t respond. I look around the waiting room. No one is here, even the receptionist hasn’t returned to her station.

I take a screenshot of the conversation and send it to Max.

Figure out who the fuck this is.

Trying to shake off the unsettling feeling, I pocket my phone just as Winter reappears, her expression guarded. I stand, my eyes searching hers for clues about what happened behind the closed door.

“Everything okay?” I ask, my words slow.

She nods, but the tightness in her features suggests otherwise. “Just a checkup,” she replies. The small smile she gives me appears peaceful, but the faint muscle tick in her cheek betrays her vulnerability. “Nothing to worry about.”

The loops on Kitty’s harness jingle as he moves to stand against her leg.

I take Winter’s hand, offering silent support and shoving away the fuckery with BwP and the unknown number.

As we leave the clinic, clouds roll in, promising freezing rain.

“Let’s go back home,” Winter says. Exhaustion laces her tone. She squeezes my hand, a small gesture of connection amidst the fucked-up menagerie of uncertainty swirling inside me.

“Yes, baby. Let’s.”

TWELVE

WINTER

The cartoon-clad clock my mom bought at The Disney Store shows that it’s 3:34 a.m.

He is half an hour later than usual.

This room feels so different now.

My Barbie Dreamhouse still sits in the corner of my room. Except now, it’s collecting dust.

Stapled pictures of Mom and Dad line the wall alongside pictures of Veronica and me and my Destiny’s Child and NSYNC* posters.

Everything looks so much the same. But everything is different. Rotten. Cold. Dead.

I feel him move around the room after he closes the door with a quiet snick.

I know what he wants me to do.

I turn over and lay flat on my stomach. He doesn’t hurt me as much when I make it easy for him.

The bed dips as he puts a knee on the mattress and pulls the blanket off my body.

His body presses against my back.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I’ll be quick,” he says. With a thunk, the heavy switchblade lands on my nightstand. I don’t have to look to know that the blade is extended and ready to inflict quick agony.

I breathe in.

Wrong. Wrong. This is wrong. Everything buzzes, electrified. My eyes snap toward the wall and lock on the image of me, Mom, and Dad.

It was at my dad’s promotion dinner when he was made Chief of Neurosurgery. Mom was in her second year as a U.S. Representative to our corner of northern Virginia, and the stress of the job was getting to her. I’d hear her talk to Dad about it when they thought I wasn’t listening. She said she was over D.C. politics. She didn’t feel like she could make a difference, that the system was set and there was no changing it. Daddy would rub her hand and kiss her cheek. Sometimes, they’d dance in the living room to Luther Vandross, and Daddy would sing to her off-key. He was a terrible singer.

I miss his singing.

Mom and Daddy look happy in the picture. Smiling. And I’m between them both. My smile is wide, gap-toothed.

Pain.

My mouth opens as if to shout. To cry out. To beg him to stop. But I don’t dare.

“Princess,” he says. “You are mine forever.”

My eyes snap open as my constricted throat tries to pull in air.

I should be used to them by now. There hasn’t been a night that I haven’t had a nightmare in the month since my abduction.

Resentment and shame rushes through me. I should be able to get past this. I should be able to get back on track.

I’ve committed my life to healing trauma, and I know I can rationalize my way out of this. I am resilient.

If only it were that easy.

Step one: slow your breathing.

I focus on counting to eight as I inhale and exhale slowly. Breathing deeply still stings my ribs. One broke at some point while I was away, but the pain has lessened to the point where I only cry out when I sneeze or cough. I go slow with my breaths, both to calm my racing heart and assess the limits of my pain tolerance.

Step two: ground yourself.

I blink a few times and pick up on the things I can see.

Kitty in his bed. Sweater on the door. Curtains pulled across the window. Bed.

Step three: reset your brain.

The screen on my phone lights up from its face-down position on my side table. I know I shouldn’t use it this late because I’ll never get back to sleep, but I pick it up anyway.

A late-night reply email from Genevieve. One look at the subject line, which says, “Re: Continuing Therapy,” leaves a rock in my stomach.

I know better. I really do. I should be in therapy, working through this latest trauma with appropriate, evidence-based measures.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to go. I can’t bring myself to talk to Genevieve—to talk to anyone.

Talking about it makes it more real. I just want it to fade away.

Beneath the email are the three missed calls and five texts from Veronica. I ignored them when they came in, but I left the notifications on the lock screen. I don’t know why I didn’t swipe them away.

I get up from the bed and immediately slide my feet into my hard-soled, fuzzy slippers. It’s bitterly cold, as late January in northern Virginia always is, so I’m grateful for the thick fleece pajama set Hunter gifted me when I arrived at Amelia Manor. I pull the lined hood up, tugging the drawstring so that it’s tight around my face. Kitty lifts his head from the dog bed in the corner of my room.

“Sleep, Kitty,” I tell him. He cocks his head, staring me down. I sigh.

“All right, you can come if you want,” I tell him, leaving the room without waiting for him.

I walk to Hunter’s ginormous kitchen.

Filling the electric kettle by the stove, I take a packet of Sleepytime tea from the basket next to the tea station, grab a mug from the open shelving above the stove, and turn around, leaning on the counter to wait for the water to boil.

Running a hand down my face and back into my hair, I finally say, “You are safe.”

The clicking of Kitty’s paws on the marble floors gets me to look down at him as he tilts his head to the side. You good, babe? is what his expression says.

I pick him up and cradle him close to my chest. Rubbing his velvet-soft ears, I say, “I’m all good, lovebug.” He raises his nose to sniff at my neck and licks the side of my cheek.

The kettle clicks as the water hits a boil, so I set Kitty down and begin making my tea. After adding a few crystallized lemon packets and a heaping squeeze of honey to my mug, I shuffle over to the stool at the massive island. When I settle into the oversized high-backed chair, I kick off my slippers to fold one leg beneath me. I prop my other compression-wrapped leg on the opposite chair. Kitty trots off to explore but doesn’t go far from his kitchen dog bed.

Yes, Hunter put a dog bed in the kitchen. And one in each of the three living rooms, the game room, and his office.

I look at the kitchen clock. It’s three a.m. Fitting.

Adam is gone. I know he is gone, but it feels as if he will be with me forever.

That’s not true, Winter. He’s gone. You know he is.

A huge weight lifted off my shoulders when I met with Dr. Greene yesterday. She’s a quick-witted woman with soft brown eyes and a skin complexion to match.

I didn’t care who I saw when Ella set up the appointment. The only thing I needed was someone with a medical license to tell me that I still wasn’t pregnant and all the STI results were still negative.

They are.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I put my head in my hands.

“Hey.”

I jump, knocking my tea mug off the counter and splashing myself with the hot liquid all in one movement. The mug crashes to the floor, and I suppress a yelp.

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit,” I say as my heart beats in painful, rapid crashes against my sternum. I rush to the paper towels on the other side of the kitchen.

In my haste, I don’t think about stepping on the slippery floor or the broken ceramic.

A large shard pierces the skin of my foot, and I have a completely over-the-top reaction to it.

I shriek.

Trauma causes amplified pain responses, I recall from my studies. It seems that I’m education in real life.

Kitty’s nails click on the tile at a furious pace, and in a second, he’s next to me, tail wagging.

“Off-duty,” I tell him. He doesn’t move.

I fall back into the chair, bringing my foot up to inspect. I’m still breathing hard, but I can’t look at Hunter.

“Off-duty,” I emphasize to Kitty, and he drops to the floor, sitting. Tilting his head again, he gives me what I can only equivocate as a doggy sigh, and he moves to sit at the back of my chair.

I jump again when I feel a movement coming from my right. I bring my hands up to cover my head, bracing for an attack. I tremble, so close to panic.

“It’s okay, Rio,” Hunter says from beside me.

Rio. It’s just Rio.

Still, I can’t stop trembling.

As if I’m underwater, I hear Rio and Hunter exchange a few words and then it’s just Hunter and me in the kitchen.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

The pressure in the air changes as Hunter takes a step in my direction. That snaps me out of my daze.

Suddenly, inspecting my foot for damage is the most important task ever.

“Did I wake you, Hunter?” I say, my voice at a more sedate volume.

I feel Hunter move around the kitchen, and with soft movements, he grabs several handfuls of paper towels before he grabs the broom to clean up the mess. When all is set to rights, I feel his heat as he stands near me at the island. I’m still looking at my foot, although I removed the ceramic quickly and the bleeding has already stopped.

He doesn’t respond to my question.

“Can I see?” His voice is low, cautious. I curl in on myself, ashamed that I’ve distanced myself from this remarkable man, this man I love. I dip my chin and his strong hands circle my ankle. Then he kneels in front of me.

The stress of the evening—the nightmare, the messages—rushes to the surface.

“I don’t think you need stitches,” he says. He’s already pulled ointment and a Band-Aid from the drawer, and in a few seconds, he has the wound cleaned and dressed.

Then, almost reverently, he kisses the sole of my foot.

“Hunter,” I say, finally looking at him. There are so many warring emotions in his gaze.

Sadness.

Regret.

Pity.

Love.

“I...” When I don’t fill the silence, he does it for me.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, rubbing my foot and still kneeling in front of me.

“Something like that,” I say. He keeps rubbing my foot, then moves to my calf.

“I couldn’t sleep either,” he says. He continues to kneel. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“It’s okay. You should be able to walk around your house without worrying about me.”

“One, I will always worry about you. It’s my job,” he says, giving a rueful smile. “And two, this is your house too.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he briefly chuckles. “This is not my house, Hunter, just like I’m not Mrs. Brigham.” My words have no heat to them, but it is the truth. I’m a visitor. An uncomfortable visitor who is here only because I don’t feel safe in my own home. And as for him telling people I’m his wife....

He squeezes my calf muscles, massaging the tense flesh, and I can’t help the groan that slips out.

“The latter can be changed very easily, baby.” He looks into my eyes. Even in the dim under-cabinet lighting, I can see the blue disappear as his irises expand. There isn’t a hint of joking in them. He is all seriousness.

I begin to pull my leg from his grasp in slow increments.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

I close my eyes because I can’t.

“We don’t have to be like that right now, Winter. I just...please stay with me. We can talk about whatever.”

I inhale deeply and force myself to open my eyes again.

His eyes plead for me to stay.

I want to. I so want to. But the thought of getting close to him chokes me.

I didn’t always feel like pushing away from him since the incident. Physically, at least. There were days when all I could do was cry and scream and rage, and the only remedy was Hunter Brigham’s touch.

But now, I feel dead inside. I feel like the rot from my soul will rub off on him somehow.

God, help me. I don’t see how to break through. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I’m avoiding Genevieve. Wading through the muck of all this shit...maybe it’s too late for me.

I spin. I spiral. The room buzzes.

Suddenly, he stands up. “Come with me,” he says as he holds out his hand. I don’t hesitate to take it. It’s an automatic reflex.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

He smiles. It’s a soft look. He kicks my hard-soled slippers from beneath my chair. “Put your shoes on.”

I comply.

We make our way out of the kitchen and across the living room, and before we head out the double French doors to the veranda, he snags three thick blankets and grabs us each a coat. We slip them on.

“Can I show you my favorite spot?” Hunter asks as we move through the winterized garden.

“You mean the rose garden isn’t your favorite place? I guess maybe it’s your office.”

He laughs. “No, although the rose garden will always hold a very special place in my heart.” His eyes drop to my mouth, and I know he’s thinking about our first kiss.

A tingle settles low in my core, heating me. I squash it immediately as fear and disgust follow closely behind.

He doesn’t say anything else as he takes my hand again.

“Kitty, come,” Hunter says, and I bite my lip. Kitty follows, sidling up to Hunter.

Well, I’ll be damned. “Et tu, Kitty?” My turncoat dog tilts his head at me, shaking out all his limbs before sitting next to Hunter’s leg.

Then he looks up at Hunter for further instruction.

We both start to walk.

It’s a full moon, so I can see the path. I follow Hunter’s sure steps as he walks us deeper into the manor’s grounds. After a few minutes, we cross through the final pass of trees and come across the shore of a lake. The lake has to take up at least four acres, and the twenty-foot stretch of water from the shore is frozen thick. The silent beauty of the moon reflecting on the ice has me breathing deeply for what feels like...forever.

The stillness is the balm I didn’t know I needed to calm my nervous system after the kitchen incident.

“Wow,” I say, looking at the lake. The bank is sandy, with a few giant boulders scattered along the shore. All around the perimeter are tall trees—pines and different evergreens. Hunter doesn’t release my hand as we walk parallel to the lake, and after a few minutes, he directs me toward a large log that looks carved out for people to sit on.

This is now my favorite spot in the world.

Hunter doesn’t say anything when he sits me on the log and drapes one of the thick blankets over my shoulders. He sits next to me, slinging one of the blankets over his back like a cape, and spreads the third blanket over both our laps. He takes a deep breath—I think to inhale the smell of nature. I do the same.

“Play,” I say to Kitty, and he bounds off to explore down the shore.

“Did you spend much time here in Amelia Manor growing up?” I ask him.

“Not very much time at all. I was sent to boarding school in Connecticut as soon as I hit kindergarten. My mom owned this property, separate from my father. It had been in her family for generations. Her great-grandmother was named Amelia, and that was my mom’s name too.”

“What happened to her?” A frog croaks in the distance.

Hunter’s shoulders hunch over. His brows pinch together in a look I’ve come to recognize is one of his tells for when he’s feeling things he doesn’t want to feel.

“She died when I was a teenager,” he says. There’s no inflection in his tone. “I would spend part of my summers here growing up, and my mom would bring me and my sister down here to play in the lake.” He nods toward the water. “It’s pretty shallow at this part.”

A few craggy rocks reflect the moonlight.

It’s the most peaceful spot I’ve been to in a very long time.

“We’re part of a fucked-up club, you and I. August too, I guess,” I say with a small laugh.

“How so, Sunbeam?”

“The dead mother club,” I reply.

He doesn’t laugh.

“Wow, tough crowd,” I say. I’m trying to be funny, I guess. I wasn’t always this cynical. This morose. I wonder if this new attitude will be unattractive to him. If he’ll get annoyed. If this will be the thing that causes him to walk away.

My heart squeezes at the thought. I don’t want that...do I?

His hand grazes mine. Our pinky fingers touch in such a gentle caress that it could have been taken as an accident if I weren’t paying attention.

“Tell me about your mother,” he says instead. I give him a sad smile.

“My mother was my hero.” I pull at the wrists of my sweatshirt, grateful that Hunter and I grabbed shoes and warm coats before leaving out the back door. “My mom worked a lot but tried her best to be there for me whenever possible. My dad was a doctor, so he worked a lot of hours, especially when I was really little. But by the time Mom was elected to the House, Dad was in a different position and didn’t need to work so many crazy rotations.”

His pinky grazes mine back and forth as he retracts and extends his finger.

“What’s your favorite memory of the two of them?” he asks me. I turn my face to the moon.

“Hm. That’s a hard one to answer. If I had to pick one, I’d say it was my ninth birthday party. I invited all the girls in my class to sleep over at my house, but no one showed.”

“That’s your favorite memory?” He lets out a small puff of air, a chuckle. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and try not to quake at the expression on his face.

There’s so much love in his eyes that it hurts to look.

My mouth twists into a smile at the memory. “Yeah, it is. Around eight p.m., when no one showed, she said, ‘Well, can’t let all this go to waste!’ So we ate cold pizza and an entire sheet cake between me and her. Dad was not impressed because he was a pretty health-conscious guy, but he did help us build the most amazing pillow fort. It was epic. The pillow fort to end all pillow forts.”

I smile for real this time, and I catalog that the muscles in my face feel tight. Are they really that unused to making this movement?

“So yeah, best memory ever.” I finish.

“I love that memory,” he says.

We lapse into silence again. It’s comfortable.

Kitty runs back to me, a leaf sticking out of his mouth. I snag it from him, lifting him into my lap to cuddle close. He licks my cheek, and I breathe in deeply against the memories.

“What do you need from me, Winter?” Hunter’s voice is so soft, so unlike the commanding man I’ve seen him as. He’s using a voice reserved only for me.

He loves me.

I breathe deeply and turn on the log to face him fully. “I don’t know, H.”

He reaches a hand up to my cheek, and I still when he wipes away a tear.

I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows. “Do you want to talk about it?” His hand is warm against my cheek. I focus on that sensation instead of the dread that courses through me.

“I don’t...I don’t know if I can. If I should.” More tears. Always with the fucking tears.

“I understand if you don’t want to talk to me about it, but you should talk to someone. Veronica called me,” he says, and the abrupt topic change startles me a little bit. “She said that your therapist contacted her. She hasn’t seen you since before the attack.”

I’m on edge at once. Veronica’s my emergency contact, as has been the norm for the last near decade. But I don’t want to talk to Genevieve right now.

I don’t have a clear reason. I just...don’t.

It’s because you know what she’ll say. You know what you should do, and you’re not doing it.

“She cares about you. She’s worried about you. All of us are worried about you.”

I pull my face away from his hand, and he takes the hint and drops it in his lap.

“I’m fine,” I say. I lie. “I’m dealing with things in my own time. In my own way.”

He looks at me for a beat and then says, “I miss you, Winter.”

I feel myself cracking, my anxiety rising. “I’m not ready for sex yet,” I blurt out.

“I’m not talking about sex.”

I talk over him. “I might never be ready for sex. I might never have sex with you again. And I know that’s crazy, and I think you should find someone else because I’m a mess, and I might not ever be ready for anything—”

He pulls me into his arms, holding me. Hugging me. Kitty is still between our bodies.

When he kisses the top of my head, something snaps within me, and hysteria rises in my throat. I know that if one more thing happens, I will break. I might never recover. I’m terrified I’ll never recover.

“I will wait for you, Winter. I’m right here. I’m here to help you find your strength again. I’m here to help you navigate through this as you heal. I’m here because I love you, and I know that my Sunbeam is in there. You’re hurt, but I’ll wait for you.”

He kisses my hair again, and I clutch onto his shirt.

“I don’t need sex,” he says.

I snort in response.

“I don’t,” he emphasizes. “Palmala Handerson and I are working out just fine.”

And then, I push back from him, and I do the thing I haven’t done since standing in that godforsaken bathroom with him on the night that changed everything. I laugh. A full-volume laugh. I toss my head back, and the sound echoes across the water.

He smiles, and his eyes twinkle. “There’s my girl,” he whispers.

I try like hell to hold on to his words.

THIRTEEN

HUNTER

“Iwish I could tell you I have good news, boss,” Rio says from his place near the door of my office. Leo and I have been head down at my desk for the last few hours searching for connections who might know where my father is.

He’s gone underground, and despite our best efforts to locate him at his usual spots around the globe, he’s not appeared.

In front of me is a list of seventy-five potential accomplices in his hiding as well as the locations of the properties they own. There are hundreds, almost a thousand places he could be.

Pressure tightens at the base of my skull, and I have a fleeting thought that maybe I’m about to stroke out. I force myself to take deep breaths.

I didn’t sleep well after my middle-of-the-night jaunt with Winter last night. Not that I sleep well at all these days. But after spending time with her in a place that my mother loved—a place that my mother and I shared—I couldn’t get my brain to rest.

Throughout the rest of the night, I kept replaying the sound of her laughter.

I’m desperate to hear her laugh again.

The thing I want more than anything right now is for Winter to be okay, safe.

I need to fix this.

Max taps away at his computer in the corner. He sits with his hoodie pulled up and back hunched as his hands fly over his keyboard. A Twizzler hangs from his mouth as he makes his way through his third pack, grabbing pieces of candy without looking at the container.

Rio settles back against the closed door.

“Rio, how fast can you assemble a team to check all these places,” Leo murmurs, thumbing through the pages of the legal pad on my desk.

“I can get a team together, no problem. The problem is, however, how to assemble that team and get them to these separate places without their covers being blown or this taking two years to finish.”

Always one step behind.

I release the tension in my neck, allowing my head to drop back against the headrest.

“Holy shit,” Max says, his voice several octaves higher than usual. He jumps up from his seat, and when he does, chip crumbs cascade from his lap.

Moving to the side table, he grabs the thin television remote.

“What now?” Leo asks Max, running his hand over his prickly jaw.

Max lets out a dark chuckle. “Well, you’ll see,” he says, flipping to CNN.

“Mr. Winthrope, thank you for joining us today,” the blonde newscaster says. She sits at a large U-shaped desk built for television. Although the seating arrangement allows for multiple guests, the only ones on the screen are the show host, Morris Winthrope, and Blair.

“Thank you for having me, Addison,” Morris says, smiling brightly. He wears a blue tie and a gray suit. Next to him, Blair looks poised in her complementary dress and muted lipstick.

“Mr. Winthrope, it’s an exciting time at Winn Corp. Today you announced that you’re stepping down as CEO and chairman of the board for the company your father began more than five decades ago. This news came as a shock to the nation, especially to your shareholders, who described the news as ‘blindsiding.’ What do you have to say about this development?”

Morris’s face is impassive as he stares the newscaster down while she speaks. “Well, Addison, the truth is that Winn Corp. is stronger than ever. Our profits are record-breaking, the company morale has never been higher, and we’re more efficient than ever. So while I’m taking a step back to focus on the most important things, including family, I’m doing so with the company in the strongest position possible.”

Morris smiles again, and the manufactured look on his face turns my stomach.

“I see,” Addison replies, a sly smile on her face. “Speaking of family, Miss Winthrope, I believe congratulations are in order?”

Blair preens. “Yes, thank you. I’m very excited.” My mother’s ring flashes on her finger.

“Of course, we’re talking about your upcoming nuptials to Hunter Brigham, CEO of BwP Technologies. Tell us about your fiancé. How did you meet?”

“Well, Hunter and I have known each other since we were kids. We attended the same school, and our parents have been friends for many years.”

Blair has the audacity to become misty-eyed. “Hunter is one of my best friends. What started out as a companionship has turned into love.” Blair sighs. It’s a gentle expulsion of air. “I’m so happy he asked me to marry him.”

She smiles at Addison.

Addison returns a look filled with adoration. “That’s so lovely, Blair. Mr. Winthrope, I’m sure this is what you mean by ‘stepping back to focus on family,’ yes?”

Morris leans into his daughter’s shoulder. “Indeed, Addison. My Blair here will be tying the knot with Hunter in three short months.” Morris turns to look at Blair. “And I hope not too long after that, I can welcome in some grandkids.”

“Dad,” she says, blushing.

“Do you hear that, Hunter?” Morris says, looking toward the camera.

Except when it pans to a spot off the set, I double over with the wind knocked out of me.

Standing there in a suit is...me.

“What the actual motherfucking hell!” Leo shouts, rushing closer to the screen until he’s inches from my digitized face.

The Hunter on the screen laughs, though the sound is muted. He waves off Morris’s words and blows a kiss to Blair. When they pan back to the Winthropes, she pantomimes catching it.

“Well, I can tell you now that America will love this love story,” Addison says, leaning closer to Morris. “Now, you know I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the murmurings floating around Washington about you, Mr. Winthrope. Is it true that there may be hopes for the presidency in your future?”

Morris chuckles. “Now Addison, if I were to run for president, I promise you’d be the first to know.” Then he winks.

The table chuckles. “Well, on that note, let me thank our guests again, Morr—”

Max turns the TV off.

I can’t form words. Leo stares at the floor, also speechless. Rio looks disturbed, and Max simply hops up and down on the balls of his feet like a rabbit on coke.

“I’m not hallucinating, am I?” I finally utter through a stiff jaw.

“Nope,” Leo says, finally raising his eyes to mine. When they meet, the reality of this world—this game—I’m stuck in slams into me like a linebacker.

“What the fuck was that? How did they get me on television when I’m right here? Was that live?”

I swing around to Max, who looks like he’s suppressing his excitement when he says, “Deepfake.”

“A what?”

“A deepfake. This was pre-recorded from earlier today, but it’s easy enough to create a good deepfake if you know what you’re doing and have enough footage of the person you’re trying to fake. They got someone who looks somewhat like you to stand in on set, then used technology to alter the face to be a perfect replica of yours.”

They cloned me without needing my genetic material.

“Max, could you please not look so happy about this? There’s nothing to be happy about,” Leo says.

Max has the sense to look chagrined. “Sorry, boss! It’s just that’s really...fucking...cool.” The energy in his words deflates like a popped balloon as we all glare at him. He averts his gaze at the look I give him, which must telegraph the throttling I contemplate unleashing on him.

“So basically, they can just do some computer magic and boom, there’s Hunter.” Leo starts talking rapidly, pacing, and eventually moves into Spanish.

I make my way to my chair, falling into it and staring at the pages on the desk. I don’t see them.

“Who is behind most of the deepfake stuff?” Leo asks the room.

Rio and Max both say, “The Russians.”

Max clears his throat. “And the Chinese. The technology is fascinating in its simplicity,” he adds.

Leo is quiet for a moment. “Right,” he says blandly.

“I should issue a statement. Let the world know the engagement is off,” I say while still staring at the desk. The names of the people connected with my father start to swirl on the yellow legal pad.

“No, H, you shouldn’t do that.”

I squint at Leo. “And why not?”

“Because we don’t want to draw more attention to ourselves. They know you’re around and alive, I’m sure of it. But any action on the offensive will only drive your father further into hiding and likely accelerate whatever the fuck the Winthropes are planning.”

I tilt my chin down, acknowledging his words.

“So in the meantime, I’m to just....”

“In the meantime, you should lay low. That will give us time to figure out a way to capture your father. Once we have him sorted, the rest will fall into place. I’m sure of it.” But Leo doesn’t seem sure of anything based on the look on his face.

I lean back into my chair. “Right. More waiting. More letting them do whatever the fuck they want.”

Leo’s expression is grim, apologetic. He starts to talk, and I tune him out. I tune everyone out.

Leo, Rio, and Max keep talking, but I can’t focus on their conversation long enough to participate. All that circles around my brain are two things.

One, Morris Winthrope, and by extension my father, can do whatever the fuck they want when they want to do it. Unless they’re stopped.

Two, I have to fix this before I can even think of repairing my relationship with Winter.

“They all need to go. My father, Morris Winthrope, and Blair,” I say with a calm I don’t feel. Leo looks over his shoulder at me, and Rio raises his eyebrow. This isn’t news to them. I’d planned on taking them out simply for what they did to Winter. But now, this? This is beyond even what happened to her.

They can do whatever they want unless they’re stopped.

I stand so quickly that my leather rolling chair smacks into the wall behind me. I storm off toward the door.

“Where are you going, H?” Leo asks.

I have to stop them. How can I?

Max returns to his computer, tapping at the keyboard at a more furious pace than before, if that’s even possible. He doesn’t spare me a glance.

Control. I need to control this situation.

“I’m...” I don’t finish the sentence. I just leave.

They’re in control. They’re in control. They are in fucking control.

I leave the office with no destination in mind, so when my feet take me to the home gym, I’m relieved to have something to do.

The exercise room hasn’t been used in over a month, certainly not since Winter came home.

Winter. Home.

What would happen if she were to hear that I’m still “engaged” to Blair? Would she believe that the man who looks like me on the television isn’t me?

Of course, she’ll understand. I just need to explain it to her.

I’ll explain it to her…and bring her even deeper into this mess.

I walk the perimeter of the gym with my hands on the top of my head, clutching at my hair. None of this would have happened if she’d never gotten with me—if I’d pushed back against Ella and stood my ground when she hired her.

I’m no good for Winter.

And yet, even knowing that, I can’t let her go.

I strip off my button-down shirt and step up to the punching bag. I don’t bother wrapping my wrists in sports tape, instead opting to put all my power behind the right jab.

Control it.

I focus on the sensation of my fist pummeling the leather bag, imagining that I’m pushing through the faces of the people who have hurt me. Hurt the people I love: August. Mom. Winter.

A flash of Adam Collins’ face manifests in my consciousness—him alive and present in his inmate photo. I punch the bag again and again, imagining the feeling of his skull cracking beneath my fists and the pulp of his brain matter squishing under my knuckles.

Control yourself.

When was the last time I felt I could master my emotions while things were going haywire? It was when Maiya had just died, and I fucked the flight attendant while on the way from Türkiye to D.C., right before I met Winter. The flight attendant was so eager to do whatever I wanted, so when I took her, controlling her every move, even controlling whether she breathed, I felt in control. Aggression, dominance, whatever anyone calls it, let me access the thing I needed most: Calm.

Even though I was quite literally jetting into the unknown, I was able to silence the negative voices in my head and feel on solid ground for a moment.

But then I saw the same flight attendant standing over Winter on the flight from North Carolina. Not that I planned it that way. Leo and Misha handled the logistics of our transportation so I could focus on Winter. It’s not like I had the brain space to plan anything like that.

But when I walked up the aisle and saw my past colliding with my present—my future—I felt sick.

Control. Control. Life makes sense when I am in control, especially when I can fall into my dominance.

The women I held power over…I never needed to know their names. I never needed to feel anything for them. They were an outlet—a way to avoid pain, cover up hurt. A way to get high.

A transfer addiction.

I punch the bag harder, harder. In my mind, the smack of flesh hitting leather takes up the rhythm of past fucks.

“God-fucking-damnit!” The sound bursts from my lips and the echo against the glass-paneled walls causes more tension to settle in my muscles.

I never needed more. I never needed to face the shit I was running from head-on. I could just run and run and avoid and avoid.

I could exist, but I wasn’t living. I didn’t start living until…Winter.

I close my eyes and focus on Winter’s face. In the vision that materializes behind my lids, she kneels for me—in the same position she took before me in her shower all those months ago.

Instead of her innocent, fragile gaze staring up at me, she’s bound. Gagged. Helpless to me, so she has no other choice but to submit.

“Fuck!” The thought has me doubled over, clutching my abdomen as the contents of my stomach threaten to make a reappearance.

Is that what I want for her? For us? How does that make me better than Adam Collins?

I pace the length of the room again, back and forth, trying to school my breathing, but it doesn’t work.

Nothing fucking works.

With Winter, I can’t fall into the same patterns I’ve used before to make myself feel better. But is this really about me feeling better?

I shake my head at the thought.

No. This is about her trusting me fully and knowing that I can take care of her because I can. Because I do.

I’m not steeped in this impotence and failure that plagues me every moment of every day.

Weak.

I’m weak.

I return to the punching bag, not letting up until my fists slip on the leather from my blood.

I bend over at the waist, drawing in massive gulps of air. The floor wobbles as I stare.

“Shit,” I press out, stumbling over to the dumbbells. I lean against the rack and force my eyes to stay open against the salty burn of sweat.

And tears.

“Shit, shit, shit!” I repeat, but each utterance turns into a sob. My fingers curl around the weights. And then, not unlike the snap of a rubber band, I break.

I scream, howl, and the mirrors on the walls shake with the force of my voice and my rage.

Taking the twenty-five-pound weight, I fling it toward my reflection, hoping the resulting crash would tip me over the edge and into calm.

It doesn’t. Instead, as the shards of tempered glass shatter all over the rubber-coated floors, everything spins.

My body—my soul is on fire.

And I don’t know how to put it out.

“Goddamn it!” I return to the bag and jab-jab-jab.

I punch the bag for Winter.

I punch the bag for August.

Jab. Jab. Jab.

I punch the bag for me.

I unleash all the agony trapped in my chest from all that has happened in the last month, year, lifetime and deliver one final punch to the bag before collapsing on the ground.

Breathe.

Breathe in and out.

Breathe.

Winter. I’ve got to fix this shit for Winter. She’s bled enough, and I won’t let another drop spill from her veins because of me.

So now.

Today.

I need to capture control as much as I need my next breath.

Calm yourself.

My hands shake so violently that blood splatters everywhere in fine droplets. I don’t deserve to rebuild my relationship with Winter until this is over. Finished. Safe. I owe her this—because if I don’t, she’ll only get hurt again.

Picking up my shirt, I wrap the crisp linen around my split knuckles. I couldn’t give two shits about this shirt. Leaving the decimated gym behind, I wander through the house. My feet take me to Winter’s door.

I lay my head on the doorframe, closing my eyes to breathe her in. Even from my position outside her room, I smell her rose-scented shampoo and conditioner. Rustling sounds come from the other side of the door.

I put my good hand on the handle. What would I do if I saw her right now?

Talk with her?

Kiss her?

Fuck her, even if she’s not ready?

Closing my eyes, I remove my hand from the door and step away.

Control.

If I can’t control anything else, I can control myself.

FOURTEEN

WINTER

Today, I decided to give up on my degree. Well, that’s not wholly accurate. I’m taking a leave of absence. The school doesn’t know the dirty details of everything that happened in the last six weeks, but they know enough—that I’m dealing with too much to finish right now. I feel like a failure. But with how fucked up I am, I can’t and shouldn’t help anyone.

Iput the pen down and stare out the bay window overlooking the rose garden. Kitty bounces around the garden with Ella, playing fetch and getting his exercise. He pounces from snowbank to snowbank, kicking up patches of snow next to the cleared walkway.

I’ve struggled to get out with him, and he needs daily movement. So I asked Hunter to ask Ella to play with him when she comes over.

I swallow down the discomfort of my inability to ask her myself.

Hunter chose this room for me on purpose, I think. I have a perfect view of the center of the rose garden, where I first knew Hunter was the man for me.

At first, I couldn’t look out of the expansive windows. It was a reminder of my naivety—a reminder of my audacity to seek happiness.

Now, I force myself to remember and face the pain of everything I’ve lost.

A thick tarp covers the roses to prevent the blooms from dying. It’s merciful to the flowers to cover them from the frost and wind. They wouldn’t survive otherwise. But I can’t help but feel that they’re suffocating under the heavy tarp, weighed down and set in place until someone determines it’s safe for them to be revealed.

I know how that feels.

Valentine’s Day is next week. Hunter and I are supposed to be in Paris right now, taking in views from his flat. We’re supposed to be eating French onion soup, tasting French bread and wine, and acting like tourists as we see the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. We’re supposed to be boating down the Seine. The French doors leading to the terrace are supposed to be open while we make love to the sounds of the city below.

I look down at the journal again, re-reading what I’ve written. The words are harsh and raw, but there is catharsis in giving them form so they can be channeled.

I’m doing something with the pain.

Maybe I did learn something in school.

My guilt about blowing Genevieve off smacks me in the face again. In the weeks since coming home, Genevieve contacted me several times. It’s clear she spoke with Veronica, who spoke with Hunter. After an embarrassing welfare check, which led to a tense verbal standoff between the police officers and Hunter’s guards at the front gate, I emailed Genevieve to let her know that I wouldn’t be coming back to therapy anytime soon, but I would be back eventually.

I don’t have any concept of when “eventually” will be. I don’t want to believe that I’m lying to her. That was weeks ago.

Shouting comes from the direction of the foyer, and I freeze for several heart-stopping seconds.

Who is it?

Why are they here?

Am I in danger?

I contemplate hiding in the closet when a familiar voice cuts through my panic. But then, dread flares up in its place.

“Winter!” Veronica’s voice cuts through the hallway, getting closer to my room. I don’t move to greet her. She’ll find me.

When the door almost explodes from its hinges as it swings open and slams against the adjoining wall, Veronica’s flushed face appears before me. I realize I don’t know what to say to my best friend.

I’m a confusing tangle of emotions. I dread seeing her pity. I’m angry at her for overstepping boundaries by talking to my therapist and Hunter. I’m sad that I haven’t been strong enough to handle speaking with her. I’m ashamed that I’ve been avoiding her.

“You found me,” I say. My face is numb, so I grit my teeth to ground myself, grateful for the feedback my healing jaw sends to my brain.

“Winter Leigh Vaughan,” she says, huffing between each name.

At least she didn’t call me Brigham.

“I have tried to give you space. I have tried to be who and what you need. But you cannot, and I mean you cannot avoid me any longer.” Her breaths come in small pants, and I’m unsure if it’s from the size of her pregnant belly compressing her lung space or if it’s from her fury. It’s probably from both.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” I say. It’s flat.

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” She shuffles over to a chair and sits down.

“Stop yelling before you go into early labor,” I tell her. There’s little energy behind it.

Add “shit friend” to my list of sins.

“Winter, you were missing for days. And then, when you were back, you were still gone. I can understand you needing space and seclusion, but from me?” Tears swim in her eyes, and instead of feeling the pull to comfort her, a surge of irrational anger crops up.

“Sorry that my healing from being abducted and raped repeatedly has caused me to take time to respond to your texts.” Every word is pointed, sharp. I’ve never spoken to her this way, and she clutches her chest, her mouth hanging open.

Silent, Veronica sits still for several seconds.

“Winter, I care about you. I love you. I want to help you,” she says, her voice soft.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want your help! Have you ever thought of that?” Furious tears blur my vision.

I don’t even know why I’m pushing Veronica away. I do want her help. I do want her love.

And yet, a loud, angry, hurt part of me rejects her presence right now.

“You’ve made it your entire personality to save me. Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t have the energy to manage your feelings or your need to play savior.” I breathe hard, verging on hyperventilation.

“Winter,” she whispers. “I—”

“Listen, I’m not—” I’m not, what? Not well? Not sane? Not healthy? Not a good person to be around? “I’m not able to give you what you want right now. And for the sake of what remains of our friendship, I humbly ask that you give me space to process.”

She stares at me for several seconds, and when a single tear falls from her eye, I feel like throwing up all over the hand-knotted rug.

Instead, Veronica gets up with as much grace as she can and says, “Thank you for sharing.”

And then she walks out the door.

The image of her stricken face brands the inside of my eyelids when I dare to close them.

Dropping my journal and pen on the floor and putting my head in my hands, my thoughts whirl around in my brain.

You know what you need to do.

I should be in therapy. Maybe on more meds. Maybe on a trip somewhere far from this place that holds so much pain.

I want to go to Paris with Hunter.

The heat of imminent tears wells in my eyes, and instead of stifling them, I let them fall.

I let the sobs exit my body. I allow myself to feel the fullness of my sorrow.

I don’t want to push everyone away.

I just want to not feel like this.

Resolved, I walk to the nightstand where I left my phone charging. I take a moment to swipe through all the notifications—the several text messages and missed calls from Veronica.

Veronica. I’m such a fucking twat.

I inhale and exhale to the count of three. Moving back to the bay window, I open my email app and start writing.

Twenty minutes later, after starting and stopping and rewriting several times, I re-read my email.

Genevieve,

It’s hard for me to talk with you face to face, even through a screen. I don’t fully understand why. The best I can guess is that by seeing you, I’ll be reminded of how much progress I’ve lost and how I’m not adapting or healing or moving forward.

It’s not a self-serving thought, I know.

If it’s any consolation, you’re not the only person I’ve been avoiding. (You’re supposed to laugh here.)

I do plan on starting therapy again, but I’m not ready. I don’t know what it means to “get ready,” either. But I’m hoping that I could maybe just...send you emails like this and maybe if you email me back, I’ll respond.

I know this method isn’t therapeutically supported, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

I’m relying on Kitty and using my emergency anxiety meds—but not too much. Maybe just enough?

I am safe.

Winter

I am safe.

My finger hovers over the send button.

I should send this message to Genevieve, but the idea of doing so sends a bolt of anxiety through me that’s so potent that I drop my phone to stifle the resulting wave of nausea.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I count and breathe.

Count and breathe.

Hunger pangs shock me out of my spiral, and when my stomach releases a loud growl, I glance at the time on the clock.

It’s nearly three p.m. and I haven’t eaten anything all day. I lean my head against the window. That’s another pattern I’ve been battling—cycling between not eating for hours and then binging at night.

I’m a whole, complete mess.

I don’t have to be.

Steeling myself, I put my phone in my pocket and head to the kitchen. When I face the well-stocked refrigerator, I get overwhelmed with the options. It’s like I can’t make a decision.

The overwhelm makes me want to cry. Again.

“Stop with the fucking tears,” I say out loud, and I jump when Kitty’s collar jingles behind me.

I look in his direction, and he hops over to me, nudging my leg with his nose.

I am here. I am safe.

I open the freezer and pause when I see the opened box of Eggo waffles. There are at least six boxes here, all lined up in a perfect row.

August.

I’m an asshole. I’ve all but abandoned him, and that fucks with my head—not just on a professional level, but on a personal level too.

I’ve fucked everything up.

I pull the box of Eggos out of the freezer, and the cold centers my brain, shocking it to think of nothing else but the frostiness in my palms.

I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore.

I press the box to my chest and close my eyes, ignoring Kitty’s whines.

My eyes snap open when I feel the air shift near me. And as if I summoned him, the person I need to see is there: August.

He looks nervous as he bites his lip and rocks from side to side.

I’m ashamed that this is the first time I’ve seen August since everything happened.

“Hey, Aug,” I say in a tired voice. My body and mind and soul are tired. So, so tired.

August blinks hard several times before picking up his tablet, fingers flying over the screen.

“Hello, Winter. It is good to see you,” he says.

Suddenly, I feel more tears roll over my eyelids.

“You changed your sound,” I say with a choked voice. Before, he used an American gangster accent, then an older British woman. Now it sounds like a sullen teenager. Maybe this is more fitting to how he feels.

“Yes,” is all he says.

I go to put the Eggos back in the freezer, but stop when August says, “Are you going to eat my Eggo waffles?”

I don’t push the box back on the shelf. Instead, I say, “I was thinking about it, but I don’t have to.”

He rocks and lets out a few vocal tics. “If you would like to eat them, you may have two.”

I don’t look at him as I rub my numb lips together.

“Thank you,” I reply, forcing my mouth to curl into a smile as I turn to him. I open the box, pulling two waffles out of the plastic sleeve before putting the box back in place and popping the golden disks into the toaster.

We’re silent for several moments. I stand with my back to the counter and the toaster, staring at the floor but keenly aware of August’s presence out of the corner of my eye.

August stims and taps on his tablet.

“Do you hate me now?”

I whip my head up at August’s question, startled. “No! Absolutely not. Hate you for what?” I stand up straighter, really taking time to look at him. I track the tension as it shoots through his body. He stims louder—an outlet for his distress.

“Because I did not save you from the bad man. Just like I did not save my mom.” August scratches his head and looks down. His rocking gets more intense.

At this moment, I feel even more like shit. Not only have I pushed Veronica away, but I’ve also pushed August away. I’ve pushed everyone away—everyone who can help me. Everyone who can really help me get through this.

Do I want to live in my pain? Am I choosing this?

“Oh, August,” I say, walking closer to him. “August, you did nothing wrong. You must have been so scared while I was gone.”

When he looks at me, his face contorts in sorrow, with his lips downturned and tears in his eyes.

“I just do not want you to hate me,” he says.

I don’t think. I don’t ask. I pull him into my arms and hug him. He bands his arms around me, and we rock from side to side together.

“I’m not your therapist anymore, you know,” I say. “But that’s a good thing because I love you, August. I could never hate you. Ever. So that blurs the professional line, don’t you think?”

He takes a big breath, holding it in before releasing it. He whistles, a new stim I haven’t heard from him before. After a few rounds of vocalizations, some of the tension leaves his body, even though he still stims with his fingers. I pull away from him.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so distant. I promise I’ll do better,” I say. The waffles pop out of the toaster, and I remove them, enjoying the sharp contrast of their warmth in my palms.

He taps his finger on his cheek three times. “Do you want to play Doom of the Zombie Galaxy IV with me?” he says.

I smile a little bit. “You better not have wrecked my high score,” I reply.

“Please eat your food, and then we will go,” he replies, bouncing on the balls of his feet for a few seconds. He looks happy. He’s happy to be with me.

And I’m happy to be with him.

I make quick work of eating the waffles after applying butter and a drizzle of syrup. Satiated, I put the plate in the sink.

“Can we go now?” August says from behind me.

My absent gaze watches the water pool in the sink before swirling down the drain.

Things don’t have to be this way. I can get help out of this. I know this to be true. I’ve lived this.

I can get help to stay out of the dark place.

I turn the water off.

“Just one thing,” I reply, spinning to face him and pulling my phone out of my pocket.

“Ready?” August asks a few moments later. When I look at him, I absorb his happiness. His energy is contagious.

“Yes, I am,” I say.

I return to the open email and push send.

FIFTEEN

HUNTER

Taking the metro is something I’ve done less than a handful of times. The last time I took it was to dodge whatever tail Morris Winthrope or my father placed on me. I met Leo at a diner right off the orange line.

After I left the diner, instead of taking the train back to where I left my car in Alexandria, I took the green line, heading to Winter’s apartment.

That was the night Winter and I made love for the first time. That was the night I crushed her heart.

I close my eyes to sit in the memory. The beautiful parts, her choosing to be with me and choosing to open herself to me, will always be the most humbling, moving experience in my life. At the same time, the look of total and utter devastation on her face will haunt me until my dying breath.

I’d betrayed her trust. The truth of that turns my stomach every time I think of it.

I have a Washington Nationals cap pulled low on my forehead, and my thick black bomber jacket keeps the bitter February chill from seeping into my bones.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I’m supposed to be in a different country right now, doing a different thing, with Winter in my arms.

Instead, Winter and I haven’t talked in days. I’ve locked myself in my office in the evenings and worked with the security team on the other side of the property during the day.

I’ve kept the wall up because....

I need to fix all of this, and yet I’m losing control.

I’m ignoring the fact that Winter hasn’t sought me out, either. We pass each other in the halls sometimes around the estate, but in general, she’s kept her distance too.

So that leads me to being here, on the train platform at 12:30 a.m., waiting for a man to make his appearance.

I don’t have to wait long. When the train pulls into the station, I sit with one leg stretched in front of me and my hands in my pockets. I’m the picture of the nonchalant traveler waiting for their next train.

He leaves the coach with a small crush of people leaving the bars and heading into the city.

His greasy blonde hair, which is several weeks overdue for a cut, curls over his ear, and his threadbare tan jacket flops open with every step. From the looks of the ratty fabric, I suspect the zipper is broken. The zipper wouldn’t reach over his round stomach anyway, but still.

He doesn’t notice when I follow three steps behind him.

Oblivious. So oblivious.

He’s so uncaring of leaving a trail—like the trail he left when he went gambling in Atlantic City, blowing nearly a hundred grand at the blackjack table.

Maybe that’s why he’s still taking the metro rather than riding in one of the cars he’s been Googling for the last six weeks.

One would think that a person responsible for managing a few dozen convicted felons' parole terms would be a little tougher, but what do I know?

He turns down a dark side street, and I keep my feet light as I follow, my hands in my pockets. In this part of town, his being a white man with blonde hair makes him an easy target, especially in this particular neighborhood.

He thinks he’s invincible.

I count the steps to the front door of his shared townhome.

Three.

Two.

One.

I cover his mouth with a black cloth and drag his tense and flailing body into the catwalk between two abandoned houses. Luckily, this neighborhood is one where someone getting mugged or jumped isn’t an unusual occurrence. Everyone minds their business, which is perfect for what I need to do.

He shrieks behind the cloth, turning into dead weight in my arms, so when Leo meets me in the alleyway, I’m grateful for his help. We push him against the side of the abandoned home, and paint chips scatter in the air like snow. I keep him in place with my forearm against his neck.

Pinning him to the wall, Leo pulls his gun from his waistband and points it at the man’s head. The silencer is already attached to the barrel.

Staring at Leo’s gun, the man stops fighting.

“Buck Fitzgerald, it’s good to meet you,” I say, showing him all my teeth as I bare them in a smile. “Believe it or not, Buck, I don’t plan on hurting you.” My tone is conversational, and I can tell it takes him off guard.

Still keeping my hand over his mouth, I tell him, “I’m going to remove my hand because I need some answers from you. But if you scream, I promise you’ll really regret that decision. Okay?”

To emphasize my point, Leo racks the chamber. Buck nods quickly.

I test removing my hand and look at him with a raised eyebrow before smiling at him again.

“See? We can play nice,” I say.

Buck’s eyes are wild.

“What do you want, man? I ain’t got no money,” he stutters out, his voice trembling with adrenaline and fear.

“I know you don’t have any money, Buck. You blew all you had in AC last weekend, yeah?” I shake my head. “You need to learn how to manage your bets, bro.”

“What the fuck do you want?” Buck asks, getting testy.

Leo shifts and Buck shrinks away from Leo’s gun.

“I want to know who gave you the hundred grand you pissed away last weekend,” I say much in the same way one might say, “What are you having for dinner?”

Buck sucks his teeth. “Man,” he drawls, but it chokes off when I reapply pressure, my forearm compressing his trachea.

“Buck, I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt that you’re not a complete idiot. You didn’t make it to your level as a parole officer by being stupid,” I say as he struggles against the force of my body against his neck.

“But Buck, I need you to give me some answers.” I look down at him.

Redness spiders from his bulging eyes.

“Are you going to answer the question so I can go on about my night?”

He gapes for several seconds before he tries to nod in acceptance.

“Wonderful choice, Buck,” I reply, lifting off his neck. He coughs, gasping for air.

“Okay, so back to my question. Who gave you the money?” I smile as the seconds tick on. Buck grumbles.

“It was a man. I didn’t get his name, and I didn’t see what he looked like. He wore a hat and a mask, and he showed up in the parking garage one night almost two months ago.”

“Did he say anything to you?” Leo asks, finally chiming in. He cracks his neck from side to side.

“Nope, not a word. He put a manilla envelope on the roof of my assigned car, patted it, and walked away.” Buck starts to strain against my hold again. “I swear, man, that’s all that happened!”

“And you didn’t call after him or try to hold a conversation?” I ask.

“Nope. Plus, the lights were half broken in the garage, so it was dim as fuck. You know how it is. The government runs slow to fix anything.”

I hum in reply.

“What was in the envelope?” Leo asks.

“There was fifty thousand in cash and a note. The note didn’t say much except to call out of work for the next two weeks and say I was sick. It said when I did that, I’d get the other fifty grand delivered to me in cash.”

“Interesting. So all those parolees you were supposed to check on over those two weeks. They just...what? Hung out until you came back?”

Buck swallows before letting out a choked sound.

“When did you get the rest of it?” This comes from Leo.

Buck’s chin trembles before he says, “I opened my door one morning and the envelope was there.”

I hum. “And no sight of the delivery boy?” I say.

“No,” Buck says, sniffing. “I don’t think you understand, man. A hundred grand?” He releases a shuddering wail.

“I needed that money, man,” Buck says, tears streaming. “I really needed that fucking money.” He snorts up the snot clogging his nose.

“Yeah, I guess you thought you could double it at the casino?”

Buck lets out a hiccuping sob.

“Yeah. Tough luck,” I say. “Do you still have the envelope or the note? You know, since all the money is gone.”

Buck lets out a short wail before hiccuping again and saying a pathetic, “No.”

“Damn, that’s too bad.” I look over to Leo, who gives me the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “So you don’t know who gave you the envelope, what they looked like, or what they sounded like. You no longer have said envelope or note, and you just...did what they told you to do. That’s about the size of it?”

Buck nods. “I swear. Please let me go?” He looks up at Leo again, who wears a look of lethal calm; I’ve only seen it a few times.

“Oh, yeah. Right,” I say, taking a big step away from him. Buck groans and tries to readjust himself so he can stand. Before he’s in a fully upright position, I stop him with my hand to his chest.

“Except for one thing...can you explain the shit that’s on your computer? I have to say, it was shocking.”

He pales. “What?”

“Yeah, Buck. Hundreds and hundreds of hours of kiddie porn on your hard drive. What’s that about?” I step back from him and cross my arms. Buck slides down to sit on the concrete.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not mine,” he stammers. His eyes shift, admitting his guilt.

“Ah, I see. I guess shit like that does happen. Hackers, I suppose. Right, Leo?”

Leo grunts.

“Well, I did say I would let you leave. So off you go,” I say cheerfully. Buck eyes me with suspicion plain in his gaze.

“For real?” He stands up again, slowly grabbing at the splintered siding of the abandoned building for leverage.

“Yeah. I’m a man of my word. I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.”

Buck nods, standing to his full height and dusting himself off.

“All right, I’m just going to—” He stops talking with a squeak when Leo takes a big step forward and presses his gun to Buck’s forehead.

“I’m not going to hurt you. But I didn’t say anything about him.” I smile. I’m sure I look a little insane.

Maybe I am.

“Please!” The strangled cast to his voice, his plain terror, sends a jolt of pleasure down my back. That joy is stamped when the fetid scent of Buck’s urine hits my nostrils, and I curl my lip as he pisses his pants.

“Buck, there are consequences for your actions. Not only are you a piece of shit for all the disgusting content on your computer, your participation in this little pass-the-note game resulted in someone I love being hurt badly. So, I don’t see any good reason to have you remain on this planet.”

Without needing to communicate further, Leo puts a bullet in Buck’s brain.

When the silencer goes off with a quiet snick, I inhale and exhale, letting the frigid night air cool my nasal passages. A thought teases the back of my consciousness that maybe I’m just like my father: toying with my prey before ending their life.

But my father kills for fun. For sport. He killed innocent people.

But so have I. Just because it was against my will, does that somehow make it acceptable?

I shake my head to pull myself out of the memory.

Anyone who dies by my hand will have deserved it. They more than deserved it. I’m killing for love. They kill for greed.

I look down at the remnants of Buck’s bloody skull, thinking of the deplorable abuse he kept on his computer.

I will hunt them all down for you, Sunbeam.

“Well, that was slightly less dramatic than slitting someone’s throat and letting them bleed out like a stuck pig,” Leo says. His voice is hard and serious despite his quip.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, pressing my smartwatch to summon Rio and his cleanup crew. Two minutes later, Rio’s shaved head comes into view, and I step away from Buck Fitzgerald’s body.

“You got this here?” I ask Rio.

He nods and gets to work. I like Rio. He’s a man of few words, and he understands why I’m doing what I’m doing—not just for getting rid of the cancer that is my father, but for getting rid of the people who hurt Winter too.

Rio snaps a picture of Buck Fitzgerald’s corpse.

Leo and I leave the alley as planned, and a few minutes later, I’m in Leo’s new Tahoe. I pull my phone out of my pocket, staring at the picture of Winter on the screen.

I changed my screensaver to the picture of Winter at La Maison. I think I fell over the precipice and into true love with her while sitting at that table outside the small French-themed restaurant. I just couldn’t define it then.

I run my thumb over the picture before the screen goes dark again.

“Got plans for today?” Leo asks, cutting through the thick silence of the evening.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye.

“Maybe you should do something with her,” Leo adds. I drop my head back to the headrest. Ever since my meltdown over, well, everything, I’ve been steering clear of Winter.

Not because I don’t want to be around her. I need her presence like I need my next breath. But because I don’t think I’ll be able to manage my emotions. The more threads I pull at with this shit around my father and the Winthropes, the more complicated things become. It feels like I’m nowhere near close to resolving this mess so I can move on with my life.

And that realization fucks with my brain in a serious way.

I want to be able to control myself.

She doesn’t need to deal with my bullshit.

“What do you suggest?” I reply, rolling my neck to look at the side of Leo’s face.

He gives a half-smile. “Well first, stop avoiding your woman. Everyone can see it and it’s awkward and hurtful.”

Dread settles in my chest.

“I haven’t been—”

Leo’s lifted eyebrow forces me to cut off.

“It’s complicated, Leo.”

“Well, explain it to me then,” he replies.

I open my mouth to respond but snap it shut when the words in my brain coalesce into a ball. “My presence in her life has done nothing but cause her pain. And I’m afraid that—what if we can’t...” I run my hand through my hair, gripping the strands in a tight fist at the crown of my head.

“H, we’re going to get on the other side of all this. Misha’s wife is coming through the trials well, last I heard. He will help us. We’ll get rid of them. Then you’ll finally be free—free to be with Winter and August and live for the first time in your life.”

With a humorless chuckle, I say, “When did you turn into Dr. Phil?”

He gives me a significant look.

“H, here’s what it looks like,” he begins. “It looks like you’re rejecting her, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, she’s starting to get better.” Leo’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He came into the diner after Winter collapsed in my arms, and he was the only person to witness my utter devastation and Winter’s wrecked body. I shielded her from the view of anyone else, and she didn’t leave my arms until we hit the emergency room.

“She’s been playing with August, and I heard her laughing with him the other day. Laughing a lot.”

I clear my throat, hoping to ease the tightness.

“My point is, if you don’t pull your head out of your ass, you’re going to lose her when she comes fully out of the fog.”

I jolt, rejecting the idea. She can’t leave me. She won’t. If she tried to, I’d—

I inhale, calming my racing heart.

Control yourself.

“All of us will need to get together to talk about Buck and his non-information,” I say. Leo ignores my attempt to change the subject by maintaining his silence.

I clear my throat.

“I’m not rejecting her,” I say through the restriction.

“Well, actions speak louder than words, H.”

We’re quiet for the rest of the drive.

After showering and stuffing my face with a turkey sandwich, I complete my nightly ritual of walking past Winter’s room to smell her rose scent.

I pause when I arrive at her door, only to find it open and Winter not sleeping inside. Moving into her room, I glance inside her bathroom to see it empty as well.

I try to swallow down the panic. She’s in the house. Somewhere. She’s in the house.

She’s safe.

Inhaling to calm myself and grab her scent into my lungs, I pull my phone out of my flannel pants and search through the cameras in the house.

She’s not in the kitchen, plus I was just there.

She’s not in the living room, game room, or sitting room either.

When I scroll over to view the cameras in the media room, my eyes zero in on Winter’s hair piled high on the top of her head in a messy bun and sticking out from the mountain of covers she’s under.

There’s a bowl of popcorn and what looks like a half-wrapped Hershey’s bar on the massive sofa in front of her. Kitty sleeps on his back with his feet up in the air.

She’s safe. I can go to sleep now.

But instead of turning to head to my bedroom, I go in the opposite direction, stopping at the media room.

I crack the door open slightly to peek in. Her eyes are fixed on the massive projector screen as she watches that one kids’ movie about the rat in Paris.

The animated rodent bounces around on the screen, and Winter watches the scene as if she’s going to be tested on her recall of the movie.

I clear my throat to not startle her, but she jumps anyway.

The popcorn topples over, spilling on the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” I say, stepping into the room and closing the door behind me.

She sits up. “No, sorry, I just wasn’t expecting anyone.”

We stare at each other until the cartoon breaks our attention.

“Why are you up so late?” she asks. Winter moves to pick up the popcorn, grabbing the spilled contents of the bowl in fistfuls.

“I wasn’t feeling tired.” My voice sounds strange in my ears, as if I’m fighting tension in my voice box. I don’t tell her that I’ve just arrived home an hour ago.

Winter hums.

I fidget.

“Do you want to hang out for a little bit?” Winter’s voice is smooth and hushed, but she doesn’t look at me when she speaks the words.

I want nothing more than to hang out with her, to be in her atmosphere. When I pause for a moment too long, her eyes swing to mine.

I can’t deny her a single thing.

“Of course, baby,” I say in just as soft a tone.

Her smile could rival the sun.

She pulls back the blanket, and I almost trip when I see her nipples pressing through her flimsy tank top and her smooth thighs only covered at their tops by the soft jersey-knit shorts.

Control yourself.

I sit next to her. The sofa is massive, easily able to sleep at least five people, so I’m close to her but not touching.

“Animated movies, huh?” I settle into my seat, pulling the edge of the blanket over my lap.

“You know I love them,” she says, her words a breath above a whisper. And I do know that. She told me how much she loved kids’ movies on our all-day date.

“I’m not judging,” I tell her. “But what do you love so much about them?”

We’re strolling through the indoor mall after having left the crystal shop. She takes a long sip of her boba tea and chews on a tapioca ball before answering.

“I guess you could say I’m a hopeless romantic,” she replies. Two spots of pink bloom on her cheeks. I stop her, lacing my fingers between hers.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” I say. She looks at me for a long moment, her smile growing wider every second. She pops up and kisses my cheek. I feel the action down to my toes.

“But you really think the rat is romantic?” I tell her, tilting my head to look at her better as she contorts her body into the corner of the sofa. “If I remember correctly, this particular movie didn’t even meet your top ten.”

She chuckles slightly, but then her soft grin turns sad. She chews on her lip before saying, “Paris.”

I hum. Paris.

My palms itch with the need to hold her hand, to touch her.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. The silence between us is heavy.

“Next year,” she says with a clear, determined tone. I shift my body to face hers, and she stares at the screen. Tears rest at the edge of her lower lids.

“Next year,” I say with just as much resolve.

I gaze at the side of her beautiful face.

“Hunter,” she begins. She clears her throat again. “I’ve missed you.” She finally turns to face me, and I prop my elbow on the back of the sofa to rest my cheek on my knuckles.

“Me too, Sunbeam,” I say with a rough voice. She reaches her hand out toward me but stops short of actually touching. She drops it on the sofa near mine.

“I’ve been talking with Genevieve,” she says.

“Good. That’s great. How do you feel about that?”

“I mean, I’ve been sending her emails, and I respond most times. We haven’t had an actual session, but...” She puts her hand on top of mine, and I feel the action in every nerve ending. “I’ve been getting a lot of stuff out, and I can now say that I miss you. A lot.”

She looks at me from under her eyelashes, and there’s so much vulnerability in her gaze. I flip my hand over so our palms touch.

She bites her lip, and by the flicker of her eyelids in the dim glow of the screen, I can tell she’s holding back a sob.

Just like I’m holding myself together too.

The fractured parts of my soul burst apart when she collapsed into my arms, terrified and tormented, inside that diner. I have tried to put them back together, but they’re all disjointed, like a Picasso painting.

“I’m still not ready to be one hundred percent back to where we were, but...” She brings her other hand to her mouth and starts to chew her thumbnail. When she drops her hand, resisting biting her nails, I notice her nail beds are starting to heal from the attack and her persistent picking.

“But I was hoping we could—I could—try something.” She looks at me square in my face, her back straight, stiff.

Sunbeam.

Goddamnit, I need her. I need her so fucking badly.

“Do whatever you need to do, Sunbeam,” I whisper. I will myself to stay completely still.

She moves, and her face is so close to mine that her chocolaty breath fans across my cheeks. She’s very still for several long moments, but with a trembling hand, she reaches for my face and places her palm flat on my cheek.

When she inhales, closing her eyes, I take the moment to revel in the feeling of her coming to me.

Mine.

“I want to be held, Hunter,” she whispers, her body still and her eyes closed.

I swallow and ask, “How do you want me to hold you?”

Rubbing her thumb against my stubbled jaw, she says, “I want you to hold me like you used to hold me in bed.” Her whispered confession guts me, and when I take hold of her wrist, she opens her eyes again.

“Okay, Sunbeam.”

She spreads her body down on the sofa with her back to the screen, scooting to make room for my body in front of her. I lay down, letting my muscles relax into the cushions and against the heat of her form. I slowly slide my arm beneath her head.

“What next?” I whisper close to her ear.

She shivers.

“Please put your hand around my waist,” she says. She pulls her hands in front of her chest, and their placement acts as a shield between us.

I place my palm just above the swell of her hip, and I resist rubbing my thumb over her silky skin.

She closes her eyes, so I allow her the moment to just be.

While studying her face, I stop breathing when she inches closer to me in small movements until her body presses against mine from chest to foot. I slide my hand up her back with my fingertips, teasing the curls at the base of her neck.

“Anything else?” I murmur.

When she opens her eyes, her body relaxes. She lets her head drop to my biceps. “Yes,” she says.

I hear the movie coming to a dramatic end, but I don’t give the screen my attention.

“Whatever you need,” I reply. My fingers toy with a single curl.

“Okay,” she says on a breath.

She brings her lips to mine.

I can’t control the punch of emotion the action brings any more than I can control the trembling in my hands. Her lips—her supple, soft lips—press against mine with shy caution. With a throaty sigh, she presses her still mouth against mine even harder and brings her arm around to rest against my spine.

She pulls her head back, her eyelids fluttering as she opens them to look at me. There’s no way I can hide the love I have for her.

“H,” she says with a trembling voice.

“Sunbeam,” I reply, just as moved.

“Will you hold me while I sleep?” She rubs her face against my chest, and I lean down to kiss her hairline.

“Always,” I reply with peace.

SIXTEEN

WINTER

My days consist of hanging out with August and yearning to see Hunter, but I’m terrified about what I'll do when I face him.

It’s exhausting.

I woke up with my body entangled with Hunter’s, and the immediate feeling I had upon opening my eyes was peace. He was in a deep sleep, but with my leg slung over his hip, I panicked when I felt the pressure of his heavy erection against my core through the layers of fabric.

So I slid away from him and rushed out of the room, calling Kitty to follow.

I cried in the shower until Kitty started scratching at the bathroom door. That was a week ago.

I think I was so pissed off that even after all the things that were stolen from me in the span of those short days, I’m continuing to lose things. I’m losing time with the man I love. I’m losing the ability to create new, happy memories and experiences. I wanted Paris, damnit. And I didn’t get it because of Adam Fucking Collins.

I’m tired of him winning. I won’t let him win again. I won’t let him have my future.

Keeping my mind and body busy during the day stunts the frenetic energy that seems to be ever-present these days.

I’m always on the edge of anxiety, keeping sharp panic just beyond the surface and manageable enough not to fall off the cliff. Kitty is always at my side, but he hasn’t had to bring me down.

I feel good about that.

I’m glad I kissed him. I’m glad I did what I wanted, and I wasn’t scared at the moment. But now that we’re apart, I’m scared again, and I fucking hate that.

So during the day, I’m okay. I can compartmentalize. I don’t think about Veronica and how shit I was to her. I don’t think about Adam. I don’t think about the fact that I killed someone. I don’t think about Hunter and how much I fucking miss him, even though the thought of him seeing me, feeling me, fills me with near-overwhelming panic.

I don’t have those thoughts during the day.

But at night, I’m out of control.

There's an hour and a half until sunrise, and I haven’t slept at all. Every time I close my eyes, different images creep in.

Nightmares.

Adam is alive in the cabin, his face pitted from stab wounds and deteriorating with death as he chases me.

In another, Hunter throws me away—never caring to rescue me.

The realities of the past merge and morph to become part-fiction and part-fact.

It’s a nauseating cycle.

I give up on sleep, deciding to head to the bathroom to wash my face and disturbing Kitty’s place in the bed beside me. I usher him over to his dog bed, where he flips over and falls back to sleep, facing the wall.

Dark bags take up residence under my eyes, and my cheeks look sunken in. My skin is tinged a sick yellow-green. My tight sweatpants stretch over my ass, and my shirt feels snug across my breasts and arms. My body is doing strange things. I’m gaining weight, probably from the late-night sugar binges.

You’re chasing dopamine.

None of this is working.

I put my palms flat on the cool marble countertop.

Name three things that will make you feel better in this moment, Winter.

I keep staring at the counter, noticing the drip-drip-drip of the faucet in my periphery.

One: Make your bed.

I don’t overthink it, forcing my body to move immediately when the thought comes to the forefront.

It takes me all of one minute to get the bed straightened and the decorative pillows back in place.

Okay, two more things.

Two: Throw away your trash.

I look around the room, observing the empty soda bottles and chip bags. Grabbing the trash can from the bathroom, I walk around the room, picking up all the garbage. Then I wet a cloth from the linen closet and wipe down all the surfaces.

Hunter has a housekeeper who would usually keep this room clean, but I’ve barred the woman from entry.

I know I stress her out with the level of filth around the suite.

Three: Take an actual shower.

I raise my arm, grimacing when I smell myself. With the same quickness, I head back to the bathroom, starting up the water.

I love this shower. With the multiple shower heads and aromatherapy inserts that make the whole bathroom smell like a spa once it gets steamy, I could marry this shower.

Marry.

Don’t think about Hunter.

I didn’t lie to him when I said I might never be ready for him—ready to go back to how we were.

I didn’t tell the whole truth, either.

If you can’t be honest with yourself, how can you be honest with anyone else?

The truth is that parts of me are starting to come awake. Not only do I crave his closeness, the intimacy of being in each other's presence, but I also crave his touch. His body. How it feels pressed against mine.

I miss how good he makes me feel.

I miss feeling good.

With the steam swirling around me, I soap up the loofah and begin rubbing it across my body.

I allow myself to think about Hunter.

The last time we were in the shower together, I called on my bravery to suck him down, to make him feel good, versus him getting me off all the time.

I was so scared I’d be shit at it. Plus, it’s a trigger for me.

But when he lost control, pumping in and out of my mouth, I prided myself on how I could swallow him. I felt powerful. I felt electric.

I felt seen. Cherished.

The rough plastic whispers over the tips of my breasts, and I allow myself to linger.

This feeling is safe.

I run it up my neck and over my arms, leaning into the sensations of the material on my skin.

This feeling is safe.

I put my right foot on the ledge and trace the loofah up my flesh to wash my leg. I take a moment to stop at the crude apple Adam carved into my skin. The marks fade more and more each day—I’m religious about applying the prescribed cream—but the scars remain visible to anyone who looks close enough.

He’s not here. You are safe.

I trace the path down my leg and up my inner thighs. I switch to the other leg, repeating the pattern.

Then I bring the loofah to my womanhood. I rub it in circles over my mound, whispering it over my lower lips. When my walls clench, I screw my eyes shut.

The only person I see is Hunter.

Flashes of us before race through my mind.

Hunter looking up from me as he ate me on my kitchen island. Hunter holding me in his arms while we slept. Hunter smiling at me with that happy grin he always gives me after we made love at the country club.

I step back into the stream, rinsing myself off. I take a few breaths, trying to calm my body, but then I remember the first time he and I made love. I remember how powerful I felt as I claimed him, and he claimed me. I remember the power of choosing when and how it would happen. I remember how he held me as I ushered in a new phase of my femininity.

It was so beautiful. It was everything.

Hunter.

I use my finger to glide over my clit. It zings in response, and my other hand squeezes my breast, focusing on my nipple.

This feeling is safe. You are so safe.

I moan. Loudly. Rubbing my clit and squeezing my nipple, I stumble back until I’m sitting on the bench at the far side of the shower, away from the stream.

Opening my legs wider, I let myself dive into these sensations.

I moan again, and then I allow a word to fall from my lips. A name. “Hunter.”

“Winter.”

My eyes snap open, and I jerk my head to the left to look outside the glass doors. Hunter stands at the entry to the bathroom, one hand gripping the door.

“What are you doing here?” I say on a gasp. A small part of me realizes I still have my hands on my breast and pussy. Through the steam, I track the movement of his Adam’s apple.

“It’s six-thirty. I brought you breakfast.” Just as he always does.

“Th-thank you, H,” I pant out, unsure where to go from here. My clit hums beneath my finger, beckoning me to continue rubbing it until I explode.

He looks at me, silent, but his knuckles flex against the wood door. I don’t dare look to see if he’s hard.

“You moaned my name,” he says, his voice so low it grates against my skin.

I start to shake.

“I...” I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I want.

I want him to come in here and fuck me. I want him to close the door and leave. I want him to kiss me gently, showing me his love. I want him to vocalize the disgust he’s never said he carries—but I know he must.

Do I know that?

The shaking gets stronger. “I don’t know what to do.”

The statement isn’t seductive. It’s raw, unsure. My eyes plead with him for the one thing I know I need: for him to take the next step.

I need for him to bring us back to some approximation of what we were, inch by inch.

His brows lower over his stormy eyes, and he steps fully into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The temperature goes up several degrees, even though I haven’t touched any of the controls.

“Did you ever play red light, green light as a kid, baby?” Hunter toes off his shoes as he says this. His clothes are pristine—it’s obvious he was ready to start his day of handling important CEO business, but now he’s in here with me.

He’s in here with me.

“Ye-yes, I have,” I stammer, and Hunter removes his suit jacket and cufflinks.

He smiles softly. “Good,” he says. “Let’s play a game, Sunbeam,” he says just as gently. Then he unbuttons his shirt. When his chest is free of the clothing and his slacks are unbuttoned, I force myself to swallow the saliva that’s pooled in my mouth.

I will not drool, even though this man makes me lose my mind with lust.

“What’s the game, H?” He’s fully naked now, and my clit thumps when I see his full erection.

Even if there’s a war brewing in my mind, my body remembers.

I want my mind to get with the program.

You can decide to work on that too.

He steps into the shower with me, the spray immediately wetting his hair. He slicks it away from his face and then moves out of the stream. Standing with his back against the wall opposite mine, the waterfall between us acts as a physical barrier.

“The game goes like this,” he says, his voice raspy with the same strength and command as when he spread me on my kitchen island. “I’ll tell you something I want you to do, and you tell me green light or red light. If you say green light, you do the action, but if you say red light, we move on. Sound good?”

I swallow again.

“Do I get to tell you what to do too?” I ask. I squeeze my nipple without thinking about it and find myself suppressing a whimper.

“Of course, baby.” The side of his mouth kicks up.

The feeling is heady, being this close to him but not touching. Being in the seclusion of the shower stall creates an entirely different level of intimacy.

A level that I could only conceptualize needing at this exact moment.

“How do we know who wins?” I lick my lips after I speak.

“The first one to come loses.”

Or wins, I think.

“What does the winner get then?” I ask.

He quirks his eyebrow.

“We can decide the prize together.” His look shoots fire through my body. “You ready to play, baby?”

All I can do is nod.

“Good girl,” he says, whisper soft.

Holy hell.

“Remove your hands from your pussy and tit,” he says in a low tone that goes directly to my snatch.

“Green light,” I whisper and immediately move my hands to my side. My pussy pouts in protest. “But I thought you’d want me to do sexy things with this game?” My voice is fragile, wispy.

My legs are spread obscenely on the bench, and I rock back and forth slightly, aiming to relieve some of the pressure on my parts. Or maybe to add to it. My head falls back against the wall.

“We’re making up the rules as we go, Winter. Go with the flow,” he replies.

“Okay,” I say. “Wash your hair.”

His eyebrows twitch with amusement. “You want to watch me wash my hair?”

“Yes,” I reply, panting.

“Green light. But why?” He’s already moving to pump shampoo into his hand.

I pause but then decide there’s no room for secrets or lies in this space. “When you raise your arms above your head, the way your abs flex makes me insanely hot. I want to lick your six-pack.” I bite my lip, and his eyes twinkle. With deliberate movements, he lathers the shampoo in his hands before bringing his arms up to wash his hair.

Jesus Christ on toast.

The movement of his arms and chest and abs flexing as he scrubs at his scalp brings me to another level of arousal. He’s so strong.

He flexes his abs, and his cock jumps. I rock harder against the seat, and the amused look on his face vanishes. He immediately steps beneath the spray, rinsing his hair in three quick swipes.

“Spread your lips for me, baby.”

I know he’s not talking about my mouth. I shake at the vulnerability in the movement, but I heat at the look of desire on his face.

He wants me. He wants me.

“Green light,” I whisper. I hold his gaze, and he growls.

I lift my legs higher so my feet can rest against the foot pads on the side of the bench. I’m spread wide, feeling the stretch in my hips and thighs.

“More,” he says roughly. “Use your right hand.” Taking a deep breath, I use my hand to separate my lips, spreading my pussy for him to see.

“G-green,” I say.

“Good girl,” he says on a breath. “Hold the position.” His voice is a command.

“Green light,” I reply. I try not to moan. “Stroke your cock.” The tip looks red, angry at being neglected for so long.

“Green light,” he says. He grabs the base of his dick, squeezing it tight for several long moments before slowly stroking up and down the shaft.

Breathing harder, he says, “Use your other hand to get your finger nice and wet by dipping it inside your pussy. Then rub your clit.”

I follow his command with my free hand, not pausing with fear as I slide my finger inside my body to the knuckle. When I stutter out, “Green light,” the words are lost in my moans.

And he grunts; the look in his eyes is nearly feral.

He steps closer to me, so the spray is on his back. “On your clit, baby,” he barks out, and I do just that, a full-body wave rushing through me and making me arch my back.

“Goddamnit, Winter,” he grits out. His dick is wet with precum, practically weeping.

“Go faster,” I pant. I’m close. So close. The image of Hunter pounding into me, filling me with his cum, trips me right to the precipice. His hand picks up speed, and he steps closer, leaning over me with his free arm resting on the marble above my head. I could put his dick in my mouth if I wanted to.

God, I so want to. My mouth waters with need. So I do it. I lean forward and suck the head of his cock into my mouth. I groan with the explosion of his flavor on my tongue.

“Red light, mouth off,” he says, and he sounds damn near incoherent. When I don’t stop, done with the game, he growls and pushes back from me and my mouth. I whimper and then nearly scream when he drops to his knees and sucks my clit between his lips after batting my hand away.

“Hunter, God!” One suck, two, three, and then I’m yelling and shaking and coming so hard that the only image I see behind my eyes are stars. As I come down, I hear him groan low and long, and I open my eyes to see him jerk his cock roughly, angrily, as he comes on the tiled floor.

He stops sucking and licking at me, the pressure turning into a lazy kiss.

One. Two. Three more kisses.

We both breathe hard when he moves my legs down to a more comfortable position. My muscles thank him. Then, while still between my slightly spread legs, he lowers his head to rest it on my thigh.

My hands automatically run through his hair.

His eyes close, and I see a wave of tension release from his shoulders as soon as I touch him.

We’re both silent, and I thank God for the tankless system and the near-infinite hot water. The weight of this moment feels pivotal.

I know it’s pivotal.

“Was that okay, Sunbeam?” Hunter’s voice is so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the sounds of the shower running.

I keep running my fingers through his hair.

“I loved every minute of it,” I reply just as softly.

He hugs my legs. Then he turns his head and slowly presses a gentle kiss to the apple carved into my skin. He doesn’t move his mouth. He just presses his lips to the spot.

He must feel me shaking because, without a word, he grabs my hand and brings it to his cheek.

“I love you, Winter Leigh Vaughan,” he says with absolute reverence.

SEVENTEEN

HUNTER

Since my time with Winter in the shower a few days ago, we’ve been working toward maintaining intimacy. She slips into my room when she can’t sleep, and I hold her until her breaths slow.

But she always declines when I ask her to make a permanent move into my room.

I don’t push her.

But we’re talking. We’re sharing touches.

I’ll wait however long I need to.

Leo and I sit in my office with the rest of our shareholders on a video conference. The investors are antsy, and they’re all looking at me and Leo to solve the problem.

But despite Misha’s assurances not to worry about the FDA, they’re not budging. We haven’t found our previous contacts on the inside, but the most damning development is I can’t gather enough fucks to care about the outcome.

So I leave everything regarding BwP to Leo to figure out, as always.

We’ve just closed the conference when the doorbell interrupts our tense strategizing.

Our doorbell is the most absurd sound ever. It’s one of the things that Ella didn’t update when she renovated the house, and it rings for a solid thirty seconds in a series of musical notes.

The doorbell ringing is an issue, though, primarily because a) no one should get past the gates and onto the property, and b) no one would ring the doorbell. We would greet them upon their arrival at the gate and escort them up.

Whoever is on the other side of the door is not an invited or welcome guest.

Leo and I look at each other on high alert.

“Expecting someone?” I ask Leo.

“Nope,” he replies grimly.

I pull up the cameras, thumbing through the video feed as I storm toward the front of the door. The three guards I’ve stationed at the gate are face-down in individual pools of blood.

“Shit!” Leo moves toward the door alongside me as his fingers fly over the phone. He yells commands at Rio, and the sound of several pairs of boots rushing in comes from the back of the mansion.

“Fuck!” I hiss as I round the corner to the foyer, and pure rage snaps in my neurons when I hear Winter’s soft voice.

“Oh,” she says.

Blair Winthrope, dressed in a white designer jumpsuit and patterned scarf, is in the front entryway. Winter stands in front of her, Kitty in her trembling arms.

Uncharacteristically, Kitty growls, showing his jagged teeth to Blair.

I’m sure Blair imagines herself as Jackie O. Her up-swept hair and oversized sunglasses give her an air of mystery.

Standing in an arc in front of six black SUVs is her security detail. They all have guns out.

Protect Winter.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Blair?” I step in front of Winter, blocking Blair’s view of her beautiful and stricken face.

“Now, is that any way to greet your soon-to-be-wife?” Her red-painted lips tip up in a farce of a smile as she removes her glasses.

Winter’s breath catches, and she steps away, putting distance between us. I call on my restraint as the overwhelming need to throttle Blair pulses at my fingertips.

I reach my hand back, snagging Winter’s wrist. She tries to pull away, to run away. I tighten my grasp, using my thumb to rub the delicate skin of her inner wrist.

“Are you here to be useful and tell me where my father is hiding?” I spit at her.

“I have no clue where Ben is,” she says, looking up at me, her eyes wide and innocent. It’s an act. I know it is.

“Then what the fuck do you want? Or did you just want to be dramatic by coming up here and killing the guards at my front gate?”

“Oh, God,” Winter chokes out on a strangled breath.

Get control.

I squeeze Winter’s hand.

“I’ve come to deliver our wedding invitations. And I wanted to see my poor fiancé. Is that too much to ask? Those fools at the front wouldn’t let me in. They were so disrespectful, and they pulled their guns out first. Madness! We’re about to be married, Hunter. You’d think they’d have me on the approved guest list.”

She peers at me with a doe-eyed look.

“Anyway. Here,” she continues as if she didn’t just casually brush off the fact that her people gunned down my security staff.

I grind my teeth as she pulls a heavy card stock invitation set from her large envelope-shaped purse. She holds it out to me, and I don’t take it.

“Not your fiancé. There is no wedding. Get the fuck out of here.”

Blair blinks.

“Winter, is it?” Blair asks, looking at me with uninhibited aggression. Then she steps to her right, aiming her gaze at Winter.

“You don’t so much as breathe in her direction,” I growl.

She tilts her head to the side. “Interesting,” she says. “Ben was so sure he would have killed you. You’re like a cat with nine lives. Or maybe a cockroach.”

Winter gasps, releasing a small whimper. It doesn’t take much to know that Blair is talking about Adam Collins. My shoulders tense, and I’m ready to raze the ground. I take a step toward Blair, fully prepared to spill her blood against the gleaming marble floor.

“Careful,” she says sharply. The slide of a round being chambered causes me to freeze every muscle in my body. I tamp down the urge to say fuck it and kill Blair where she stands.

From the movement I feel to the side of me, I don’t have to look to know my men have their guns trained on Blair’s tail, just as Blair’s people have their guns trained on me.

But Winter is right there, right behind me, and I’ll be damned if I let her see any more death.

I step away from Blair, and Winter presses her body against mine. Her head falls to the center of my back, and she places a palm flat on my right shoulder blade. Her touch and Kitty’s rapid breathing in her other arm calm me in a way I didn’t know I craved until now.

I don’t say anything else to Blair, but when she gives a brief look to her guards, they lower their weapons. My men do the same.

“Well, I expect to see you at the rehearsal dinner.” She turns on her heel, and when she reaches the doorframe, she looks over her shoulder and says, “Oh, Hunter? Do be careful on the roads. You don’t want to have another accident. Next time, you might not be so lucky.”

Then she’s gone.

“Hunter,” Winter slurs from her safe space at my back. “What was she talking about?”

I close my eyes and pull Winter’s arm, pinning it to my chest.

Inhale. Exhale.

Silently, I guide her to my bedroom. She doesn’t protest; she just follows along with Kitty in her arms.

Once I slam the door closed, I feel her walk deeper into the room as I rest my head on the closed door with my back to her.

“What was she talking about?” Her voice trembles.

I don’t respond.

A sob breaks through, and the jingle of Kitty’s collar clicking against his ID tags indicates she’s put him down.

“Hunter.” Her voice is small. “Did your father have something to do with Adam taking me?”

I turn around, resting on my hands as I lean against the door.

I suppose, on some level, I want to barricade her inside so she can’t run away from me like she should.

“Why did you answer the door, Sunbeam? Don’t ever answer that door.”

She shakes her head. “Tell me the truth.” Her voice is so, so fragile, and hearing it causes my heart to break again. I don’t know how it can keep beating.

“Winter,” I say. Air seizes in my chest.

She holds a hand up. “No, Hunter. Answer the question.” She keeps her hand in front of her, and the sight of it trembling makes me want to rage.

“Yes,” I blurt out. She drops her hand.

“Oh,” she says. “Oh, okay.”

She sits on my bed, then pops up as if it’s burned her. She moves to stand in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest. Closed off.

Kitty circles her.

“How did it—what happened? How? Ex-explain it all to me.”

“Winter, I—”

“No, Hunter. Tell me everything. You owe me that much,” she rushes out. Her anger grows, lacing each word and lashing me like a whip.

I take a deep breath. I do owe her that much.

“You told me that you knew that Adam was up for parole. He wasn’t going to receive it, but then my father found out about us. He knew about us well before the country club.” Her knuckles blanch as her hold tightens on her arms.

I continue, “He met with the parole commissioner and bribed him. That’s why Adam was released.”

She breathes in. She breathes out. Once more, a set of each.

Then she says, “Wow.”

I’m silent for a moment. “I can understand you being angry about this, Sunb—”

“You think I’m angry, Hunter?” Rushed, tense words spill from her mouth.

“You have to be,” I reply. I knock my head back against the door.

“Angry. Angry?” She starts to pace. “Yes, I’m fucking angry. I’m—” She whips her hand across the nightstand, rocketing the ceramic lamp and picture frames to the floor. Shards of porcelain and glass scatter at her feet.

Kitty runs under the bed, hiding.

Winter screams and drops to the floor. Her roar is deep, pained. This is the sound of her grief.

I rush to her, intent on pulling her into my arms. And she lets me—but only for a second. She pushes at me, clawing at me as tears and snot mix on her face.

“I hate you,” she screams, her enraged words clanging in the space between my ears. “You and your fucked-up family did this to me!” She pushes me again, falling back on the broken glass of the picture frames and accents as she does.

“Winter, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” My face is dry, but inside, I’m raging alongside her.

I did this. I didn’t protect her. I did this. I did this.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” She sobs, backing away from me in a crab walk until she huddles in the corner.

“Winter, you’re bleeding, baby,” I say, unwilling to accept her “I hate yous.” I reach for her hand, which still grips a piece of broken glass.

She grips it tighter, pulling further into herself as her sobs turn into hiccups. Her eyes are bloodshot. She raises her hand, staring at the cut on her palm like she’s never seen anything like it before.

I silently crouch down in front of her. Without looking at me, she says with stunning clarity, “I wish I never met you, Hunter Brigham.”

I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. “I don’t think you really mean that, Sunbeam.”

Seconds tick on. Then she says, “I really, really do. I want to leave. I want you out of my life.”

My heart breaks. But that’s not anything I can ever accept. I’ll give her space. But let her go?

Never.

“Okay, baby,” I say. I stand, moving back to the door.

“Where are you going, Hunter?” she asks. She looks dazed.

“I’m giving you space, and then we’re going to talk about this later.”

She sniffs. “No, I just want to go home,” she says.

“This is your home, Winter.”

“No! I want to go back to my apartment.”

“Too bad,” I say.

“So what, you’re going to keep me prisoner? You’re no better than he was,” she says, and I snap.

In a second, I’m in front of her, crowding her, looming over her. Fear radiates from her eyes, and for the first time, it’s fear of me.

It guts me.

I get closer to her, pulling her into my arms. She pushes at my chest, and I allow her to separate from me.

“Don’t say shit like that to me ever again, Sunbeam. I’m not keeping you prisoner because I know you want to be here. You want to be here with me.”

“You sound like Adam. That’s the type of shit he’d say,” she retorts. She looks caged in, ready to fight if she can’t flee.

“Don’t say things you can’t take back, Winter.”

“I wish I never met you. You and your father are toxic, fucked-up people.”

“I am nothing like my father,” I say. Anger and grief and fear—fucking fear—crawl up my spine.

“Oh, yeah?” she asks, her tone mocking. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are swollen, but none of this stops her from spitting her vitriol at me.

I deserve it. I can take it.

“I’m nothing like him,” I say. “I love you, Winter. I won’t hurt you. I won’t use you. I love you. I’ll kill anyone who dares to hurt you.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” she hisses.

“I already fucking have,” I grind out, matching the energy of her words. My chest pinches tight, the up and down of my rapid breaths are painful.

That gives her pause. “What?”

“The commissioner that took the bribe? I hunted him down and slit his throat in his bed.”

“You lie,” she says, scoffing but looking at me warily all the same.

“Adam’s parole officer? I cornered him in an alleyway in his shitty neighborhood. Leo and I put a bullet in his brain.”

She shakes her head, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

“Oh, you don’t believe me?” I say in a voice laced with the force of my agonized fury.

“No, I don’t.” She visibly swallows. “You wouldn’t do something like that. You wouldn’t protect me like that. You wouldn’t avenge me. You couldn’t even stick up for me to your father. You lied to me about being engaged for weeks. You are—you are not a good person, Hunter.”

I whirl her around, bringing her over to the small desk in the corner of the room. “I have never pretended to be a good person, baby, but for you, I’ll be evil incarnate.” I rip the drawer open, pulling out the file.

I pull her in front of me. “Don’t believe me?”

I slap the picture Rio took of the newly deceased body. “Buck Fitzgerald. Parole officer to one Adam Collins. He really fucked up when he took that hush money and decided to ignore his duties. See that nice round bullet hole in his forehead?”

Violent tremors start at her back and creep down her arms and legs.

I fling Buck’s picture away, slamming the picture of Michael Uvalde on the table. His slit throat and gaping neck make a grotesque image.

“Michael Uvalde. Commissioner for the Virginia Parole Board.”

She gasps, trembling. “Hunter,” she says.

“He was the one who signed the order for Adam’s release. Mr. Uvalde also signed his own death warrant that day. The people who helped orchestrate your abduction? I’m hunting them down, and soon they’ll all be gone. My father. Blair. Morris fucking Winthrope. They’re all on borrowed time. I will annihilate anyone who has dared to hurt you, baby. I will protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself.”

I kiss the side of her head, holding her tight. She doesn’t resist. She doesn’t do or say anything.

When I let her go and walk out the door, I call out, “Get some rest. I’ll be back to talk in a little bit.”

I slam the door and lock her in.

The resounding thud of her throwing something against the door is her response.

EIGHTEEN

WINTER

For the first hour, I kept saying three phrases.

I can’t believe this motherfucker locked me in this room.

I wish I never met these people.

He killed for me, and he’ll do anything to make me feel safe.

As hour two rounded into hour three and the shadows on the floor started to get longer, I slowly devolved into the weepy, heartsick Winter that I’ve come to despise. I don’t think too deeply about the fact that I’ve since put on his hoodie and snuggled into his pillow like a psychopath.

I wish I never met Hunter Brigham.

I wish I could stop loving him.

I wish I could believe the lies I tell myself.

Burying my face into Kitty’s fur, I let his warm body and the vibrations of his breathing lower my anxiety and absorb my sorrow. Hunter and I both said and did unacceptable things in the heat of our argument. How...flat of a word. Argument. More like a soul-shattering, heart-breaking rending of our relationship.

The end of Hunter Brigham and Winter Vaughan.

A fresh rush of hot tears spill over my lids, and I feel like I’m about to suffocate. This is the end. Even beyond the fucked-up reality of his father’s actions, what happened here in this fight is not okay.

Therapist Winter knows this to be true.

So we have to end, because how could we possibly move forward from here?

Nausea wells and I want to howl with the force of my grief.

Kitty nestles into my side, his soft whimpers harmonizing with my cries.

I cry and cry until I fall asleep.

The sound of the mechanical lock whirring on the door has my eyes snapping open and I sit up in Hunter’s bed.

I stand as the door opens. Hunter looks beaten down, like it’s been days since I last saw him, not hours.

We look at each other in silence for several moments. I decide to break it.

“Did she really gun down the guards at the gate?” I say, trying to go for a light, unaffected tone.

I’m not sure it works.

“Yeah, she did,” he replies.

“And are they...” I can’t say the words because it’s so incredibly insane that she shot our guards to bum-rush her way into the estate.

“One is dead. One is in critical condition. The other has a flesh wound to the thigh. It could have been bad if they’d hit his femoral.”

Hunter relays this information with such detachment it sends a shiver down my spine.

“That’s terrible,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” he replies.

More silence, but as the moments move on, the warmth returns to his face.

“You must be hungry,” he says. He at least has the good sense to look contrite—to look as devastated by our breaking apart as I am.

Breaking apart.

We’re breaking apart.

I’m breaking apart.

Kitty decides to jump into my arms, and I catch him, holding him close and burying my unsteady hands into his fur.

“I know you’re still mad, but I don’t want you to go hungry. I’d like for you to come down for dinner. I got us dim sum.”

Tears fill my eyes, and I remember our conversation about our favorite food.

“It will be just the two of us. Ella and August are in the media room and pretty much all the security who aren’t staffing the perimeter of the property are in the tactical room researching what the hell happened.”

He blows out his breath and blinks hard a few times. Then the mask settles back on his face.

“I don’t want to eat with you, Hunter.” My face feels numb, but I force the words past my lips anyway.

“Winter, please,” he says on a breath. His eyes close as he leans against the doorjamb. With his hands in his pockets, the stretch across his cock makes my mouth water.

The thought is enough to shake me out of my stupor.

“Okay, H,” I say in a measured tone. His head pops up slowly. Disbelief is plain in his slitted eyes.

“Okay?” His eyebrow quirks.

“Yes, okay. You know I love dim sum. But after that, you leave me alone,” I say.

He’s silent for a long moment before he says, “Okay.”

“I actually need some stuff from my room,” I say, hoping to keep my tone on the edge of aggressive and acquiescing.

“Well, let’s go get it.”

“No, it’s actually—I need tampons!” I blurt out. His lips press together, and he stares at me for a long moment, his eyes searching my face.

“Okay, Winter,” he says, taking a single step back. “Get what you need and meet me in the dining room.” He looks at me for another moment before I’m alone in the room with the door left open.

I count to fifty before I head over to my suite. I don’t actually need tampons. I grab my backpack, piling a few days’ clothes, medicines, extra shoes, and toiletries.

I can’t go to my apartment.

I can’t go to Veronica’s house.

I’ll have to go on the run. I shift my shoulder. I’ll find a place to take this tracker out of my back. Then I’ll run. I’ll run and never look back at this godforsaken place.

I’ll never look back at Hunter and August and all I’ve lost.

Hysteria threatens to explode out of me, but I swallow it down.

I look at Kitty as he mirrors the directions my feet move. He whimpers at my obvious distress. Pure madness threatens to overtake my brain, but the truth breaks through. I can’t be on the run with him.

I just can’t. Tears fall in earnest now, my nose clogging.

What the fuck am I doing? Am I really about to do this? Am I really about to leave everyone I love behind?

You never would have been in this position if it weren’t for him.

...Right?

I kneel to Kitty, giving him one final kiss on his smooth head.

“I love you so much, Kitty. You’re a good boy. The greatest boy. But I need you to stay here, okay? You’ll have Ella and Hunter and August here with you, or maybe you’ll live with Auntie Veronica.”

The tears come forth now, the force of my grief burning in my throat.

“But you’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. But I can’t bring you along from here.”

I kiss him again and he whimpers, his cries turning into quick barks.

“Shhh, lovebug,” I say. I pull out a treat from the drawers near his dog bed.

“Here you go,” I whisper, clearing my throat and wiping my tears. I smile at him.

He ambles over to the bed, and I give him the treat.

“Stay,” I command.

His eyes follow me to the door, and he cries when I shut it.

I pull my backpack up on my shoulder and make my way toward the front of the house. All my thoughts are a jumble, weaving in and out. I can’t make sense of anything except I probably should leave.

I should leave.

I need to leave.

I’m in the foyer, almost to the front door, when a short sigh from behind causes me to stop.

“I knew you’d run.”

I take my time turning back around, squaring my shoulders as Hunter looks down at me from his place on the stairs.

“I’m leaving, Hunter. I need to go.” I’d almost believe myself if my throat didn’t burn with the force of holding back tears.

“Why?” he snaps. “I love you, Winter. I shouldn’t have—” He breaks off, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“I shouldn’t have locked you in the room. That was fucked of me to do.” He visibly swallows. “I should have told you everything earlier, but I was afraid. I was afraid to hurt you. I was afraid of my worst nightmare coming true. The nightmare that we’re standing in right now.”

He starts to pace, and I bite my lip to keep from wailing.

“Winter, what do I have to do to get you to forgive me? Tell me and I’ll do it. Just don’t leave.” He stops his movements, and I’ve never seen a human look so devastated. His face moves through so many emotions—sad, lost, resolved.

“Winter, stay,” he says in a firm voice. The pure strength and determination radiating off him scrambles my synapses and shoots a bolt of desire to my dormant parts.

“Hunter, we can’t do this anymore. We’re hurting each other. It needs to stop.” I say the last part in a whisper. I don’t even believe my words.

I just know that at this point, I’m more broken than ever. Even with all my training, I think I finally cracked.

Adam Collins officially killed me. He won.

“No.” He walks closer to me. His crisp button-down shirt is open at the collar, his tie long gone.

“H. Hunter—”

“Do you remember what I said that night, Sunbeam?”

He doesn’t have to say which night. I know he’s talking about the night we made love, real love, back at the country club. I close my eyes as tears continue to rush forward. I nod, and a tear drops onto my chest.

“You think you can end this?” he whispers.

Only a foot separates us. I squeeze the strap of my backpack to anchor myself to this moment, and with all the strength I have left in my soul-worn body, I open my eyes and face him.

With every second that passes, his resolve firms in his gaze. He stands taller. Hunter Brigham—the one who is dominant and assured and loving and gentle—is back. And he’s focusing all that energy on saving me. Saving us.

“Even when we are both deep in the ground, dead for centuries, our children’s children will talk about our love. I love you, Winter.” He puts my hand on his chest. His heart races, but his face is like stone.

“H, you know this isn’t healthy.” My lips tremble.

“We’ll get healthy together, my love.” He steps closer, his lips whispering over mine. There is an edge of desperation in his breath. “What we do, we do it together. Your pain, your suffering, is all for me to carry. Your happiness, your joy...you will experience all that again. And because I’m a selfish motherfucker, I want to be there when you do. My soul needs to be right beside you,” he says.

He presses me against his body as if his hands can’t help but trap me close to him. He kisses my neck, pressing his face close to my skin.

In this embrace, I feel like I can breathe for the first time in months.

“Forgive me, Winter,” he whispers, pressing into my neck. He leans back and grabs my face in both of his hands. “Forgive me,” he insists. His embrace is gentle, but his eyes blaze.

I shake my head, and the tears continue to fall, one racing after the other.

“Hunter,” I say. “I don’t know if love is enough.” The words make me nauseous.

“Please,” he whispers. He presses us so close together it’s as if our heartbeats and breaths could merge into one.

“Please, Sunbeam.”

He presses kisses on my closed eyelids, my cheeks, but when he hovers his lips over mine, barely an inch between us as he waits, I say, “Help me, H.”

I release the shuddering breath that I’ve been holding since the moment I looked at Hunter in that diner outside of Asheville. “Help me, H. I’m so, so hurt.”

His lips crash against mine, understanding what I mean, even though I can’t voice it.

We’re all hands, lips, and tongues then. He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his waist. I bounce a little when he drops me onto the couch across from where I sat all those months ago with Ella.

We’re in the front sitting room where Ella first interviewed me.

This feels like a perfect circle. It’s fitting.

One last time, Winter. One last time.

I rip my sweatshirt off, taking my sports bra with it. My breasts bounce, and Hunter groans when he sees them.

Unbuttoning his shirt all the way, he loses patience and rips the wrists free.

“I need to be inside you again, Sunbeam,” he says, and I almost lose my composure at the cracked way he says the endearment.

“I need you inside me too,” I say. Lust thickens my voice, as does the grief of us ending.

He leans over me, kissing me roughly, and I push my leggings down, and then I’m naked. I reach for his belt buckle, undoing everything in an instant. I drop to my knees.

“Not right now, baby. I’m too angry at you right now to be gentle with your throat.”

I startle. “Angry at me?” I say with heat.

“Yes, Winter. At you.”

I feel indignation rise, and he pulls me off the floor and folds me over the back of the couch.

He slaps my ass. Hard.

“Hunter!” I say with a gasp. I reject the embarrassment that ekes out as a gush of cum starts to leak out of my poor, neglected pussy.

“You really thought you could end us, Sunbeam?” He rubs circles over my sore cheek. Then he slaps me three more times on the opposite side.

This time, when I say his name, it comes out as a moan.

He chuckles. The sound is as dark and foreboding as the lead up to a jump scare in a horror movie.

“Ending us is impossible.” His voice is as soft as the caress of his hand over my flesh. “Not because you’re trapped. You are free, Sunbeam.” He runs his hand up my back, and I can’t help but arch into his touch. “Ending us is impossible because we were always meant to collide. We’re two parts of the same soul. There is always supposed to be a Hunter and Winter.”

His words. His words will be my undoing. The story he weaves about our love—I feel it too. My soul knows the refrain.

“Hunter, please. Inside me.” I need the distraction of him filling me, taking me, to complete this. To end this. To shut him out.

“Patience, love,” he says, and I have a memory shoot through me of the night we declared that we would be together forever.

How naive we were.

He reaches down to my weeping pussy and, with both hands, spreads my lips apart. The pure eroticism of the act has me shaking and moaning into the back of the couch.

“God, you are so beautiful. Your pussy is so beautiful. I’ll never get tired of seeing you spread out for me.” He licks me, tonguing my hole, then he licks up to the tight ring of my ass.

“Hunter!” I push my ass back into his face.

“This is my pussy, Winter,” he says in a tone I’ve never heard him take with me.

He slides a long finger into me, and tears leak from my eyes. He reaches another hand up, grasping my throat. When he squeezes, I see stars, and my breaths rasp in and out against the pressure.

“H,” I say through my restricted airway. I get an instant flash of the night Adam took me, but it’s quickly washed away when my senses register Hunter’s warmth. Hunter’s smell. Hunter’s presence radiating from behind me. I don’t feel fear.

I’m caught up in the whirlwind that is everything Hunter Brigham.

“Say it,” he says again, his voice ramping up.

“Say what?” I choke out.

“Say this pussy is mine.”

I hesitate, and he pulls his fingers from me and slaps his hand hard over my clit. I damn near fly off the couch at the move, and he presses his fingers back inside me, rubbing to soothe away the hurt and stoke my desire.

“Say it, Winter. Say, ‘this pussy belongs to you, Hunter.’”

I’m incoherent, overcome with lust and sorrow, which is the only reason I can think of as to why I pledge my body to this man.

“My pussy belongs to you, Hunter,” I pant out. I expect him to slam into me, to fuck me hard into the sofa until we both come. Instead, he moves his hand from my throat and cups his hand over my heart.

“Say, ‘my heart belongs to you, Hunter.’” When his tired voice cracks with the delivery of the words, I let out a choked sob.

I have no problem saying it because it’s true.

“My heart belongs to you, Hunter.”

Forever.

With incomprehensible slowness, he slides the tip of his cock inside me, and the burst of pleasure from his dick rubbing back and forth past the sensitive mouth of my sex has me quaking in seconds.

“I will always take care of you, Winter.”

In and out. So slow. Not enough.

“I will keep you safe. There’s no one I wouldn’t kill just for hurting your feelings.”

In and out, and then he presses so deep his balls kiss my clit. He holds himself there.

“I need more, H.”

“I know what you need, Winter,” he says. His forearms shake as he holds himself up, bracketing my arms on the couch. I rock back and forth, setting my own pace, and he grabs my hip, stilling me.

“Hunter,” I whine.

“No, Sunbeam. Because you don’t get it yet.”

And that’s when I get angry because he is the one who doesn’t get it.

I pull myself up and whirl around to sit on the sofa. Then I push him. Hard. He stumbles and goes down to the ground. A glass vase falls off the side table and crashes into shards.

I hover over him, sliding my tongue from the base to the tip of his dick. His head drops back.

“You think I’m safe with you, H?”

His eyes are hard as he focuses on my face.

“Here’s the thing, you macho asshole. I keep myself safe.” I straddle him, taking him in to the hilt in one smooth movement.

I set a furious pace, punishing him, punishing myself, as I slam down on his hips.

“I take care of myself,” I say. A snarl accompanies my words as I roll over top him.

“I saved myself.” My throat burns, seconds from losing it. It being my mind. My soul. My heart.

“Yes, you did, Sunbeam.” His eyes glitter in the darkness.

I can’t look at him.

“I killed him. I stabbed him over and over,” I say through gritted teeth.

“And I’m so proud of you for it, baby.” His voice is harsh, raspy, and when his hands reach for my waist, I slap them away.

“I needed you. I cried out for you. I prayed for you to save me. And you didn’t.”

A single tear falls from his eye, and I refuse to allow myself to be gutted at the sight.

“I don’t blame you, H. You didn’t do it to me, but you sure as fuck put me in the position to be ruined.” Sobs cause me to shudder as they drag the oxygen from my body between my words. “You and your fucking father and your fucking games that you’re playing into. If you’d just chosen me first, then....”

I want to collapse over him, let him hold me as I utter the truth that has been tearing me apart inside.

“Sunbeam, you know I chose you. I was trying to keep you safe. I was wrong. I’ll never forgive myself for the fact that I was wrong. It will never happen again. I’ll be dead and in the ground before anyone touches you again,” he pledges.

“I don’t know that I can forgive you. I’m scared that I can’t forgive you, Hunter!”

There. The truth is out. The ugly, painful reality that we may be broken beyond repair. Grounded before we could ever take off.

“I’ll never forgive myself, Winter!” he says with just as much energy. He grips my hips, and I let him this time.

“Give me your hate. Give me your anger. Hit me, Winter.”

I slow down slightly as his words stun me. “What?”

“Hit me. Hurt me.” I stare at him, shaking my head. “Fucking make me bleed, goddamnit!” He reaches behind his head, grabbing a shard of glass. “Make it hurt, Winter. Carve me up so I can be scarred—so that I don’t carry this fucked up shit only inside my body. Make it ugly. Make it hurt. Give me some of your pain, baby.” His hand covers mine, and he’s already cut his palm. He bleeds, the dark crimson stark against his tanned hand and my darker skin.

He jerks up, pulling my head down to his lips, and kisses me as if he could pour all of his love, all of his devotion, all that he is inside me through our mouths.

It’s a mindless action when I take the glass and slash across his chest. I wouldn’t have realized I’d done it if he hadn’t pulled in a slight inhale.

“More, Sunbeam. Take it out on me,” he whispers against my mouth. He shifts his body, pressing against the makeshift blade. I cut him again and again. Together, we mark his flesh. When I look at it, I feel a deep, quaking start when I realize I’ve made a crude W in his skin.

He exhales, sighs. “If you need more, take it. I’ll bleed for you, Sunbeam. My heart will bleed for you forever. Whether you walk out that door or you work with me and fight for us. Work for us.”

We’re still connected but barely moving, just a slight rock back and forth of our most intimate parts. I hold the edge of the glass over his chest again. Our gazes clash, and in his eyes...I see everything. I see the truth. I see his love. I see that he’s just as much a pawn in his father’s fucked-up games as I am. I see his hope.

I drop the glass to the side.

“Forgive me, Winter. It doesn’t have to be today. But please, for the sake of how much love we have for each other, let your heart be open to me. Because you have mine. Completely. Transcendentally.”

I can’t say anything. So I nod my head, the surety of the action settling in my soul.

He sits up fully, pushing a hand in the tight curls at the base of my neck. “Can I make love to you now, Sunbeam?”

I kiss him in reply.

He moves so that my back is flat on the soft rug. Then he’s back inside me. He whispers words of love and commitment as his rock-hard dick drags in and out of my sensitive slit.

He rocks into me with such assurance that everything will be okay, that I come.

I come apart. Fractured. Splintered. His name on my lips is a prayer as I sob and ride the wave of pleasure.

And when Hunter whispers, “It’s okay. We’re home,” as he comes so deeply inside me, I know for the first time that I’m safe to come back together—and we are safe to come back together.

NINETEEN

HUNTER

Idon’t open my eyes as I absorb the feeling of Winter’s skin against mine.

It’s early, the sun having barely crested the tree line. But Winter rests in my arms. When she finally fell asleep, she wore an expression of peace and contentment.

I’m afraid that opening my eyes will make it all go away.

The truce we called in the sitting room last week is tentative. Fragile.

We fell asleep wrapped around each other, naked, for hours on the hard floor. When our bodies protested our position, I ushered her upstairs to my room after sending a quick message to Rio to delete any surveillance in the sitting room.

When we got to my suite, we made love again. I rocked into her as we both lay on our sides, her leg swung over mine.

This time when she came, the shuddering of her body was so wild it seemed like the tips of her hair orgasmed along with the rest of her.

I pressed in as deep as I could when I came inside her.

Reveling in the feeling of her soft hair brushing against my face, I crack my eyes open and put my hand over her stomach, sliding over the skin of her lower belly. Beneath my hand is her c-section scar.

In those silent moments before the sunrise all those days ago, I tracked each of her breaths as they made their peaceful journey in and out of her body. I wanted to absorb her into me—keep her tethered to me. She wanted to run away and honestly? I should have let her. I told myself I would let her leave if she wanted to go. But when I faced her in the foyer and saw the resolve in her gaze, I just…couldn’t.

My fingers flex against her flesh in an involuntary movement.

If she wanted to leave again, I would let her.

But maybe I can give her good enough reasons to stay.

The skin beneath my palm seems to warm as if it were a manifestation of my thoughts.

This one is yours.

My fingers move against her, starting their descent lower, and the movement wakes her.

“H,” she says with a sleepy yawn.

“Good morning, baby,” I say into her neck. She stretches slightly, her ass pressing against my erection. My hand skates further down.

“Nuh-uh, H. I’m a messy mess right now. I need a shower, and my girl needs a break.” She scoots away from me. I grab her hip, pulling her back.

“I like you being a messy mess. It’s my mess down there,” I say, leaning over her and sucking the skin of her neck.

She moans, and I can tell by the hitch in her breathing that she’s turned on despite her protests.

“You are depraved, Mr. Brigham,” she says with no heat in her voice.

“How many kids do you want, Winter?” She goes rigid in my arms.

“Ex-squeeze me?” She looks at me, her eyes clashing with mine. I chuckle.

“Babies. They’re often a result when people do what we’ve been doing.” The color drains from her face.

“I’m aware,” she says. Her voice is even weaker, but the arousal in her gaze has evaporated. In its place is trepidation.

“I want three more,” I say. “I think August would love being a big brother.” August likes being around his peer group, but I get a feeling that he would love a sibling. He has so much love in his heart behind all the hurt he’s experienced.

The hurt I’ve caused.

The long-uttered word echo through my mind: atonement.

I’m in the process. August and I are moving forward, growing closer.

A few days ago, August and I explored the grounds a little bit, and I took him to the shooting range to teach him how to handle a weapon without being completely assaulted by his sensory system.

We’re at the point now that he can fire a gun with noise-canceling headphones and hit the target.

It’s good enough. And when I told August I was proud of him, he smiled in a way I’ve never seen him do.

So, yeah. Progress.

I look at the woman who made that happen and am filled with gratitude. I wouldn’t have been able to connect with my son without her.

“Wooooahkay,” she says, all grace absent as she climbs out of the bed and heads to the bathroom. She enters the water closet, closing the door with a quiet click. I count to five before following her.

I open the door while she’s midstream peeing. “H! Have you heard of privacy? What if I were taking a dump? The romance would die.”

I lean against the doorjamb. “Do you need to take a shit?” I raise an eyebrow.

Her cheeks flush. “No,” she grumbles out.

“Well, what’s the problem?”

“Lord Jesus, today,” she says with a groan, putting her head into her hands. I laugh as I walk away a little, keeping the door to the water closet open. When I hear her pull toilet paper off the roll and flush, I reach for my toothbrush.

Winter is hypersensitive to morning breath—usually her own.

She washes her hands and then reaches for the spare toothbrush she keeps in my bathroom. She’s been reluctant to move all her stuff over to my room, but piece by piece, things migrate into my suite.

Give her time.

I’m done brushing right when she starts, so I give her a few moments before I take the opportunity to talk.

“You’re not on birth control right now,” I say. She coughs and sputters, spitting the toothpaste into the sink. Rinsing her mouth, she says, “How do you know that?”

I don’t respond.

She sighs. “No, I’m not. But I’ll schedule an appointment with Dr. Greene immediately, if not sooner.”

I mull that over for a moment. “Do you have to?” I ask.

She looks bewildered. It’s cute. “Um, yes? Because you and I don’t need to go making babies in the midst of all this.” She waves her arms around the room, seeming to indicate the entire world—the shit with my father, the process of her healing, hell, even the entirety of society—in her movements.

My head tips from side to side as I nod. “The timing isn’t ideal, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” she responds, dumbfounded.

“But I don’t want to wait. I want curly-haired kids that look like you running around this place.” She looks like she’s about to choke. Or run. Instead, she spins to the shower, twisting the nobs with jerky movements to turn it on before stepping inside.

“We’ve already fucked several times without protection, baby. You’re probably pregnant right now,” I say to her through the shower door. She fumbles the bottle of body wash.

“This isn’t a joke, H,” she says, her voice hard.

“Who said I was joking?” I reply, opening the door and stepping into the shower behind her.

I rub her shoulders, and her head drops to her chin. “And I’m very likely not pregnant. It’s not the right week,” she says.

I hum in response. “Got it. So if I bend you over this bench right now and fuck you until I blow deep inside your pussy, it probably won’t stick, right?”

She whirls around, her eyes wide. She opens and closes her mouth. “You are certifiable, Hunter Brigham,” she says. Then her eyes flick to the bench as if it were an involuntary movement, before returning to my gaze.

I smile slowly.

“Is that your professional opinion, Sunbeam?”

She shakes her head in a circle—both yes and no. So I haul her to me, pressing her body to mine with my hand behind her head.

“We can call it testing the theory. Let me make you more messy. At least we’re in the right place to clean you up.” And then I give her a kiss so dirty, it has me on the edge of blowing outside her.

Once we’re out of the shower, Winter wants to talk.

So after we’re both dry and dressed, I grab her hand and steer her toward the rose garden. March has been kind to us, bringing more sunny days and snow-free weeks. The gardeners started revitalizing the blooms for the spring, and the colors are starting to come back.

It smells incredible out here.

Winter decides to take us to the pavilion off to the side of the garden.

She rubs her hands together several times. Then she speaks.

“I had a realization this morning.” She swallows thickly, and I can tell by the set of her shoulders that it’s something serious. Heavy.

“Adam—” She clears her throat. “Adam only got twenty years for what he did to me as a kid. He was young himself when he went in, so it’s unlikely he would have died in prison. So even if he never got parole, if he were determined to have me—to end me—he would have done it anyway.”

We sit in silence as the intensity of her words washes through our bodies and sinks to the floorboards.

“What happened was all a matter of time, whether I was with you or not. He was determined. He would have gotten to me either way.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they’re glassy.

“Those are some big thoughts, Sunbeam,” I say softly. I grab her hand, unable to help it.

She clenches mine back.

“They are.” She wipes her eyes with her free hand. “They are. But the other thing I realized is that if I had never met you, when he did ultimately get to me, I would have been dead. He would have killed me.”

I inhale sharply, the idea of Winter dead being too obscene to sit in my consciousness.

“At least, now that it’s happened, I was able to get myself out of it. I was able to go back home—and I have you to help me through this.”

She weeps openly, but she bites her lip to prevent her sobs from fully escaping.

I get off the bench, kneeling in front of her.

“I’m so sorry this happened, baby. I wish I could have protected you from all of this. I should have protected you, but that guilt is mine to carry for the rest of my life—no, don’t argue with me,” I say when she looks like she’s going to interrupt.

She shakes her head. “Can I tell you about it?” Her voice is hoarse, and when she closes her eyes, I do the same to steel myself against her story.

“Yes,” I say. “You can tell me anything. Always.” When her lids flutter open again, her eyes find mine.

“I want to talk about this only once. Then I never want to talk about it again. Okay?” Her chin wobbles.

“Yes, baby.” I nod solemnly.

“He hurt me a lot, H. And I felt so terrified and hopeless. I thought I was going to die in there. He told me he was going to kill me, and I know he would have if I hadn’t got to him first.”

I fight to keep my face impassive, trained on her beautiful eyes.

“He raped me a total of eight times.” I don’t move a muscle.

“He told me that he was obsessed with me. I felt his obsession. He said that I owed him a life. His life. The baby’s...” I see the exact moment when she falls into a daze, disassociating as she tells me about the horrors she experienced.

“He was so angry about you. That I’d been with you. He wanted to clean you out of me, so he did. Physically. He really thought he and I were soulmates.” She inhales a stuttering breath. “He was sick.”

I fight the urge to interrupt her and tell her not to give him an inch of grace.

“I wanted him to kill me at one point. I just wanted the pain to stop, you know?” Her gaze skitters to mine, but she doesn’t hold it. “But then I found that razor blade and...you know, it never occurred to me to slit my wrists? That’s the logical idea, right? It was such a long shot that such a tiny razor would have killed him. But I knew I had to try. I just wanted to get back to you.”

Her face sobers, her tears drying.

“I will be myself again—a stronger version of myself. I worked so fucking hard to get well after the first time. I worked so hard to move forward with my life. And I refuse to be stuck in this moment. He will not win,” she says with conviction.

I remain silent. She needs this moment. She deserves this moment.

“If you’d asked me six months ago if I could have killed someone, even with all that he did to me in the past, I would have said no. But now? I want them all to bleed, H. All the people who had a hand in what happened to me, I want them to suffer. I want them to die. And I don’t care what that says about me. I want revenge on all of them, just like you do.”

And in that moment, she looks so fierce, so powerful, so radiant, so mine that I don’t think. I pull her down on top of me, settling her on my lap on the floor of the pavilion.

Then I kiss her. Hard. Pouring all my love and energy and promise into the act.

When we pull apart, her eyes are glassy, and she looks as drunk on this feeling as I am.

“If you want revenge, baby,” I say, running my nose down the delicate column of her throat, “Then we’ll make them pour rivers of blood.”

She shudders at my declaration.

Searching my face, she says, “Good.”

TWENTY

WINTER

Iwake up from a dream where I’m riding Hunter’s tongue, only to find Hunter lapping lazily at my clit when I open my eyes in the darkness.

In the three seconds it takes me to realize what’s going on, I let out a long moan because now he’s sucking on it, and that’s one of the quickest ways to get me to come.

I reach down and run my fingers through his hair.

“Good morning, H,” I say breathily. “Not that I don’t appreciate the wake-up call, but—” He shuts me up by sliding his thick finger inside me and hitting my go-button.

When I register the delicious stretch from the addition of another digit, I don’t say another word until I come on his face a few minutes later.

He looks up from his spot between my legs as I pant.

“Good morning, baby.” Then he has me ready again when he sticks both fingers in his mouth, sucking off my cream.

“God,” I say with a moan.

“Nope, just me.” He nips my inner thigh when I laugh.

I quickly glance at the clock across the room and am confused as to why he’s waking me up at five-thirty in the morning.

March has breezed by in a whirlwind of rainy days, lazy afternoons watching movies with August and Kitty in the media room, and intense lovemaking with Hunter.

Most importantly, it’s been weeks of finding happiness—redefining what the emotion feels like, looks like, tastes like. My body remembers, and I’m working with my mind to come into alignment.

Settling back into the pillows, I reach for him to move up my body. When we are face to face, I go for his cock, but he pushes my hand away.

“We’ve got a lot to do today. Later,” he says. In a snap, he leaves the bed and waltzes to the bathroom completely naked.

I roll to my side, watching his ass flex with every step.

How did my life get this way?

It’s unbelievable. I was so lonely before I met Hunter. I was stuck in my tiny bubble. And now? My days consist of laughter and freedom and love.

Well, except for the fact that you were almost murdered not too long ago due to your affiliation.

I rub my eyes, hoping to erase the thought at the same time.

I know I can forgive all that’s happened. I want to move forward so badly. It’s just that...it’s hard. I find myself so sad sometimes, and then I get so angry—at Adam, at Hunter’s dad.

At Hunter.

I count my breaths, inhaling for three beats and then exhaling for another three.

It’s a process.

I close my eyes. It is a process.

I must have dozed off because Hunter’s wet hair dripping on my face startles me.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to get up. We’ve got shit to do today.” He rolls me over and slaps my ass.

I yelp and sit up.

“Things like what? And do they require me to wear anything in particular?”

I’m not feeling like dressing up. At all.

“Nah, be comfortable. But be downstairs in ten minutes.” And with that, he’s out the door. He didn’t even stop to cop a feel of my exposed breast.

I try to not be disappointed by that.

I clean up and dress in long black yoga pants with flared legs and an old off-the-shoulder shirt.

Kitty snorts from his dog bed, and I decide against bringing him with me for now. I leave the door open for him to wander around when he wakes.

Hunter installed a dog door in the exit closest to his room. It leads to the rose garden and the field beyond, and Kitty loves pouncing in and out of the contraption.

As I stay inside pretty much 24/7 these days, Kitty has acted less as my service animal and more like my pet. That’s not to say that he hasn’t been a force against me completely losing my shit several times over the past few weeks.

But I feel myself not needing him in that capacity as much anymore.

Maybe it’s a false sense of security. I don’t know how to feel about the shift in our relationship. A vague thought tickles the back of my consciousness, that maybe I’ve replaced the emotional support Kitty provides with the overbearing presence of my lover.

Discomfort pushes at the edges of the idea, and I physically shake it off.

Throwing my hair up into a high bun, I follow the smell of coffee brewing.

I stop just short of the kitchen when I hear August speaking. “I do not know how I feel about you marrying Winter. This is all very sudden,” August says.

The woosh of my heartbeat sounds amplified in my ears. He can’t possibly be having this conversation with him now. I peek around the corner and their backs face the entryway. I can tell by August’s outfit that sleep didn’t find him last night. On the counter, August’s impressive collection of helicopter pieces line a microfiber cloth.

His insomnia comes and goes, and I don’t expect to see him again until very late in the afternoon.

“I understand that, Aug,” Hunter says. “Just know that we both want you to be happy. So ask as many questions as you want about it. We’ll tell you what we’re thinking every step of the way. But Winter makes me so, so happy, bud. And I want to make her a permanent part of our family.”

I hold my breath, afraid they’ll catch me in their silence.

August breaks it. “I think Winter is cool as hell. I guess there are worse people you could choose to make my stepmom.” Hunter chuckles, and August adds, “LOL.”

“Will you and Winter have kids?” August is going for the kill.

“Yes, I’m sure we will. She would make a great mom, don’t you think?”

August’s response is quick. “Yes.”

More silence.

“I do not want to share my room with anyone, though. And do not think about turning my game room into a nursery,” August adds.

I hear a gentle exhalation of amusement.

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Hunter says.

A moment later, August says, “You may hug me now, but not for more than thirty seconds.”

I cover my mouth to keep the sob I want to emit from coming out. I’m having several emotions at once. I’m happy that Hunter and August are growing closer and establishing a bond. I’m overwhelmed at all the baby talk and conversations about family. I’m scared because…how could I not be scared?

If I look close enough at my circumstances, it’s easy to see why I’m fucking terrified.

But I’m also in love. I’m in deep, deep love with Hunter Brigham.

And I don’t know how to feel about the fact that my love for him edges out everything else.

The scrape of chairs and the clink of ceramic hitting the marble countertop force me to move. I stomp my feet a little louder than usual to pretend I’m just coming up to the room.

Does that ever work?

“Good morning!” I say brightly. Both Hunter and August look at me with a lifted eyebrow. August’s gaze is so much like his father’s that I have to blink a few times.

What would our baby look like?

Hunter hands me a coffee mug, and I take it, grateful for something to do with my hands. The color of the coffee is perfect—a blonde color due to the heavy cream added.

“Four sugars are in there for you,” Hunter adds. He remembered how I like my coffee, even though I rarely drink it.

I love this man.

“Goodbye,” August says, loping out of the room.

“Bye, Aug!” I call after him.

Taking a grounding breath, I ask Hunter, “So what is so important that you have to wake me up at the ass-crack of dawn?”

He stands next to me at the island, our shoulders touching. “Have you ever held a gun, Sunbeam?”

I startle, leaning away to get a good look at him.

“No, do I need to?”

“Yes,” he says.

Oh. Okay.

“We’re going to the gun range on the property. You need to learn how to shoot and actually do some damage. The guys often use it throughout the day, so I wanted to bring you when no one is around.”

“Oh-kay,” I drawl. I don’t ask the silly question: Why do I need to learn to shoot? Because the answer is obvious.

People are trying to kill us. It would be better if I knew how to defend myself and protect our family.

I swallow at that. Our family. Is that what we are?

Hunter moves around the kitchen as I analyze my coffee cup. Ideally, I wouldn’t be in a situation where it’s kill or be killed. Hunter would be there to keep me and our family safe. But when have things turned out how they should?

“Get a move, cupcake,” he says, and then he slaps my ass again.

I follow him out of the kitchen, and I smile when he takes my hand. He stops in front of the study.

“See this panel here?” he asks.

I nod.

He presses on the top left corner of the wood frame, and it pops open.

“Go in,” he says, pushing me inside. He follows me, pulling the panel door shut behind him. When I move inside, a light comes on, casting shadows around the narrow passageway.

“So where are we going? Narnia?”

He doesn’t laugh at my quip.

“There are nine entrances to the safe room that follow this corridor between the walls. This passage is soundproof and bullet resistant.” My eyebrows shoot to my hairline.

“Meaning?” I add in a reedy voice.

“A single bullet won’t do damage, but against a barrage of bullets from an AK-47, it will only hold up for so long.”

I feel my eyes bulging out of their sockets.

He chuckles at my expression. “My grandfather had this place renovated during the Second World War. He wanted to be able to hide if the Japanese decided to take over the country.”

I shake my head from side to side. Makes sense.

“Keep walking, Sunbeam.”

I slowly move down the passage, keeping my hand on the smooth, cool wall on my right. Every few feet, a light clicks on.

“Here’s another entrance. This is August’s game room.” We walk for another minute.

“The kitchen.” Further down. “The media room.”

Finally, we reach a steel door with a biometric panel on it.

“Put your hand here,” he murmurs. Any sound we make is dampened by the material on the walls.

I place my hand on the scanner, and a few clicks later, the door opens. It has to be at least two feet thick.

Hunter walks in, and a row of overhead lights come on. There’s enough shelf-stable food on one wall to last at least six months. A PVC pipe comes from the ceiling and into a water dispenser on the wall—not that the room needs it. There are ten massive barrels labeled “Potable Water” on another end. A sofa, a computer, a giant television screen, an old-school radio, and a row of bunk beds fill the space. The room is at least fifteen-hundred square feet.

“If you’re ever in trouble, come here. Ella knows of this place, and she has a print. I’ll get August’s registered too.”

“This is a lot, H,” I whisper. A funny feeling settles in my chest, making me vaguely lightheaded.

He presses his body to mine, my back to his front. “I know, Sunbeam.” He kisses the side of my head.

“I hope we’ll never have to use this space. But if you do, please promise me you’ll come here and stay safe until help arrives.”

I nod, still not looking at him. “Promise.”

He leads me out of the safe room and down another corridor. It spits us out into the rose garden, and we make our way to a smaller, hangar-looking building on the west side of the property. It’s a part of the estate that I don’t often visit. The guards bunk there in three houses spread out on that end.

Hunter pushes the metal door and flicks on a large main switch, illuminating the entire space. There’s a two-seater helicopter and a small jet parked inside.

“So you own a 767, a helicopter, and a jet?”

Hunter has the sense to look bashful as he holds up three fingers. “I have three helicopters and three small fixed-wing planes.”

I shake my head, spinning to look at all the opulence.

“You want more kids, yeah?”

“You bet your sweet pussy I do,” he says brightly.

I press my lips together in admonishment.

“Well, we’re gonna have to teach them humility. Their first car will be a used Toyota Camry. At least a decade old.”

The sound of his laughter echoes off the metal walls.

“I’m serious. Our kid will know what it means to earn things. So yes, they’ll have a beat-up car with no working A/C or heat. They’ll have to get it how they live when it comes to D.C. winters,” I add.

He shakes his head, grinning widely. “You crack me up, Winter Leigh,” he says.

“Vaughan,” I add.

He shrugs and rolls his eyes.

Grabbing my hand, he leads me through another set of doors, and then we’re in the indoor range. He keeps the lights low, turning on one switch so the spotlights above each shooter bay are on.

On the opposite side of the bays is a wall of safes, all fitted with biometric scanners. Hunter walks up to one of them and opens it.

“Come here, Winter,” he says. He taps a few keys and then places my hand on the scanner. “If you ever need weapons, you’re in the system to unlock any weapons cabinet. That goes for in here and the ones we have in the main house.”

“We have guns in the main house?” I ask. I’m overwhelmed.

“Yes, of course,” he says. “There’s a safe in our bedroom, my office, the kitchen, and the sitting room. There’s also a weapons closet in the safe room. I should have shown you that.” His hand on my chin causes me to snap my mouth closed.

He turns around and grabs three guns. Then he walks over to lay them on the small counter at the bay farthest from the door.

“Know what these are?” he asks.

“Those would be guns, right?” I say, sarcasm lacing the statement.

His face is unamused, so I shake my head no.

Nodding, he removes what I know to be the magazine from each firearm. Pulling on the top of one, he says, “This is called the slide. You pull it back to chamber the round or to make sure the gun is empty.”

He clears each gun to ensure they’re unloaded. I suppress a yelp when bullets pop out as he disarms them.

“This one is a Glock 19. It’s lightweight. It holds fifteen rounds and one in the chamber. Feel it.” He hands me the gun, holding it out in his palm with the handle facing me and the barrel pointing toward the paper target.

I take it, careful to keep the gun angled away from us. I arrange my arm into an awkward position.

“It’s not going to shoot you, baby. The gun’s completely empty.”

“Nope-a-lope, I’ve seen that PSA commercial,” I say.

He takes the gun from me.

“This is a Smith & Wesson Shield. It holds twenty rounds. This one is light too, but won’t kick as much. Hold it.”

I pick it up, feeling slightly more confident when I palm it like Hunter does. After a moment, I push it back toward him.

“This one is a Beretta M9. The military uses these. We keep these armed with armor-piercing bullets, and they hold fifteen rounds, plus one in the chamber. It will kick, but if someone is trying to fuck with you and they’re wearing some type of bulletproof vest, it will drop them.”

I pick it up off the table without him having to tell me.

Everything feels surreal.

“What’s the most important thing I’ve told you about all three of these guns?”

“Um,” I say dumbly. I’m overwhelmed with everything he’s told me.

“How many rounds they’ll hold,” he says. “If you’re in here and you have two dozen people coming at you, I want you to know how many bullets you have in your gun before it’s spent.”

I nod, shaken at the thought of a small army of people trying to kill me.

Hunter picks up the empty magazine next to the Glock and starts loading it with rounds. “Watch me do this, then you do it.” The bullets click as he refills the cartridge holder.

“Your turn, Sunbeam.” He hands me a disassembled, unloaded gun. The ammo slides into the mag with ease. When I’m done, he shoves the clip into the bottom of the gun.

“Here’s how you know it’s loaded,” he says, pointing to a tiny dot on the side of the firearm.

“Who would be able to see that?” I yell with dismay.

“You. When you’re focused on protecting yourself.”

I suppress a whimper.

“We’re going to shoot all these guns. The safety is on. Here’s how you turn it off.” He points to the lever. “You need to rack the gun, but you only need to do it once. That’s why they’re called semi-automatic.”

So that’s what that means.

“Pull the slide back to rack the gun,” he says. I struggle to pull it back and look at him with hopelessness.

“Pull hard, then let it go,” he says.

Using all my upper body strength, I slide it back and let it release. I hear the bullet slide into the chamber.

“You know you never want to point a gun at anyone, but you especially don’t want to point it at someone unless you’re ready to kill them. And if you’re shooting someone, you’re shooting to kill. You keep pulling that trigger until the gun goes click. Got it?”

“Got it,” I choke out.

“Good girl,” he says. He steps behind me and then situates the gun and the position of my fingers. He holds his hands over mine.

The paper target isn’t a bull’s eye like I expected from the movies. Instead, it’s a silhouette of a man’s body.

“We’re going to shoot now,” he whispers close to my ear.

My terror at this lesson starts to get edged out by want.

Jesus Christ, get a grip.

“You want to line up this point here,” he taps the ridge at the top of the gun, “with wherever you’re trying to shoot. Aim for the chest, as it’s the largest area. Keep both your eyes open. Understand?”

“Eyes open. Shoot for the chest. Line up the shot. Got it.”

“Turn the safety off, baby.”

I move my thumb to click the lever. His hands are warm, steady over mine. I feel him take a deep breath.

“Prepare for the recoil,” he says. “Fire on one.”

I put my finger over the trigger.

He counts slowly. “Three, two, one—”

Even though he told me to prepare for the recoil, the force of it takes me off guard. If his hands weren’t holding mine steady, I would have one hundred percent knocked my front teeth out.

“Holy shit,” I say. My hand hurts, and I look at the target. I clipped the top edge of the paper, nowhere near where I was aiming.

“Well, fuck, that’s really bad,” I say.

He chuckles in my ear.

“For your first shot, you did pretty good. You hit the paper.” He rubs my forearms and then says, “Let’s try again.”

It goes on like that for two solid hours. We go through all the guns, unloading several clips from each weapon until I’m able to stand on my own and shoot with some accuracy.

The last ten rounds, I manage to hit the target dead center.

“Are we done yet?” I ask, petulance lacing each word.

“Let’s do a few more shots with the S&W.”

I like the Smith & Wesson, and Hunter promises I’ll get one to carry before the day ends.

I release the tension in my neck before picking up the handgun. With this one, I feel like I’m able to control the aim better, and the recoil is manageable.

Hunter walks up behind me when I lift the gun to aim.

Three, two—

Right when I squeeze the trigger, Hunter grabs a handful of my ass, and the shot goes wild.

“Hunter James Brigham, that is so dangerous. You’re distracting me!”

“If someone is trying to kill you, you’ll be distracted then too. Focus,” he says close to my ear.

I suck my teeth and roll my eyes. He has a point, but still.

I lift the gun again, and then I start counting.

Three, two—

This time, I shoot low, but that’s because I bend forward at the last minute when Hunter’s hand skates beneath the elastic of my yoga pants.

“No panties. Really, Sunbeam?” His finger finds my clit, rubbing it in small circles.

I mumble incoherently, pushing back against him. He’s hard, and all my ability to focus is now in my snatch.

“Good, but you have to focus better than that, Sunbeam.”

“Ugh!” Determined to make my shot and to come, I square my shoulders.

I lift the gun.

Three, two—

This time, when he slides his finger inside me, I go up on my toes and keep both eyes open and my arms locked. I hit the target right in the center.

“Good job, baby. You did good,” he whispers. He’s got two fingers in me now, and the heel of his palm presses against my nub.

“What do I win?” I ask, breathless.

“What do you want as a prize?”

“Your cock,” I blurt out.

He chuckles. Spinning me around, he bends me over the long bench separating the shooting bays from the cabinets.

With as much frantic energy as he’s using to unzip his pants, I push my leggings down to my knees. When my palms slap against the wood-grain bench, he pushes inside me in one long stroke.

“Fuck—H!”

He pumps into me, slamming so hard that my tits hit my chin. It’s so hot.

“You’re going to keep yourself safe, right, Sunbeam?” His balls slap my clit, and I widen my stance as far as the material of my pants will allow, arching my back.

“Yes,” I say to him on a moan.

“God, you’re perfect,” he says. “Rub your clit quick. I’m about to come, and I want you squeezing my cock when I do.”

Without an ounce of hesitation, I rub my spot in the familiar pattern I know is destined to bring me over the edge.

His movements speed up, and we’re fucking wildly. It’s glorious. I come to the edge quickly, shouting his name when I tip over.

“Goddamn, Winter,” he grinds out, and then with one-two-three more strokes, he pulls me flush to him with a bruising grip, coming deep inside me with one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hip.

We’re both breathless, half-dressed, and my arms start to shake from the weight of holding myself up and the hours of shooting practice.

He runs his hand up my back before slowly pulling out. I start to stand up, but he holds me in place. “Don’t move,” he commands, and I look at him over my shoulder. He stares at me. Well, at my pussy.

“Hunter,” I say, heat crawling up my face. I shift, and he presses me down more. Using his other hand, he scoops up his cum, pushing it back in slowly, giving my most sensitive parts a gentle, loving caress along the way.

“Sorry, baby. I just wanted to sear this sight into my memory,” he says with little humor. He pulls me to stand, putting my yoga pants back in place.

The kiss he gives me is so, so tender.

“It’s important to me that you are safe, Sunbeam,” he says quietly.

“I know. I’m learning that.”

He kisses my forehead. “Part of staying safe means knowing where you can turn for help,” he says casually. He moves over to the guns, preparing them to return to storage.

I sit on the bench.

“Yeah,” I say.

“You need to call Veronica.” His back is to me when he says this, and I bite my lip to keep from breaking down. The truth is, I miss my best friend. Like, I really, really miss her. And I’m so sorry and embarrassed and angry at myself for how I treated her.

And based on the fact that she hasn’t reached out to me, I know she’s hurt.

“Wait. Has she spoken to you?”

Hunter reaches a hand out to me, and we leave the shooting range, pausing only to flick off the lights. When we exit the hangar without a response from him, I know the answer is yes.

I say his name, and he exhales. “Yes, she and I have talked.”

I look around the rose garden, trying to figure out my emotions and my thoughts.

“Winter,” he says, “I love you. I’m always here for you.”

“But,” I add.

“And,” he emphasizes, “you need to accept that you have more people in your corner than you allow. You have a support system that’s beyond me. It’s Veronica. It’s Genevieve. It’s Ella. Hell, it’s even Leo and August.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, contemplating his words. I know he’s right. But taking another step to get vulnerable, to make amends, is fucking hard.

What was it I said to Hunter all those months ago in this same garden? Atonement.

“I’ll work on it,” I commit.

He smiles at me.

Reaching over to pluck a rose from the nearby bush, he hands it to me.

I bring it to my nose, inhaling the luscious scent.

“I know you will, baby. I know you will.”

TWENTY-ONE

WINTER

Hunter holds my hand in the back seat of the new armored G-wagon. It took a solid two weeks of talks with him for me to gather the nerve to get in this car and head to our destination. I emailed Genevieve about it several times, going back and forth with her about how I’m a horrible person and her rebuttal that I’m not.

Ultimately, I required Hunter to take his focus off his work and come with me.

But now that we’re in front of the townhouse, fire ants circle in my belly, making me want to faint.

Hunter clasps my hand in his, and I look over to him. I can almost pretend that we don’t have a driver and a guard in the front seats or a battalion of vehicles surrounding our vehicle from all angles.

“She wants to see you, baby. She loves you,” he says. I look at Veronica’s townhome and try to bite down the fear of rejection. I push my fingers into Kitty’s fur, focusing on the sensory input coming from my palms.

“You didn’t hear what I said to her, H,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond for a moment, but after a beat, he pulls me into him, kissing my temple.

“She’s your family. You both just need to talk this out.” He pulls my hand from my mouth when I bite my nail. Some nonverbal communication happens because our driver and five guards are suddenly standing next to my open door.

“I’ll be right here, baby. Go talk with your sister.” He kisses my hand.

Taking a quick cleansing breath, I get out of the car, Kitty clutched to my chest. If people weren’t trying to kill us, I’d laugh at the comedy of the mass of men in black moving with me toward the steps of Veronica’s brownstone. I battle back the desire to feint to the side to break their formation.

The door opens without us knocking, but I take a step back when Rio appears on the other side. He pulls all of us in. When I get into the foyer, I’m bewildered that seven guards I’ve seen at Amelia Manor mill around Veronica’s home.

Rio shrugs in a non-committal way when I look at him. I pull out my phone.

Why are all these guards already inside Veronica’s house?

His reply is almost instant.

I wanted to make sure she was safe, so I assigned her a detail.

I swallow down the happy tears. This man loves me so much that he wants to make sure everyone I care about is also safe.

I love you.

I love you more. Always. Transcendentally .

I put my phone in my jacket pocket at the sound of footsteps, but I pause when Ella descends the staircase.

“Ella? What are you doing here?” It looks like in the time Veronica and I have been fighting—is that what we call it?—she’s formed a whole-ass relationship with my extended circle. I don’t feel weird about it.

“I check in on Veronica daily, especially now that she’s on bed rest.”

“Bed rest?” My voice is a near shout. Oh, my God. “Is she okay? Is the baby okay?” I rush up the stairs, but Ella puts her hand on my shoulder to stop me.

“Yes, the baby is fine, as is Veronica. Her blood pressure hasn’t been the greatest, so her doctor wants her on total bed rest for the next week or so until she can deliver. Her mom and dad are caught over in Europe for the next week at least, so I didn’t want her to be alone.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face.

“Can I see her?” I ask, and the strange out-of-body feeling that I’m asking someone else to see Veronica causes the world to tilt. We’ve always just been there for each other.

“Yes, of course,” Ella says brightly. “She wants to see you. Just make sure you don’t get her excited or upset. She has to keep everything calm.”

I nod and swallow when I take the steps to her bedroom.

When I’m outside her door, I pause. I don’t know what to say to her all of a sudden. Where do I even begin?

I’m sorry for being an asshole to you. Forgive me?

I shake my head and push the door open...only to duck when a pillow sails toward my head.

When I recover, looking at Veronica, I’m taken aback that she’s smiling, damn near laughing at me.

“You’re so mad you’re throwing things, huh?” I say. I put Kitty on the floor, and he runs over to Veronica, jumping on her bed. He sniffs her body and whines, and then he lies on the bed and looks at her. I pick the pillow off the floor and shut the door.

“It seemed like a good way to break the ice. I could hear you thinking from downstairs,” she says. She struggles to sit up more in the bed, and I take a moment to really take her in. Her swollen, shiny face seems flushed.

“Rons, what’s going on?” I’m so concerned. She’s advanced in her pregnancy, in the ninth month now, but not quite due.

“I’ve got a touch of pregnancy hypertension, maybe a lil’ preeclampsia,” she says with a sarcastic smile. She shrugs.

“The fuck?” I practically yell, rushing to go to the door to get her to the hospital immediately.

“Calm down,” she says. “Dr. Greene has been here every day giving me ultrasounds and checking my urine, thanks to that oaf you call a boyfriend.” She rolls her eyes but doesn’t look at all upset. If anything, she seems relieved.

“What’s going on, Rons?” The urge to cry comes to me all at once. She’s been sick, struggling, and I haven’t been here. “Where is James?”

Veronica stares straight ahead, not looking at me or answering the question. Then she waves her hand in the air as if the inquiry were unimportant.

I dip my chin, breathing deeply. “Veronica, I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t want to cry but feel the tears welling up anyway. “I have been so angry and hurt, and I’ve taken it out on you. You deserved none of the poison I spewed at you that day.”

She nods her head at me. “Thank you for apologizing,” she says. It’s still stiff.

“I’m ready to get healthy again. To start,” I search for a word, “rebuilding from here. I should allow in more support, not less, from the people who care about me. I want to be a good sister and friend again.” Her eyes turn misty, but she covers the shift in her expression by sipping from her oversized water jug.

I slump down onto the end of her bed. “Please forgive me, Rons.” She looks at me for a moment, her glossy face blank. Then she reaches out her hand to me. I grab it.

“We’re sisters. We say stupid shit, and then we make up. You get a pass,” she says. “This time.” She gives me a significant look.

“Deal,” I say. “What do you need?” I start moving around the room. It’s mostly clean and orderly. Hunter—or James?—has someone keeping the room up.

“Well, first, I need you to help me out of the bed,” she says with a beleaguered sigh.

“Where do you need to go?” I’m by her side in a blink.

“Well,” she says with a slight chuckle. “To the hospital. I’m ninety-seven percent sure my water is broken.”

I help shift her to sitting and notice the giant wet spot beneath her ass.

“Holy shit, we’re having a baby!” I scream. Fifteen hulking guards surround us with guns drawn in the moments following my yell.

“Move, assholes, my niece is about to be born!” Everyone spins into action.

Veronica’s labor ended up being complicated. Her hypertension started to turn into pre-eclampsia, but because Dr. Greene had been monitoring her urine for protein, she was able to see the sharp uptick that noted that she needed to be admitted to Labor and Delivery.

She coincidentally called Veronica to go in for possible induction while we were in the car. Veronica said, “Way ahead of you, Doc. Looks like I’m in labor now.”

I sent Kitty home with Ella, and we rushed to the hospital.

We, being me, Veronica, Rio, and the security guards who stood outside Veronica’s door.

Unfortunately, her other labs weren’t as awesome, so they had to start her on IV anti-hypertensives and a magnesium drip. I held her hand through all of it. Even though she was thirty-seven weeks, so technically early term, the doctors gave her a steroid shot in her butt to help the baby’s lungs.

Veronica labored for eighteen hours, and then my niece was born.

We snuggle up in her hospital bed together two days after the baby’s birth. The doctors are keeping her in longer to make sure her pre-eclampsia resolves, but the baby took to being Earth-side like a champ. It’s incredible—Veronica’s lost what looks like twenty pounds just in water weight overnight.

“Have you decided on a name, Rons?” The baby is in Veronica’s lap, sleeping peacefully, with her mouth moving as if she were sucking milk.

Veronica hums softly. “Summer,” she eventually says. “Gotta keep the seasonal theme in the family,” she says.

Tears fall, shock at the meaning of the gesture stunning me. “Oh, Veronica...” I say, tilting my head to rest on hers. Taking in a slow, deep breath, I get up from the bed to place Summer in her bedside bassinet.

Once I get her settled—and still sleeping—I sit on the edge of Veronica’s bed. She stares out the window, her face blank.

“Rons,” I say softly.

After a moment, she says, “Hm?” almost as if it took a second for my voice to register.

When she looks at me, I ask her again. “Where is James?”

For the entire time we’ve been in the hospital, he hasn’t shown. He hasn’t called. I grab Veronica’s hand, and she stares at our entwined fingers.

She sighs once.

Twice.

And then a sob. Clasping her free hand over her mouth, she breathes deeply to compose herself.

Then she says, “James has decided we need to divorce.” The composure with which she utters these words is astounding.

Icy numbness rushes through me. “When did this happen?” I ask.

“Shortly before you went...missing.” She inhales again, and it sounds like she’s having to remind herself to inhale and exhale.

“Two questions,” I say. “Then I want you to rest, okay?” She nods her head.

“Is he coming back to see his daughter?”

Inhale. Exhale. She shakes her head no.

“Do you need help?”

Inhale. Exhale. She nods her head yes.

“Okay,” I reply, then pull her into my arms as she breaks down in total silence, unwilling to wake her sleeping newborn with her devastation.

TWENTY-TWO

HUNTER

Idon’t want to bring Winter to Misha Hroshko’s home. First, because it’s been a month since we moved Veronica into Amelia Manor, and she hasn’t wanted to leave Veronica’s side.

Or Summer’s. Not that anyone can blame her. The whole house, even August, adores the baby. Winter’s taken more middle-of-the-night feedings than is reasonable, even moving a baby monitor into our room.

When I objected, she said, “You’re the one who’s all gung-ho about having a baby. Consider it real-world practice.” She rolled over and went to sleep. Cranky.

The other reason is that while Misha’s wife, Luna, has been in the Project for weeks, I have no idea what her progress has been outside the small updates Leo gives me.

Maybe she’s better now. Otherwise, I very well may be walking into my murder.

Winter’s hand is warm against mine. We’re in the back of the G-wagon, but this time, a battalion of armored cars surround us as an escort. She decided to leave Kitty behind to watch over Veronica and Summer. The truth is that Veronica relies on Kitty to keep her grounded more than Winter does these days, so instead of bringing him along, she decided he’d be more useful at home.

Having fifteen guards with us for a simple dinner is probably overkill, but I know that dinner with Misha Hroshko will be anything but simple.

Winter’s leg starts to shake. “Don’t be nervous, Sunbeam,” I say, putting my hand on her thigh.

She inhales and exhales to the count of three. She looks stunning tonight. The scar over her eye is faint, barely noticeable without makeup. With her face made up, I can’t see it at all.

She wears a black long-sleeved jumpsuit with a low-cut V-neck. Her ample breasts sit nicely in the bodice, and I want to lick the space between them where a thin gold chain hangs down. Also, she’s wearing the butt plug I put inside her before we left the house. It’s remote-controlled and vibrates, and fuck if my Sunbeam didn’t nearly drool when I presented it to her.

Putting it inside her after I ate her out on our bathroom counter is the highlight of the evening.

When she walked in front of me to get into the car, I had to stifle a groan at how her ass jiggled when she moved.

“I’m not nervous,” she says. The tightness around her wine-colored lips tells a different story.

I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Okay, I’m nervous. It’s just...this is a lot of people with us, and it’s not every day that you walk into the house of a mafioso.” She brings her hand to her mouth to bite her nails, and I lower it, grasping it gently in mine.

“First, don’t think of him that way. Just think of it as dinner with a friend of mine and his wife.”

She bites her lip. I’m surprised when her lipstick doesn’t move at all.

“Yeah, a friend who could put a horse head in our bed if we piss him off,” she says.

More like he’d put our heads in our bed. “Baby, you watch too many movies,” I say with a small chuckle.

She shrugs. “This is just a strange world.”

A few weeks ago, I told her most of the details about Misha—who he is and why we’re hanging out with a Ukrainian mob boss.

I half expected her to run for the hills. I didn’t expect her to do what she did, which was to say, “So you’re telling me you’re a bad boy, Mr. Brigham?” before dropping to her knees and swallowing me down.

The memory causes my cock to twitch in my wool slacks. I bring her hand to my mouth, taking a moment to examine her bare ring finger.

My mother’s ring should be on her hand. The fact that both Blair and my father have virtually disappeared off the face of the Earth is more than annoying. Blair’s disappearance is enraging because a) I want to see her dead too, even though it’ll probably cause a political shitstorm if I can’t make it look like an accident. And b) she has my mother’s ring. The ring that rightfully belongs to Winter.

I know I haven’t asked her to marry me despite having everyone call her Mrs. Brigham, much to her everlasting chagrin.

I want Winter to be my wife. She will be my wife.

I just want everything to be right. I have a vision of what I want it to look like when I pop the question. I want to give her Paris again. I want to give her my mother’s ring. I want her to be carefree and safe and happy and peaceful.

I can’t guarantee any of those things for her right now. She deserves all that and more.

“Just be yourself, baby. Let me worry about the rest.” She bites her lip again, and I reach to pull the flesh from between her teeth. “Keep biting your lip like that, and I’m gonna bite it for you.”

Her cheeks turn more pink beneath her blush. I love the gentle smile she gives me.

“You promise?” she asks.

I bring her over the middle console, grabbing the back of her neck to control her movements. Our kiss is hot, energized. I feel her anxiety channel through her lips to mine. When she moans, I break our embrace.

“Be good,” I whisper to her. Our noses rub against each other, and it’s the most intimate move I’ve ever done with another woman. My heart trips over its rhythm.

“Five minutes, boss,” Rio says. I sit back on my side of the car.

She pulls out a compact to check her lipstick. “This shit is amazing,” she murmurs, snapping the mirror shut. The side of her mouth kicks up. “Do you wanna know what one of the reviews called it?”

“What,” I say, amused.

“Blow-job proof.” Her eyes twinkle, and I’m so happy to see the glimmer there. The image of Winter when I found her in the diner snaps to my consciousness, and I repress a flinch as I recall the deadness in her eyes.

My Sunbeam is coming back. Different. Strong.

“We’ll have to test that theory tonight, then,” I say.

She weaves her fingers with mine.

“What do you want to do for your birthday, H?” she says, and I can tell she’s trying to shift us to a safe conversation.

I raise my eyebrows, my gaze dipping to her cleavage.

“Hunter, focus!” she says with a bright laugh.

“How am I supposed to focus with you sitting next to me looking damn near edible? It’s your fault you’ve got me thinking about blow jobs.”

And titty fucking, because her tits in that outfit....

“Hunter. Your birthday? How do you want to celebrate?” She tries to give me a stern look.

“As long as whatever we do includes seeing your smiling face, I’m good with whatever,” I say with all honesty.

Her smile grows with every turn of the tires.

“Fine, I’ll choose. Be prepared, H. I’m gonna throw you the best birthday party ever,” she says. Her excitement grows as she finishes her sentence. “Who do you want to be there?”

I think it over.

“Let’s keep it close to home at Amelia Manor. And maybe don’t invite anyone besides everyone who’s already around, so Leo, Ella, Veronica, and August.”

She deflates for a moment before smiling again. It’s not as bright as before. “Okay, H. One house party kick-back coming right up.”

She moves to bite her nails again, and I grab her hand once more, holding it in my lap until we arrive at our destination.

Misha Hroshko’s compound rivals Fort Knox. Literally. Renovated from an abandoned army base, thick concrete walls surround the acres of land he calls home. You can’t see his estate from the road leading up to it, but Leo told me he built a 15,000-square-foot mansion at the center of the compound.

Rio drives up to the gate, and Misha’s soldiers mill around it, carrying rifles at the ready. Winter’s fingers spasm in my hand.

“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur to her.

Rio speaks to the guards, and we all place our hands on a portable scanner to verify our identities. Or to make sure the pakhan can always find us.

Rolling up to the home, Leo was not exaggerating.

Rio cuts the engine and rounds to open Winter’s door.

“Before we go in,” I say, “I want you to wear this.” I pull a fourteen-carat, princess-cut diamond ring out of my pocket and slip it on her finger.

“Um,” she blurts out. “Hunter?”

“This one is just for looks. Soon enough, I’ll have my mother’s ring on your finger.” She stares at her hand for several beats after Rio opens her door.

A kiss on her fingertips rouses her from her stupor.

“Misha will respect us more if he sees we’re getting married. Trust me, please.” I look into her eyes and notice the far-off, bewildered look in her gaze.

“Fight me about it later?” I ask softly.

She visibly swallows.

We both exit the car and I grab her hand again, comforted by the feel of the diamond ring pressing against my palm.

The reality is that Misha’s support in finding Winter was highly unusual. In Misha’s world, just as it is in mine, people don’t care about girlfriends. They’re disposable. That’s part of the reason why I was so grateful for his help.

But a wife, however, holds a different place within our society.

Leo follows behind with his detail. He didn’t want to ride with us much for the same reason there’s Air Force One and Air Force Two.

“Good evening, sir. Madam,” comes a weathered male voice to our left. A butler stands at the bottom of the short stone staircase leading to the foyer.

Leo joins us a few moments later. “Ready?” he asks, his voice gruff. I notice without surprise that he’s solo.

“Ready,” I say under my breath.

“Welcome to my home.”

Misha’s deep, accented voice echoes once we pass the entryway. He stands on the second-floor balcony. Taking slow, measured steps, he walks down the stairs. When he stops in front of us, the look on his face radiates seriousness. He reaches for Winter, taking her left hand, and his eyes flit to me with a slight, amused smile before he addresses her.

“I see congratulations are in order,” he says. Winter blushes but stays silent.

“We’d be married already if I had my way,” I reply, pulling her closer to dislodge her hand from Misha’s.

“I understand the sentiment,” Misha says.

He turns away from our group, and we follow him into a formal dining room.

We take our places around the table and look over when a woman who can’t be more than five-foot-even walks into the room. She has soft hazel-green eyes and dark blonde hair cut into a short style that barely reaches her ears. She could be mixed with a few ethnicities—her light-tanned skin doesn’t look like it comes from a bottle or a little too much time in the sun. Misha’s face completely transforms when she enters.

This must be Luna, his wife. He grabs her hand with a gentleness that seems a hundred percent incongruent with this man’s reputation of mass devastation.

“Please meet my wife, Luna,” Misha says in a clear tone. She looks good, not at all like someone who has terminal cancer. Winter is the first to move, stepping toward the small woman and offering her hand.

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Winter says with grace befitting a queen. “I’m Winter, Hunter’s fiancée.” She trips over the last word only a little bit.

Good girl.

We’re all surprised when the more petite woman jumps at Winter, caging her into a tight hug. Winter stands there, bewildered for a moment, before she regains her composure, hugging the woman back.

Then Luna moves to the two of us, intent on hugging us before Misha growls low in his throat.

A warning.

Leo and I both take a step back. Got it. Don’t touch his woman.

Luna clasps her hands in front of her body with a smile on her lips and tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says in a Southern accent. Georgia, maybe?

“You’re welcome,” Leo says.

“Luna has just shown me the report from your doctor today,” Misha says roughly, pulling his woman into his side.

“No evidence of disease,” Luna says.

Winter gasps, covering her mouth as tears pop into her eyes too.

Well, thank fuck for that. Project Panacea coming through just removed the hangman’s noose from my neck—at least as far as Misha is concerned.

“That is wonderful news!” Winter exclaims. “Tonight must be a celebration.”

“Yes. I mean, of course, I need to stay cancer-free, but I’m grateful,” Luna says, passing her watery gaze to Leo and me and then back up to her husband. “At least I have a fighting chance.”

A bell rings in the hall, and we take our cue from Misha, who sits at the head of the table. The rest of us take our seats.

My hand finds Winter’s.

“A toast,” Misha says. “To the beginning of a long and fruitful partnership.”

We lift our glasses to drink, and I try to avoid Leo’s gaze.

We sold our souls, and now it’s time to pay up.

Our dinner is well-appointed, but I don’t taste the flavors. We’ve held up our end of the bargain, so things should be straightforward now.

This should be it, but it’s clear that I’m getting set up to be Misha Hroshko’s bitch boy.

Absolutely fucking not.

I turn when the server is about to pour more wine into Winter’s glass, and I put my hand over it to halt the server’s progress.

Winter looks at me with suppressed annoyance. “One glass is enough,” I say to her in a low voice. A glance at the server has him shuffling away quickly.

“Hunter,” she says with a low hiss only for my ears, “I’m not drunk or sloppy. I can handle my alcohol.”

I put my hand on her cheek, which only further annoys her. “That’s not why, Sunbeam,” I murmur.

“Enlighten me,” she deadpans.

“One glass is acceptable according to many studies backed by the ACOG.”

“The what?”

“The American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology.”

She coughs, choking on her spit. “Hunter James Brigham,” she wheezes.

“Fight me about it later?” I smile, kissing her hand.

“No. I want another glass of wine. I’m not—” She looks around the table, but Leo, Misha, and Luna appear wrapped up in their conversation.

“I’m not pregnant,” she says in an even lower voice.

My eyes flick down to her stomach.

“You are insufferable,” she adds.

“Sure. You’re still not getting more alcohol, though.” Then, because I clearly have a death wish, I push her water glass closer to her. “Drink your water and eat your vegetables. You need more calcium in your diet.”

The low growl she emits is adorable. As a reward, I snake my hand in my pocket to tap my phone screen. I don’t look at Winter when, a few seconds later, a tiny squeak pops from her mouth.

Pulsing the butt plug from the app on my phone while Misha and Luna laugh at something Leo says, I stop when her hands slap on the table.

I give her a reprieve and look at her while I sip my wine.

Based on her flushed, annoyed look, I will thoroughly enjoy the tongue-lashing she’s set to give me when we get home.

We finish our meal with silence between us, and I suppress a laugh when Winter spears a piece of broccolini.

“Luna, moya lyubov,” Misha says. “Would you like to show Winter our garden? I hear she has quite the interest in flowers.” Misha’s presence right now is beyond confusing. He’s cold and dangerous in every interaction I’ve had with him. But he’s affectionate beyond what anyone would expect with his wife—with “his love,” as he calls her.

Luna’s eyes light up. “Oh, me too! Let me show you. Our garden is insane.”

Winter gives her a genuine smile. She likes her. And I’m glad because the relationship with Misha Hroshko is set to be “long and fruitful.”

Fuck.

When the women walk off, Misha raises his hands toward me and Leo. “Let’s go to the cigar room. Leo, you’re a cigar man,” he says innocuously. But it’s not innocuous because how the fuck does he know that? He’s had us followed or tapped or—

“Have you ever had Mayan Sicars?” Misha continues as if he isn’t verbally flopping his dick out on the table.

“I have,” Leo says coolly.

“And you, Hunter?” If Misha feels the animosity radiating from Leo, he doesn’t show it.

“Can’t say that I have,” I reply.

Misha claps his hands once. “You’re in for a treat.” He gets up without warning and heads out of the dining room. Leo and I finally share a glance, and it’s loaded.

Me: We’re fucked.

Him: I fucking know.

Me: But what can we do?

Him: Not a fucking thing.

Making our way down the dark corridor, we follow Misha into the opulent cigar room. It’s climate-controlled and leather-bound—not that I’d expect it to look any different.

“Sit, sit,” Misha says. “Whiskey, bourbon, or cognac?” he asks hospitably.

“Whiskey for me,” I say.

“Cognac,” Leo says.

Misha nods and pours the alcohol. Bringing over the drinks, he opens the humidor on the low table separating us.

“Mayan Sicars. Did you know that they began making cigars in the twelfth century? These cigars,” he picks one up, examining it in the low, warm light. “They’re over six hundred years old. Some people see them as an investment piece.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then he quickly snips the end of the cigar, handing one to Leo and another to me.

“This one, though.” He pulls out a gold-leaf wrapped cigar with… What the fuck, are those diamonds? “The Gurkha Royal Courtesan. Himalayan tobacco, Fiji water, and Remy Martin’s Black Louis XII cognac. Wrapped in gold leaf with five-carat diamonds. How much do you think this one costs, Leo?”

I raise my eyebrow. I don’t know why he’s so focused on Leo, but it’s making the hair on my neck rise even more.

“It’s roughly worth a million and a quarter,” Leo says in a bored tone.

Misha nods his head toward him. “Very good. You do know your cigars.” With no further preamble, he snips the end of the deluxe tobacco and lights it.

Lights a million-dollar cigar.

I see shit like this all the time, but this feels like a particularly disgusting display of power, waste, and greed.

I look away as the cigar smoke whirls around us. I light mine, leaning back in the leather seat, sipping the whiskey.

I can’t lie. It’s delicious.

Looking around, I see what Misha’s doing. He knows we’ve seen him in a vulnerable state, and vulnerability is a risk.

So he wants to show who’s in charge. And it isn’t us.

“I don’t need what your father has,” Misha says. He isn’t looking at me. Instead, he’s looking at the cigar, analyzing the smoke curling from the end of it. “Honestly, I don’t need to intervene in this issue.”

The issue of my father trying to kill me and the people I love.

“And while his business is,” he tilts his head from side to side, searching for a word, “problematic, to say the least, I have more than enough here.” He puffs on the million-dollar cigar. “So why should I help you again?”

My eyes narrow on Misha, and I can sense Leo’s jaw grinding out of my peripheral vision.

“We did everything you asked us to do. Your wife would not be alive if it weren’t for us,” Leo says with barely concealed agitation.

Misha nods. “That’s true.”

He’s silent, and Leo doesn’t fill the space. In unison, we take a pull from our cigars. “I’m thankful for your assistance,” Misha says.

Misha watches the smoke dissipate for a moment before adding, “And yet I think you fail to appreciate how much it will cost me to shield you and yours from the fallout of your father’s removal. Ultimately, many lives will be lost until I can gain control.”

I’ve thought about what it would mean to topple my father from his throne, and the reality is that I’ll have to be hypervigilant for the rest of my life. My father works with some of the most dangerous criminals in the world. His influence is massive, and his existence makes a lot of people a lot of fucking money.

So his removal will impact the bottom line for many people, and people tend to get trigger-happy when you start fucking with their money.

Suddenly, I feel very, very tired.

I sigh. “What more do you want, Misha?” I ask with a long exhale. Misha smiles.

“I’m happy to help you with your problem, Hunter. You have, after all, saved my wife’s life. And yet, helping you will mean continued effort on my end. Your assistance was merely opening the door to something you already had lying there.”

I can see his point. Fucker.

“Again, what the hell do you want?” Leo asks with weary delivery.

Misha cuts his eyes toward Leo, taking a long draw from his cigar. “Isla Cara,” he says simply.

“What about it?” I ask. I try to go for an unaffected tone, but I don’t know if I’m successful. I feel a headache generate between my eyebrows.

“There are some things that I need from Isla Cara. I think you know where they are.”

I raise my eyebrow. “Isla Cara is sixty square miles. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Misha’s face is bland for several moments before a slight tick of his jaw breaks the glare.

“You know, I remember you, Hunter Brigham. From your father’s island,” he says.

My jaw clenches.

“I’ve only been there once. The Russian president was there often, if you didn’t know,” he continues.

I tilt my head down a fraction.

“I remember you being there. You were in the shadows. Always on the sidelines. Watching. I have a feeling you saw many things, Hunter.”

He’s right. I saw so much. Too much.

I look at Leo.

Leo stares at Misha. Hard.

“Your father hides all his secrets on Isla Cara. I want to know all of them.” His tone is dangerous, direct. I know if I deny any part of his statement, he’ll likely kill me where I sit.

My brain goes back to my father’s vault and the side of the house that he would never let anyone into.

“Why do you need this?” I bring my glass to my lips and resist downing the entire thing.

“Are you really in a position to ask questions, Hunter?”

A stare-off.

“Fine,” I say to Misha. “I’ll go to Isla Cara. If you’re looking for secrets, I have a good idea where he kept them.”

The sound of the clock ticking is the only noise for several moments.

“Wonderful,” Misha replies, smiling wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You will leave for Isla Cara tonight,” he says.

“No,” I say, the syllable quick and firm. At Misha’s challenging look, I say, “My fiancée has planned a birthday party for me the day after tomorrow. She would be devastated if I were to miss it. So, I won’t.”

His eyes don’t move from my face for several long seconds. “Very well. Family is everything,” he says. I try to not absorb it as a threat.

“By the end of the week. Three days,” Misha says darkly.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Got it,” Leo says, looking away.

“End of the week. We’ll be ready,” I say as I stamp out my cigar.

Misha raises his glass. “To a long and fruitful partnership,” he says again.

Leo and I raise our glasses, but while Misha takes a sip, Leo and I empty our drinks in one gulp.

TWENTY-THREE

WINTER

“Hand me the milk!” I growl at Hunter, who stares at me with amusement.

I’m in the kitchen, wearing entirely too much flour on my clothes, trying to bake a cake for Hunter’s thirty-fifth birthday.

“Baby, why are you stressing yourself out making this cake? We could just run to the bakery and get a pre-made one.” Hunter leans against the island, carefully avoiding the eggshells near the edge.

Getting a store-bought cake is probably the tastier, more logical solution. For all my gifts, I’m not known for my kitchen skills. I can cook well enough not to starve and be well-nourished, but am I the hostess with the most-ess? Not even close.

“Absolutely not,” I say hotly, scrolling on my messy phone to triple-check the amount of milk I need to pour into this damn chocolate cake.

For some wholly irrational and unknown reason, I decided that not only did Hunter need a homemade cake, but one made from scratch. No Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker cake mix here.

“This is our first thing as a...” Family? Couple? Jesus, what the fuck? “Unit,” I say to Hunter, stirring the cake batter until smooth.

Why are there still lumps?

He chuckles. “A unit, Sunbeam?”

I throw my hands up, heading to the pantry. “I don’t know, Hunter! You tell me what this is.” I rummage around the massive walk-in, looking for...something.

The cocoa powder. I see it on the top shelf, and when I reach for it, I’m startled when the door closes behind me.

Hunter is here.

“You need to relax, baby,” he says with a serious tone.

“This is the first celebration-type thing we’re having with all of us—the first thing we’ve done with August too. And he’s a teenage boy who has just moved in with the dad he’s spent very little time with, and now you’ve brought a girlfriend into the picture. I would expect him to have big feelings about this, H.” The words rush out of me, and when I’m finished, I roll my lips inward to stop more from coming out.

“You’re afraid he won’t like you? August loves you.”

“Yeah, as a person he can talk to. As a therapist and friend. Not as his step—” I cut myself off again when I almost say “stepmom.”

I’m getting way the fuck ahead of myself.

Hunter crowds me against the shelves, my back pressing against them. He tilts my head up, and then, because he gives me what I need even when I don’t know to ask, he kisses me.

I melt as I always do when his lips touch mine.

It’s a dirty kiss, and his mouth is hungry against mine. Hunter grinds against me, and the feeling of his hard cock against my stomach signals my lady bits to get wet.

I lean into the kiss. When he ends it, I inhale sharply.

“August loves you. He wants you as a stepmom.”

“I don’t want him to think I’m trying to erase his mother, but I don’t know what I’m doing here. I want him to feel loved and cared for and not edged out.”

He smiles down at me, his thumb rubbing against my bottom lip. He gives me a chaste kiss.

“You’re amazing. You know that, Sunbeam?” Another kiss. “August and I are so lucky to have you in our lives.”

The pre-heated oven beeps, which spurs me into action. I burst out of the pantry with Hunter on my heels in time to see Ella enter the kitchen.

“Did a bomb go off in here?” she asks, taking in the island.

“I just want to make Hunter a chocolate cake.” I sniff, rubbing my nose with the back of my hand to stave off the onslaught of tears I feel welling up.

Ella nods slowly. “Uh-huh. And do you, um, enjoy baking?”

I stare at her in the thick silence, and she laughs.

“Move over, girl. Let me help you.”

I sag in relief. “You will?”

“Yep. Lucky for you, baking is my specialty. I love sweets if you didn’t know. Plus, I’ve made this cake before.” She winks, and I settle in beside her.

Hunter kisses the side of my head and leaves the kitchen.

With him out of the way, I put my hand over my chest, centering myself with a quick breathing exercise. When I’m finished, I feel the anxiety leaving my body.

“You really care about this cake, don’t you,” Ella says as she greases a parchment-lined baking tin.

“I do. I just want it to be right.” I assess the damage I’ve done to the kitchen island and decide to make myself useful by cleaning while Ella bakes.

“It’s already all right,” Ella says, giving me a sage nod.

I tilt my head to the side, considering her. “Yeah,” I reply. Ella and I haven’t spent much time together. Before the abduction, we were starting to get to know each other, but we didn’t get to hang out much, as I was there to work with August.

And then, when Hunter and I broke up, I avoided the house altogether.

Since returning, I kept to myself until a few weeks ago. Now it feels like she’s the person who is challenging to get ahold of.

“I’ve never seen my brother so happy,” Ella says, breaking through my contemplation. “You’re good for him.”

“We’re good for each other,” I reply.

She hums, focusing back on the cake. I count several seconds as I shuffle around the kitchen, cleaning up. When the island is clean and orderly, I put my hands flat on the marble countertop, assessing her.

I realize she’s avoiding my gaze.

“Ella,” I say softly.

“Hmm?” she asks, casting the sound over her shoulder as she puts the cake in the oven.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” she replies.

She’s at least facing me a little, and I wave my hands between our bodies. “With you and me,” I say.

“We’re good!” she replies brightly, clutching the dirty mixing bowl to her chest and shuffling over to the sink. I walk over to where she stands.

“I don’t think so, Ella. I know I’ve been distant over the past few months since I’ve been back—” The sound of her dropping the metal bowl in the sink cuts me off.

“It’s okay. Sorry, I’ve been running around between classes and stuff.”

“See, case in point. I didn’t even know you were in school still.”

She rolls her lips inward, and when tears fill her eyes, I reach out and touch her arm. “Hey,” I say, my brows knitting together.

“I’m so sorry, Winter!” She covers her face with her wet hands, sobbing.

“What are you sorry for?” I try to keep the confusion out of my voice.

“I’m sorry that my father did this! I’m sorry I defended him for so long and was so wrong.”

She stops talking when I pull her into a hug. I had no clue she carried so much of this on her conscience.

“You almost died, and you suffered so much. Hunter won’t tell me what happened while you were gone, but I can fucking guess. And my father was the one who orchestrated all this. I just—God!”

She tries to move away, but I hold her through her words, letting her get this out.

Her tears start to slow after a minute, and I release her when she pulls back.

She leans against the island, her eyes fixed on the stone's swirling gray, gold, and white patterns.

“I don’t know how you don’t hate me. I’m not looking for sympathy—especially not sympathy from you, because you should be the last person to give it. But fuck.”

“Will you look at me, Ella?”

It takes a few seconds, but eventually, she looks up at me.

“The only people who are responsible for what happened are Adam Collins, Benjamin Brigham, and the people he used to hurt me. No one else. Not even you.”

Her lips tremble, and she nods slowly. “I’m so sorry about what happened. I’m so glad that you’re here.”

I smile at her. “Likewise.” I grab her hand. “And I’d like us to get closer, you know? To be friends. I don’t have very many of them. I mean, actually, Veronica is my only friend. And I guess Hunter, but that’s, um....”

“That’s different since y’all bang like horny teenagers?”

I laugh, and it’s loud, robust. I haven’t had many of them over the past several months, but they’re coming out more frequently these days.

“I’d love for us to be friends, especially since we’re going to be sisters soon,” she says with a dangerous twinkle in her eye.

I look down at my left hand. My ringless left hand. The ring Hunter unceremoniously put on my hand before entering Misha Hroshko’s home sits next to our bed, and Hunter didn’t say anything when I didn’t put it on this morning.

It’s all confusing as fuck.

“He hasn’t asked me to marry him,” I say. “Plus, it’s probably too soon for all that, anyway.”

She blows a raspberry, sticking her tongue out, and I laugh again.

“Bullshit,” she drawls. “If he hasn’t asked you, it’s because there’s a specific thing he’s waiting for or wants to do. But he’s already declared that you’re Mrs. Brigham, soooooo.” She draws out the word, shrugging her shoulders and lifting her hands as if to say, Well, what can ya do?

“Well, while the Commonwealth of Virginia recognizes common law marriage, I’d really like an official...something before stepping into the title. You know, like a wedding. Or, and I know this sounds crazy, an actual proposal.”

She tilts her head from side to side before saying, “I mean, I get it. But also, marriage is a piece of paper, ya know?”

“Ah, but it’s an important piece of paper.”

She responds by pulling a Blow Pop out of her back pocket.

“You’ll understand when you get there,” I say.

She startles slightly.

“Are you there with someone?”

“No!” she says quickly.

I quirk an eyebrow. “Methinks the lady doth protesteth too much,” I say.

She puts her lollipop in her mouth.

“Ella I-Don’t-Know-Your-Middle-Name Brigham. Are you seeing someone seriously?” I try to put on my best maternal voice.

She chokes. “N-not seriously,” she says.

“Oh, my God, you so are,” I say, leaning in closer to her. “Who is it?” I whisper.

Her face flushes completely. She looks around the room and out in the hallway. Ensuring we’re alone, she says, “You can’t tell anyone. I’m so serious. Like, this is the sole test of our ability to be friends. If you tell anyone, I’ll put superglue in your lip gloss.” She holds my hands, whispering back to me frantically.

“Oh Lord, who is it?”

She squeezes my wrists as she quickly shakes my entire forearm with her strong grip. “Promise!”

“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” She looks at me as if I just stripped off my clothes and started doing the Macarena.

“My bad, that was a millennial moment. Your secret is safe with me. I’m an almost-therapist. I have trained on how to be a vault of secrets.” I drop my voice even lower. “Now spill.”

She breathes in and out, then says, “It’s Leo.”

She claps a palm over my mouth at my unrestrained yelp. When she lets my face go, I slap my hand over my mouth.

“Girl, what?” I say, and if possible, she blushes an even deeper red.

“You cannot freak out, and you absolutely cannot tell Hunter.” She looks scared, worried.

So I get nervous.

“You’re not—you’re okay with this relationship, right? He’s not forcing you or—”

“No! Oh, God, if anything, I was the one forcing—” She drops her head back into her hands again.

Wishing to end her misery, I say, “Hey, it’s all cool. Plus, the age gap thing is kinda hot.”

She peeks at me between her fingers.

“As long as you’re safe and having fun, that’s all that matters. No one else gets a say.”

She mumbles, “You don’t know my brother then.”

And I do have to give her that one. If Hunter were to know that his best friend and his barely legal sister are...doing whatever they are doing, he’d probably shoot Leo. But he’d make sure it wasn’t fatal just so he could torture him before throwing him in the Potomac.

“I won’t tell anyone, especially Hunter,” I say, pulling her in for a hug.

The beeping of the oven breaks the moment, and when I see the perfect chocolatey tops of the cakes, I give her a golf clap.

“Mine so wouldn’t turn out like this,” I say.

“It’s okay. It’s the thought that counts.” She smiles as she puts the cakes on the cooling rack.

“All right, so now to teach you how to make this frosting. It’s the hardest part of the whole cake,” she says.

When I audibly gulp, she lets out a laugh as big as mine.

It takes us another two hours to let everything cool and apply the frosting, but I reaffirm my initial opinion of Ella. She’s a ball of fun. She’s funny, intelligent, and wise beyond her years.

Veronica joins us with a sleeping Summer strapped to her chest in a sling carrier as we put the finishing touches on the cake.

“Win, you did this?” Veronica asks, wide-eyed.

All clean after taking a brief break in my room to change clothes and get flour out of my hair, I put the simple cake decorations on with a flourish. I place the three and five candles in the center beneath the arc of candy letters that spell out “Happy Birthday, Hunter.”

“I had help,” I say, turning to Ella.

She grins and raises her wine glass in my direction. “The decorations are all Winter, though,” Ella adds.

Veronica makes an impressed face.

“Can we please get on with this?” Leo’s beleaguered bellow sounds from the great hall where I’ve stationed him with Hunter and August.

I look at Ella, who wears a startled look on her face, before I call back, “Yep, just a minute!”

I light the candles and take small steps as I move through the house toward the hall. I refuse to let the flames go out, so I hold my breath too.

Once we’re right outside the door, I take a deep breath and start a markedly off-key rendition of Happy Birthday.

Hunter looks relaxed when we enter the room, and when his eyes land on me and the cake, his whole face transforms.

The hardness leaves it, and his brows relax. The smile that smooths across his face is gentle.

He looks young.

He looks happy.

“...and many more,” I finish singing.

“On channel four...” Veronica adds.

“And Scooby-Doo....”

“On channel two...” she throws back at me, and we both burst into laughter. The rest of the group eyes us like we’ve lost it.

Stepping closer to Hunter, I place the cake on the gleaming table before him.

“Happy birthday, baby,” I utter softly. My words are just for him. His eyes tracked my progress across the room, and now that I stand in front of him, I feel the heat from his gaze.

I feel the love too.

“I love it, baby. Thank you.” He kisses my hand.

Ella makes a retching sound from the corner, laughing and smiling brightly to let us know she’s just playing with us.

“You are so disgustingly in love with each other. It’s cute only because it’s you two. But wrap it up so we can get our sugar high,” she says, smirking.

I roll my eyes at Ella, sticking my tongue out at her.

“Make a wish first,” I add, turning back to Hunter. The corner of his mouth kicks up.

“I already got my wish,” he murmurs.

“Oh, God,” Leo says, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling. “Save me from ever falling in love.”

I glance over to Ella and frown when I see her face pale.

“Happy birthday, Dad,” August says from his spot across from Hunter. At his words, everyone freezes, and as a collective, we hold our breaths.

Hunter stills the most out of all of us, his eyes going wide for a beat before placing his hand on his chest.

He leans forward in his chair—leans closer to August.

August rocks from side to side, but the stim isn’t one he uses when he’s agitated. It’s what he does when he’s happy.

With a depth of emotion that feels corporeal, Hunter simply says, “Thank you.”

I sniff, biting my lip to prevent myself from crying.

“I’ve got one,” Hunter says. “A wish, that is.” He smiles, just the slight uptick of his lips, and closes his eyes for a moment. At a silent count of three, he leans forward to blow out the candles.

“What did you wish for?” I ask him.

“I won’t tell you because it won’t come true. And I really need this one to come true.” He kisses the back of my hand.

“All right, let’s cut this cake!” Veronica materializes with the knife, and Ella scoots the small plates further down the table.

And as Hunter cuts his homemade cake, I glance around the room.

Family. This is everything.

And I’ll be damned if I ever lose them.

HUNTER AND AUGUST stand shoulder to shoulder, gazes fixed on the sky.

We’re all out on the east lawn, a flat parcel of land extending before a dense patch of trees. The yard and the forest cover about fifteen acres, according to Hunter.

I’m surprised that August loved the cake. And by love, he said, “I enjoy the taste and texture of this cake.”

Which is phenomenal praise.

Ella, Leo, Veronica, Summer, Kitty, and I sit in Adirondack chairs as August teaches Hunter how to do flips with their new matching SAB Goblin helicopters.

I can tell that Hunter is struggling to keep up with August’s instructions, and Hunter has nearly crashed about three times in the last fifteen minutes.

Which is something August finds hilarious.

August mentioned wanting to get Hunter a birthday present, but when he suggested the RC copters, I figured he mainly wanted a gift for himself.

But seeing my two favorite guys standing together with the same look of concentration, it’s apparent that the real gift is this moment.

I look at Leo and Ella, who sit in close proximity but don’t acknowledge each other at all. They didn’t say a word to each other the entire time we were cutting the cake and singing Happy Birthday.

If they’re trying to keep their relationship under wraps, they’re doing an excellent job.

“Shit!” Hunter groans in frustration. Hunter’s helicopter is stuck in one of the trees at the front line of the forest.

“Leo, give me a hand with this,” Hunter grumbles as August jumps up and down with amusement.

I’ve not seen this level of happiness and excitement from August before. It’s beautiful to witness.

Leo and Hunter walk off to the tree line when Ella says, “I need to get to studying. Midterms, ya know?” Without further conversation, she walks away.

“I’m going to go inside too,” Veronica says. “It’s going to get dark soon, and I don’t want the baby to get cold.”

“Take Kitty with you?” I ask her, and she blows kisses at Kitty to get him to hop down and follow her.

I suppress a laugh as I see Leo kneeling next to Hunter, prompting him to stand on his thigh for more leverage to reach the helicopter.

“Thank you for your help getting the present.” I jump out of my daze when August speaks.

“You’re welcome, August,” I say when he hops in the chair next to me a moment later.

He looks past me, which I’ve learned is as close to looking me in the eye as August allows. He doesn’t say anymore. Instead, he taps his finger on his cheek.

“Is there something on your mind?” I ask him.

He taps a few more times, starting to rock back and forth. Suddenly, he picks up his tablet, and it’s a long while before he stops tapping on the screen, writing and erasing and pausing to stim.

“I do not hate my dad anymore.”

I give him a soft smile.

“What changed?” I ask him. He taps his cheek a few times but quickly responds.

“You.” I raise my eyebrows, but I maintain my silence to give him space to think.

“The stories I heard about my father were not good things. When I came to live here, I was very angry. But you care about me. And you show my dad how to care about me too.”

Tears pop to my waterline. “I do care about you, August. So much. I love you. I hope it’s okay for me to say that.”

He rocks, and his eyes flick to my face before he looks over my shoulder. He hums for a long moment. It’s a happy sound.

“But I didn’t have to teach your dad to love you. He already did.”

August’s physical response doesn’t telegraph disbelief as it would have six months ago, but I can tell there’s an edge of skepticism in the slant of his shoulders.

“You are not my mother. My mother is dead. But you are like my mother, and I am happy to have you in my life.”

“August, I didn’t put on my waterproof mascara!”

His brow furrows. “What does makeup have to do with our conversation?”

I smile even brighter and shake my head. “Nothing at all, August.”

“Will you marry my father?” he says.

“If he asks me to, yes. How do you feel about that?”

He takes a moment, making happy sounds as he rocks forward and backward with more power.

“That would be okay.”

I smile when he lopes off, half skipping, half-running across the field to Hunter and Leo, who give each other a high five while Hunter holds the broken helicopter in his other hand.

When they all return, August takes Hunter’s gift without a word before running off to the main house. I’m sure he’ll fix it.

“Well, that is enough for today,” Hunter says. He reaches out to me, helping me out of the low seat.

I lace my fingers between his, letting out a big yawn.

“Tired, baby?” Hunter asks me, pulling me into his side.

“It’s been a long day,” I reply. My body is tired down to the bones.

We stroll back into the house, and Hunter detours us into the kitchen to grab two slices of chocolate cake and two glasses of milk before heading toward our bedroom. I hold the milk; he grabs the cakes.

I toe off my shoes as soon as I hit the bedroom and put the glasses on the nightstand. Wordlessly, Hunter hands me a slice, and I dig in immediately.

He doesn’t take a bite right away. Instead, he chooses to watch me eat.

“What?” I say with a mouth full of chocolate.

“Thank you, Winter,” he says with a soft voice.

“I wish I could have given you something bigger. I’m sure you’re used to celebrating your birthday in Ibiza and hitting up Nobu.”

The side of his mouth rises in a smirk.

“Actually,” he begins, “I haven’t celebrated my birthday since my mom died.”

The cake turns thick in my mouth. Swallowing, I say, “What? What do you mean?”

He sits next to me, still not touching his cake.

“My mom was the only person who cared enough to throw me a party or even acknowledge my birthday. Ella cared, of course, but she’s younger than me, so she wouldn’t coordinate something like that.”

I put my cake plate on the bed next to us, half-eaten.

“So none of your friends ever...” I ask.

“Nah. I mean, Leo probably would have taken me out if I had ever been around him on my birthday, but I was always off somewhere else, alone.”

He blinks a few times, one-two-three, then smiles and looks down at his cake.

“I love this cake,” he says finally, taking a big bite. “Thank you for the best birthday.”

Taking in my sad face, he leans over and kisses me, the chocolate on our lips sweet on my tongue.

“Next year’s will be even better,” I whisper against his lips.

He smiles against mine. “As long as you’re with me, it will be the best every year.”

TWENTY-FOUR

HUNTER

I’m irritable.

That’s the only way to describe the persistent annoyance I feel behind my eyebrows as I look up at the radiant face of the woman currently giving me indigestion.

“Winter, I love you, but there is absolutely a less than zero percent chance that you are coming with me.”

We’re in my office, where I’m seated behind my desk, and Leo stares at the two of us with his hand over his mouth. Probably to control his laughter.

“There is so much wrong with this situation. Like why I had to hear from August that you’re planning on leaving the country for some undetermined amount of time.”

I sigh, loosening my tie. Leo and I had meetings today on Capitol Hill with a few senators and the appropriations committee chair. The meetings were long, tedious, and draining—and a waste of time. We went in with hopes that we could circumvent the FDA somehow. Of course, that’s virtually impossible, but we wanted to try.

Managing BwP, hunting down my father, and now doing Misha’s bidding has me feeling all kinds of things.

Control. Get yourself in control.

“I was going to tell you tonight, Sunbeam,” I murmur, standing to hug her. She vibrates with anger, but there are also tears welling up in her eyes.

“Right before you boarded your plane?” Her nose turns rosy, and I hate to see her so upset. “If I can’t go, then I don’t want you to go,” she says with a squeak.

“Baby,” I say softly, cradling her cheek.

“And on that note,” Leo breaks in, and we both look at him as he stands up from his chair on the other side of my desk. “I’ll leave the two of you to hash this out. H, I’ll see you on the tarmac tonight.”

He gives us a two-fingered salute and leaves the office, closing the door behind him.

“Wait, so Leo gets to go?” Her gaze is flinty, staring me dead in the eye.

I sigh. “Come here,” I say, pulling both of us down into my office chair.

She sits stiffly on my thigh.

“Relax, baby.”

She sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “No,” she says haughtily. She looks away from me, and I slide my forearm behind her knees to scoop her up, forcing her to rock back so that I cradle her.

“H, stop!” Her arms circle my neck.

“I’ve got you, Winter.” Always.

She relaxes a little.

“That’s better,” I say. She lets out a cute, frustrated snort.

“I didn’t tell you sooner because the plans weren’t finalized until today—just a few hours ago, actually. I told August first so he has time to adjust to the development. Me leaving tonight will be a lot for him to process, so I wanted to be here in case he struggled with it.”

She sticks her bottom lip out in a pout, and when she stands up, I let her go.

She tries to walk backward from me and the desk, but I turn her so she’s sitting on the mahogany surface, and I’m positioned between her legs.

“Where are you going? Why are you going? How long will you be there? Is it dangerous?” She asks all this with her arms crossed, but her legs open wider and wider as I scoot closer.

“I’m going because it’s something for Misha. I plan on being gone a few days, tops. As for if it’s dangerous,” I skate my hands up the flesh of her thighs, the split in her long skirt making the job easy. “I’m a dangerous man. I can handle myself.”

“I don’t—I don’t like it, H,” she says with defeat. After a moment of heavy silence, she pushes me back from her body with her bare foot to my chest and crosses her legs.

I lean back in my desk chair. “Winter, to steal your phrase, ‘be forreal.’ Do you think I’d ever intentionally put you in a dangerous situation?” I arch my eyebrow at her.

“I could stay on the plane? Or in a hotel?” She rolls her lips inward, and a tear falls down her right cheek.

“Baby, this isn’t a regular business trip.” I stand up, putting my hand on her cheek again and forcing her to look at me.

“What’s really going on?”

She clamps her lips tighter before saying, “I’m scared!”

“Scared of what?”

“We haven’t been apart since I came back.” She covers her mouth with her hand and looks away.

Ah.

I kiss her forehead, giving her a moment to cry before I pull back, looking at her directly.

“Winter,” I say in as clear and calm a tone as I can muster.

She meets my gaze.

“Rio and a team of thirty other guards will be here with you at any point in time. You will be safe here while I’m gone.” I hold her gaze, willing her to accept my words.

Her shoulders relax and she leans forward, putting her head on my chest. “I’ll miss you too much,” she mutters into my shirt. I rub her back.

“Is there such a thing as too much?”

“Yes, there is. Because I already feel like I’m suffocating, and you haven’t even left yet.” She inhales sharply and tries to exhale, but it’s a stuttering breath.

“I love you too, Sunbeam.”

She wraps her arms around me tight. We stay like that as the minutes tick on. Eventually, I say, “I’m going to miss you like hell too.”

She kisses my chest and then hops down from the desk with a long sigh. “I’ll let you get packed then,” she says, sauntering toward the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask, dropping my voice low.

She looks back over her shoulder. “I’m going to lick my wounds in the rose garden,” she says.

“Hmmm, well, I want to lick you,” I growl. She turns all the way around at that. Her nipples are hard points against the thin, silky camisole she’s paired with the calf-length color-block skirt. Even though her arousal is apparent, she lifts her chin, crosses her arms, and says, “No, thanks.”

A slow smile forms on my lips. “Come here. Now.” I infuse my voice with danger and warning as I place my palms flat on the desktop.

She pretends to think about it for a moment. “Hmmm, no, I don’t think so.”

“You wanna play, baby?”

A flush appears on her cheeks, and a slight shiver causes her shoulders to flex.

She takes one step back and then another. “Catch me and see.”

And with that, she whirls around, sprinting out the door.

I smile outright now, hungry for a taste of her. Removing my tie and unbuttoning the first few buttons of my shirt, I roll up the sleeves of my button-down. Then I remove the dress shoes and slippery socks. The better to catch her with.

Having given her a thirty-second head start, I calmly leave the office and turn toward her escape.

The thrill of hunting her does something to me, turning my arousal into a sharp point at the base of my spine. It’s heady, intoxicating.

When I find her, I’m going to fuck her so hard she’ll need the days I’m gone just to recover.

I check our bedroom, taking a moment to go through our drawers. I check the sitting room and kitchen. She’s not in the pantry. I finally check the game room. It’s close to dusk, and August barely acknowledges my presence before I close the door again.

Hmm, baby really wants to play.

I move through the house and back outside to the rose garden. I walk to the pavilion and look from that perspective since it’s at the garden’s highest point. She’s not out here.

Where are you, sweet girl?

Across the path, the window coverings flutter in the never-used solarium. It’s on the west side of the house, and our living quarters are on the east side.

Gotcha, baby.

I take my time walking over to the room, choosing the outdoor entrance rather than looping back through the house.

I step into the sunroom. It’s dark—nearly pitch black, with the drapery drawn along all three glass walls. The staff keeps this space clean, but there’s not much in here besides the furniture and a few tall plants.

Closing the door behind me, I step into the room on silent feet. I inhale as deep as my lungs will allow to catch Winter’s rose scent. Running my hand along the curtain nearest the door, I keep my arm extended, touching the material as I walk the length of the room.

When I reach the far corner where the glass wall meets the house, I pull back the curtain and find Winter grinning like the Cheshire cat. A shaft of light from the now-present moon illuminates the room.

“Found you,” I say. My voice is deep and husky, thickened with lust. I bring her close to me, crashing my lips down on hers.

She groans against my mouth, attacking me with as much ferocity as I’m attacking her. I push her against the wall, pulling her leg up to my waist.

“I’m so mad at you, H,” she growls. Her hands run through my hair, tugging hard on the strands.

The movement causes my cock to jump.

“Be mad then. You’re still not going.”

She snarls, and I slap her ass cheek.

“Be good,” I say against her mouth.

“I can’t,” she whimpers.

I push her skirt up so that it bunches around her waist, and I slide my hand down to her pussy. My knees damn near buckle when I feel how drenched she is.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s gonna be torture for me too,” I say, and I slide a finger into her, taking time to feel her.

She mewls, her back curving as she tilts her pelvis closer to me.

“Let me make it better,” I whisper against her mouth, and she nods slowly.

I drop to my knees. She’s the only person I will kneel for. Only for her. Only for Winter.

I waste no time putting my lips on her hot, wet cunt, eating at her so wildly that her essence is all over my chin. She rocks against my mouth, pulling at my hair as she rides my tongue. I push two fingers into her, reveling in her guttural moan when I add a third.

If I were on death row, I’d only want her as my last meal.

She pants, her moans rising in volume and pitch until she trembles around me, coming hard, my name on her lips.

“Good girl,” I say. She groans, biting her lip.

I don’t let her come down before I spin her, leaning her back on the low L-shaped sofa.

“Give me another one,” I say, kneeling in front of her. I undo my pants in a second and push her legs wide.

“H, I can’t,” she says on a moan.

“I disagree,” I reply. Then I slowly lick at her, pointing my tongue from her pulsing hole up to her clit. She moans low and long, her head rocking back and forth.

“H—”

“Relax into it,” I say, taking my time. I fist the base of my cock to make this last longer.

It takes a few minutes for her to get ramped up again, but I relish taking my time. Just when she starts climbing toward her second orgasm, I pull away, pinching her clit between two fingers.

She shouts, her back coming off the sofa before slamming back down.

“Flip,” I command. She whimpers but then turns over to her stomach.

My good girl. My love.

I pull both of her legs up, butterflying them so that she’s spread wide. Then I tease her lips and clit, sliding the head of my cock against her core.

“H, please. Fuck me, please,” she pants out.

“Patience, love,” I say.

“Ugh,” she says, collapsing her chest and head down on the sofa cushions.

Slowly, torturing the fuck out of myself, I push into her. The slow in and out—stroking until I’m balls-deep and pulling back until I’m almost out of her—nearly drives me insane.

She clutches the cushions, trying to push back harder and faster against me.

She can’t with the position of her legs.

Right when she’s ramping up again, rocking and rubbing against the cushions to get more pressure on her clit, I pull out all the way.

“Hunter, motherfucker!” she yells, and I laugh. “I should leave you with blue balls for your whole trip,” she grinds out.

“Baby, patience,” I say, amused. “I promise, you’re gonna come. You’re gonna come so hard. Relax.” I rub my hand over her lower back, massaging the tension there.

She slowly relaxes, melting into my touch.

I pull out the gift I snagged during my search from my pocket. When she hears the click of the bottle opening, she looks over her shoulder.

“What is that?” she asks.

“Grapeseed oil,” I say, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning as I stroke it over my cock.

“Uh, H,” she says. “And why do you need grapeseed oil?” She bites her lip, but damn if she doesn’t rock against the sofa more.

We’ve played a lot over the last several weeks, and she loves the butt plug I got her before we went to Misha’s. I lean over her back, kissing her shoulder.

“Because I’m going to fill you all the way up.”

She shivers.

“Flip back over, baby,” I say, stroking my cock. When she’s on her back, heels pressed to the edge of the sofa, I take a healthy glug of grapeseed oil and drizzle it over her clit. It’s gonna be a mess, but I don’t give a fuck about what the housekeepers will see. I’ll give them a nice out-of-cycle bonus for the trouble.

I pull the other gift out of my pocket: the small but powerful finger vibe. I put it on my index finger and press it to her clit. She arches, her thighs flexing against the onslaught.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She groans, and I pull away again, placing hot, sucking kisses on her inner thighs. She hisses in a breath.

After she calms down, I bring the toy back to her clit, first adding more oil to her. I circle her button, massaging the oil into her and getting her back to the edge. When I see her pussy pulse, I pull my hand away. She roars with frustration.

“Ba-by, please let me come,” she begs. She has tears in her eyes.

I smile at her. “You’re doing so good, baby.” I bend over, kissing her stomach, sucking reverently on the skin beneath her belly button.

Lubing my index finger with liberal glugs of oil, I bring it to her back passage, pressing in slowly so that she squeezes my finger up to the first knuckle.

“Oh, God, H,” she says, shivering from head to toe.

“Do you think you can take more, baby?”

She nods, the quick action causing her curly hair to tremble.

I add more lube, adding another finger into her tight asshole. She lets out a keening sound when I press them in and out, stretching her and preparing her for my cock.

“Is it good, Sunbeam?” My voice is a rasp, my lust and desire for this woman unmatched by any experience I’ve had with any other woman.

It’s only like this because it’s Winter.

Only Winter.

“It’s so good, H,” she cries out. Tears track down her temples and into her hair.

I rub my thumb over one of them, bringing the salty drop to my tongue.

“Will you let me in your ass, Winter?” I whisper to her, adding more oil to my fingers and drenching her rosebud.

“Uunf,” she says, nodding.

“When I say to, rub your clit,” I say in a voice as hard as my cock.

She nods again frantically.

With even more lube on my dick, I remove my fingers and slowly, torturously press into her. And fuck, if it isn’t the tightest, hottest clamp around the head of my dick.

I tilt my head back. I feel dizzy. I feel lost and found at the same damn time.

“Oh, holy fuck,” she mutters incoherently.

“Stop or go, baby?” I pause, only an inch or so inside her ass.

“Go! Go, go, go, please, oh, my god,” she moans. Her fingers flex, and I know she wants to rub herself to get off.

I push into her more, testing sliding back out. I add more lube where we’re joined, and soon, I’m rocking all the way in and out of her.

“This is—fuck!” she says, putting her hands to her eyes. Her tits bounce in the camisole, and I rip it, pulling her breasts free from their restriction.

She yelps, palming her breasts, and she nearly screams when she squeezes her nipples.

I’m not going to last much longer. Using my other lubricated hand, I push two fingers into her pussy, then another. When she flutters around me and screams my name, I yell, “Rub your clit now—hard, fast.”

Her hand flies to the top of her mound, and she rubs at it frantically, her voice one long, raspy scream.

“Come, baby,” I demand, and she does. Her upper body bends off the sofa, her eyes crossed.

Everything, her pussy, her ass, contracts as her orgasm slams into her. I hold her wrist when she tries to stop, slapping the tiny vibrating toy into her hand.

“Keep rubbing your fucking clit, Winter,” I growl, pounding into her and pressing up against her g-spot with my fingers. She does what I command. When I feel her draw tight again, getting closer, I yell out, “Baby, I love you.” It’s a shout; it’s a forceful declaration.

“H!” she screams with just as much energy, and then she comes again, her cum soaking both of us and the fabric of the couch. She’s crying with the intensity of her orgasm. I come deep inside her ass, blowing the hardest I might ever have in my life.

She keeps massaging her clit with my hand clamped around her wrist, the toy still buzzing against her. When I let it go, replacing her hand with my own, I gentle my movements. She jerks with each pass, and her whole body seems over-sensitized.

I take my time pulling out of her, and she whimpers a little bit when I’m completely removed. I kiss her stomach again, resting my head on her softness. She puts one hand in my hair, running her fingers through it for three passes before her hand falls to her side.

I look up, and she’s completely asleep. Passed out.

With one more kiss to her stomach, I move her body to rest fully on the couch, and I grab the clean blanket from the linen closet across the room.

After draping it over her and stepping inside the house to use the half-bath near the solarium, I return to Winter.

I look at her as she sleeps, taking in her features. She’s peaceful here, her body relaxed and trusting that she’s safe.

This deal with Misha is lopsided, and I’m annoyed that I have to be away from her. But at least I have something to look forward to when I do come home.

I kiss her shoulder after I curl up behind her. Then I set the alarm on my watch for an hour and hold my girl in my arms.

TWENTY-FIVE

HUNTER

"You sure about this, H?" Leo's voice is low. Cautious. I look over my shoulder at him, then back at the façade of the mansion I haven't been to in nearly two decades.

The villa looks dead. Forgotten.

The highest part of the island is the cliff face—a shaft of rock that juts out over the Caribbean. When I was younger, I made up a story that some giants in the water cut the island from one bigger land mass, like chopping a wood block in karate. The matching other half of the island is about eighty nautical miles east.

I don't answer Leo.

There are only five of us: me, Leo, and three of Misha's men. I doubt he sent them to be a help and more to babysit us—and to get whatever it is that Misha’s looking for that we can’t be privy to.

We checked Isla Cara for my father months ago and found the place deserted. The handsomely paid workers who travel from neighboring islands were sent home.

From what we know, no one has been to the island in months.

I feel Leo's presence near my shoulder as we all walk up the shore and to the long stone staircase in unison. The guards haven't said much at all since we left Misha's airfield at the back of his property.

I left Winter in the solarium under a thick blanket and gave Veronica instructions to check on her after I'd left. I should have said goodbye. I should have held her as she begged me not to go, as I know she would have.

Instead, I kissed her head, drawing the rose scent of her conditioner into my lungs.

It would have been too hard for me to say goodbye.

"Stop," I tell the rest of our group. We're out on the veranda. The ghosts of gilded elites glide across the expensive stone, taunting me.

I stop because of the glass. Shards of the shattered eighteen-foot door litter the area in front of us, blowing inward to land in the open-air foyer on the other side of the frame.

Leo enters first, and his boots crunch as he takes careful steps to peer into the dark mansion.

“No one said the place was ransacked,” I tell Leo.

He nods in agreement.

Because it wasn’t. When we got the report about Isla Cara, it didn’t mention any damage to the property.

This is a new development.

“We keep going,” one of Misha’s men says.

Foreboding runs up my spine.

Leo arches his eyebrow when I look at him, and in response, he raises his gun. I pull mine out too, and we all walk into the empty grand room.

The lack of sound presses on my eardrums, making them feel stuffed with cotton. The heavy darkness covers my skin like a wet blanket.

My steps are uneven as broken glass crunches beneath my shoes. Even though the eastern Caribbean heat adds to the feeling of suffocation, I’m grateful for the long black tactical pants that help protect me from the sharp edges of the broken furniture.

In unison, we all turn on our flashlights. I’m grateful for the illumination.

“Where to, H?” Leo says coolly.

I ransack my memory. There are two places where Father held his notable secrets. The safe in his office and the vault.

Whatever Misha’s looking for has to be in the vault.

“The vault,” I say, beginning to walk further into the estate toward the grand staircase leading to the second floor.

A rivulet of sweat runs between my shoulder blades, and the thick humidity reminds me I’m far from home.

I rub the side of my nose.

Despite the enormity of the mansion, it doesn’t take many minutes for me to come across the vault door in the dark hallway.

The five sets of boots march toward the safe, and I shine my light on the combination pad next to the door.

“You know, this would be a whole hell of a lot easier if you just told me what you’re looking for.”

The three men, who I’ve named Nameless One, Nameless Two, and Nameless Three, pause to look at me.

“We are looking for a black leather journal,” Nameless Two says in a richly accented voice.

“Okay, a black leather journal. Any ideas on size?” Leo asks.

“We’ll know it when we see it.” This from Nameless One.

“Cool,” I drawl. “We have a lot to go off then.”

“Just open the door, mudak.”

If I didn’t already know he was calling me an asshole, the way he grinds out the last word makes it perfectly clear.

I shine my light on the digital keypad. Since the electricity is cut off, the screen is dead, black.

I pause, and not because I don’t know how to bypass the dead control system. I pause because when I shift my beam a little to the left, the vault door is open.

“What is the problem?” Nameless Two again.

“The door is open. My father never would have kept it open like this.”

The Ukrainians ignore my statement, pushing past me and surging into the room. They immediately knock over furniture and pull-out drawers.

It’s strange that the men completely ignore the piles of money and jewels in the center of the room.

What’s also strange is that this room is untouched.

“If there’s going to be anything,” I say, moving further into the vault, “it’s going to be in here.”

I look in the direction of the old television and file cabinet. The pair stands just as it did when I was a kid—seemingly undisturbed.

It can’t be this fucking easy.

I nod to Leo, and we keep our steps casual as we walk deeper into the room. In the corner is a desk, and I move toward it, reaching below the oak lip to grab the key I know is there.

When I have the drawer open, I pull out reams and reams of paper—receipts, notes—and scatter them on the tabletop. Nameless Two sorts through the mess while Nameless One opens a crate.

“Anything there?” I ask.

Nameless One grunts.

Rolling my eyes, I pull at the false bottom of the drawer, pulling out an armful of items. A gallon-sized bag full of pills, two handguns, stacks of cash, passports with my father’s picture under several aliases, and a few other miscellaneous items.

The Nameless crew goes through everything when my hand pauses on a plastic card.

I shine my flashlight on it and steel myself against the sharp kick of emotion. My mother’s ID is in the pile.

I stare at Amelia Brigham’s face—the bright eyes I only see in my memories. Father had all the photos of Mom burned and deleted any recordings of her in our possession.

He not only killed her, he quite literally wiped her from the Earth.

Nameless Three barks something, and the group speaks rapidly in Ukrainian. Unease grows at their agitation. They say we’ve found nothing, but to me…it seems like we’ve found everything that could possibly matter.

I put my mother’s ID in my pocket.

“What the fuck?” Leo exclaims. He stands in front of a closed black file cabinet, and he holds a folder in his hand. I move over to him and slap my hand over the depraved image. Leo drops it as if it’s burned him.

“There are definitely more,” I say.

“Shit,” Leo says when I pull a drawer open and it’s full.

I pull out a manilla envelope and turn away with a sharp inhale, holding down a retch at the sight of a bloodied female body being eaten by five grown men. Her mouth is open—toothless and crimson-stained.

Her eyes still maintain an energetic pop of consciousness.

Leo’s breath escapes between his clenched teeth.

When we’ve both got control of ourselves, we turn our backs on the evidence, busying ourselves as the men search through the other side of the large room.

I whistle to get their attention.

“Is this it?” I motion toward the file cabinet where a black, leather-bound book sticks out.

Nameless One walks to me with a determined clip. Leo and I step to the side, parting so the file cabinet and television are between us.

He stares at the object for a moment, his beam of light focusing on the front of it for several moments. He picks it up, thumbing through the pages and looking at both sides of the cover. From my vantage point, I can tell it’s an address book or diary.

“No,” he growls but drops it in a crate nonetheless. He turns his lethal gaze on me, then walks back to his team members with a flurry of Ukrainian bursting off his lips.

I look at Leo and then down to my feet. The mismatched black and cream tiles give me pause. I never analyzed the vault floors on the rare times I was allowed inside, but now….

Shining the beam of my flashlight over the dark, symmetrical tiles, I slowly pace the stretch of the design to make sense of what I’m seeing.

An eye.

One of the Nameless shouts, stepping up to his comrade, and I lift my flashlight in their direction.

“There’s one other place if this isn’t it. We can check the safe in my father’s office,” I tell them. They keep speaking in tense spurts, but after a moment, they all turn to look at me. I leave the vault without a word.

Heading to the office means going up another level, over the T-shaped catwalk, and just past the giant opening that allows a view of the four-story main ballroom below.

But as soon as I raise my foot to go up the next flight of stairs, an unmistakable stench hits me.

“Oh, no,” Leo says, putting his forearm over his nose.

Something’s dead in here.

I turn to Misha’s men.

“It’s not safe to keep going,” I tell them, trying to breathe through my mouth. Thinking better of it, I lift the neck of my shirt to cover the lower half of my face.

I take a step down the stairs, and Nameless One stops me with a menace-filled command.

“You keep going.”

I don’t look away from his pitch-black eyes.

“Fuck,” Leo snaps under his breath.

One heartbeat. Two. I stare down the Ukrainian.

“Whatever you say,” I reply.

I guide the crew up the remaining stairs and down the pathway to the office doors. When we’re thirty feet away, I point.

“Over there.” The stench is nearly unbearable now, and flies swarm past my head.

“Keep moving, Brigham,” Nameless Two says.

I turn to face the dark corridor, taking one step after the other. Scales of vermin coat the panels of the French doors and the surrounding walls. The buzzing of flying creatures resonates in my ears, crawling over my skin.

I wrench the door open and stumble back.

Because in a single beam of light from the expansive window overlooking the sea, the remains of a liquified body lay propped in the expensive leather chair. Behind the body, the office safe stands wide open.

Empty.

The entire room is empty.

From the body and under the oak desk, a river of biologic sludge courses toward the entrance of the office, and when I shift my flashlight to make sure my feet aren’t standing in human remains, my attention is taken by the glint of metal.

An unblinking onyx eye embedded in a gold ring.

Though black clouds of flies obscure my vision, I pick it up. Looking from the unrecognizable body and back to the ring in my hand, it’s easy to know who it is.

Father.

Sets of hands pull me back from the open office doors. I blink, and all of us are out on the veranda.

“H, you okay?” I focus back on Leo, trying to breathe in clean air to chase out the stench of death.

“Yea—” I get out before gagging. I rush to the stone barrier, leaning over the edge to puke out my stomach’s contents.

In contrast to my angry retching, the ocean laps at the shore, a soft sound.

Father.

Father is dead.

He’s dead.

Dragging in what feels like a gulf of air, I stand up more fully, still leaning on the stone for support.

“Who could it have been?” Leo asks. A glance to the side of his face lets me know he already has the answer.

The gold ring burns in my palm when I open it to show Leo.

“Shit,” he says, running both hands over his face and into his hair.

“Yeah,” I murmur.

Father is dead. I’m free.

“Yeah,” I repeat.

TWENTY-SIX

WINTER

I’m 96.6 percent sure I’m pregnant. There’s the 3.4 percent margin of error because I haven’t been able to sneak a test into the house.

Hunter and I have not been careful. Not that he’s trying to be. In fact, he tries hard to avoid being careful with an absurd sense of glee. I’m not on birth control anymore, a decision I only halfway made when I got back home. I wanted to clear out my body from everything, and sex was the furthest thing from my mind.

But when Hunter brought it up all those weeks ago, I have to admit that part of me, a large part of me, didn’t want to get back on the pill.

Maybe it’s reckless—okay, it’s thoroughly reckless, seeing as we could be assassinated at any point.

But in the quiet moments, when I allow myself to dream, the idea of becoming a family with him and August and a child of our own….

I definitely should have gotten back on birth control.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I swipe mascara on my lower lashes, trying in vain to keep it off my under-eye concealer. The bags and dark circles are more prominent now since all I do is sleep during the day but not at night.

Plus, since I’ve been throwing up for the last week—at least when my body decided I could eat something—my skin has a vaguely green undertone. Hiding this from Hunter has been a nightmare.

I look fucking sick.

Ella knocks on the door, enters the bedroom, and calls out, “Ready, girlie?” Ella, Veronica, and I are going out for coffee.

Coffee is such a regular thing, but I haven’t been outside the estate in months, apart from the trip to Misha Hroshko’s home.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I mutter into my reflection. Walking into the room, I feel a little self-conscious in my jeans and soft, light cardigan compared to Ella. She wears head-to-toe black, the scoop neck of her short-sleeved top showing off her perky breasts.

I pull the sweater together over my stomach.

“I’m fucking starving, let’s go,” Veronica calls from the doorway.

Summer naps as the au pair looks over her. Veronica and I hired the nanny, Jennifer, five weeks ago. She’s got over twenty years of experience, but this will be the first time we’ve left the baby “alone” with her.

Seeing the tense lines around Veronica’s mouth, I take a moment to remind her, “There are fifty-‘leven guards in this house. Three of them are stationed outside Summer’s nursery. She will be fine for the afternoon.”

Veronica’s shoulders drop. She’s been on edge since giving birth, not that I blame her. Between sleep deprivation and all the bullshit with James, she has good reason to be testy.

I grab her hand. “Let’s get you a blueberry scone, babe.”

I whistle for Kitty, and we head to the car. I try not to balk at the number of guards assigned.

There are ten guards here, H. Ten guards to take us to a café. You don’t think this is overkill?

All three of us get in the SUV, the Suburban this time to get the third row, and Rio and Ella’s regular guard sit in the front seats.

Rio’s gaze keeps flicking back toward us, and I swear his eyes land on Veronica more than they are on the rest of us.

My phone pings.

You’re lucky it’s only ten and that I didn’t shut down the whole street. I take your security very seriously.

Obviously.

Should I expect them to come with me into the bathroom?

Only if you want their deaths on your conscience.

A shiver runs down my back. I’ve clearly rolled over the line of morality because the statement makes my panties wet.

I miss you, Sunbeam.

My heart tumbles. It’s only been a day since I last saw Hunter, and I miss him terribly. Like having dreams about us being together, him cuddling me until the sun comes up.

I miss you too.

“Ooh, we have to stop!” Ella exclaims, pointing out the window. Rio slams on the brakes, causing us to narrowly avoid getting creamed by the rest of the detail.

“Ella!” I yell out, clutching Kitty to my side, and Veronica grabs her milk-heavy boobs.

“Sorry,” she says in a small voice. “I um....”

“What, Ella?” I rub the side of my neck where the seat belt cut into me.

“Could we stop at the convenience store for some, um, candy?” All of us blink at each other until Veronica bursts out laughing. I follow, and even Rio suppresses a chuckle. A knock on the window from Jared startles us out of our amusement.

Rio talks to him, telling him we’re stopping at the convenience store just ahead.

Maybe I can get a test here.

My heart is currently in my asshole, and I swallow at the enormity of this moment.

When I reach for the door handle, Rio quickly says, “One moment, Mrs. Brigham.” I roll my eyes at the title.

“Rio, please. It’s Winter. If you’re hellbent on using a full name, it’s Ms. Vaughan. I am not Mrs. Brigham.” His eyes widen a fraction in the rearview mirror before he heads around the back of the SUV to confer with my three guards.

Is life always going to be like this?

“I think it’s cute that H makes everyone call you his wife,” Veronica says, her grin wide.

“It’s inappropriate,” I say back.

“How so?” Ella tilts her head to the side, regarding me after flicking her eyes down to the rock on my hand. The one he shoved on my finger sometime during my blackout in the solarium. I still wear it.

I hear Rio talking animatedly to one of the guards from a different car.

“Well, one. I’m not his wife. He hasn’t even asked me to marry him.”

“Would you say yes if he did?” Ella asks, skipping over the point. I pause. If Hunter asked, would I say yes?

If there were a baby? Yes.

If there weren’t a baby...?

Girl, you know it’s a yes too.

I resist putting a hand over my stomach.

When the door opens, Ella bounces out of the seat and into the mini-mart. That girl must be on a perpetual sugar high.

“Yo, get me a water, will you?” Veronica asks, yawning. “I’m just gonna close my eyes for a few minutes.” In three breaths, she’s unconscious, something I’ve learned she’s been able to do on demand as a mother. She can fall asleep anywhere, in almost any position.

I pick Kitty up, placing him on her lap. Veronica lets out a long sigh, her eyes still screwed shut. Kitty settles into her.

I try to be as innocuous as possible when I'm inside the store. If I am pregnant, everyone will know it soon. But if I’m not, I want to have privacy about it.

I want to have privacy about all of this.

When Ella heads to the candy aisle, I make quick work of finding the cheap pregnancy tests. I grab one, then decide to grab two more.

Fuck, are these things even fucking accurate?

Ella’s voice rings out close to me, an aisle over. “Do you want any candy, Winter?”

“No!” I practically shout. “Um, no, I’m good,” I say with more finesse. She gives me a perplexed look, so I spin on my heel to grab a water bottle. I close the fridge before thinking better of it and grab a second.

Clutching everything to my chest, I rush to the cashier. It’s the same guy who’s always there.

“Hey,” he drawls, and I bare my teeth at him, resisting a snarl.

Today is not the day. I am not the one.

He averts his eyes after a blink, and I hunch my shoulders when I feel Rio move to wait behind me. When I turn to track his gaze, apprehension nearly drowns me when I notice they’re focused on the pregnancy tests.

Shit.

I don’t know if I think the word or say it out loud, but he makes a motion in front of his mouth to indicate, My lips are sealed.

I mouth “Thank you” to him, unable to vocalize words.

With my heart beating out my chest, I jump when the cashier tells me my total. Grabbing my wallet, I stop again, letting out a choked laugh when I read the name on my credit card.

Winter V. Brigham

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Can we fight about it later?” I hear Hunter say in my brain.

We most certainly will.

Jamming the card in the reader, I don’t wait for a receipt before grabbing the bag and card once approved.

Taking a breath, I stuff everything in my oversized purse.

When the car door slams, it wakes Veronica, who snorts before becoming coherent.

“Where’s my water, home skillet?” I hand her the bottle I bought and with a deep breath, I start drinking mine.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

DICHOTOMY IS BLESSEDLY empty when we arrive. I consider Hunter’s vague threat and if he did, in fact, clear out the shop. But then I see a table with the newest releases and beeline to the display.

“This place is cool,” Ella says, her eyes ping-ponging around the store. Since its mid-morning, the food side operates as a café. “Okay, I’ll order. Blueberry scone for mama here.”

“And I want the spring salad with chicken,” Veronica adds. Ella nods.

“Got it. What do you want, Winter?”

The smell of roasting beans is strong here, but I find that it soothes my stomach rather than making me queasy.

“Just a black tea with milk for me and a grilled cheese and tomato soup,” I say.

Ella walks off and I turn to Veronica. She looks around the store as if she’s searching for something.

“What ya looking for?” I ask, sneaking behind her. She jumps almost a foot into the air.

“Jeez, girl, wear a bell or something!” she whisper-shouts.

I gape at her until Ella bounds back up to us. “Orders placed! Let’s grab a table.” She loops her arm in mine, and I steer us toward the patio.

“Indoors, please, Mrs. Brigham,” Rio says in a low voice when he reaches us at the door. I stare at him for one-two-three moments, my dread increasing with every tick of the second hand.

How foolish of me.

The security detail mill around the shop, and the only people not employed by Hunter Brigham are the barista and the cashier across the store, who looks petrified.

“Right,” I say to him. We grab a table near a window. When he opens his mouth to object, I cut him off. “Why don’t we just live in a fort then?” My hands shake, and I feel annoyingly close to tears. My nose itches.

“This is...this is fine, Mrs. Brigham,” he murmurs. Then he steps back to confer with Jared, the other guard.

Probably to do a sweep for sharpshooters hanging out on the roofs.

How different life is now.

I scan the bustling street, getting choked up at what I imagined life would look like and how it’s so incredibly different.

This isn’t forever, I think. Or is it? Sitting back, I analyze the situation. Even when Hunter’s dad is out of the picture, there will be others who want to harm him. Want to harm us.

Trapped. I’m trapped, and I’m always going to be in danger.

Just realized that, didn’t you?

A hysterical bubble fizzles to the top of my throat, fighting to burst through my vocal cords. Kitty hops in my lap, sitting up to put his snout on my shoulder.

I hug him tight and try not to whimper.

“If it isn’t my favorite ladies,” a smooth voice says to my side. I look up and it’s Marcus, my neighbor.

Former neighbor?

“Haven’t seen you around much, Winter. Veronica,” he says.

“Good memory,” Veronica says in a sharp tone. I look at her. She shoots daggers at Marcus, and I have no clue what he did to piss in her Cheerios.

“Ah,” he says, picking up on the vibes Veronica’s putting off. He turns to Ella.

“Marcus Law.” He sticks his hand out to shake hers. Ella’s eyes ping-pong around the table.

A mischievous smirk plays across her lips, and it’s clear she finds the situation amusing as hell.

“Ella Brigham,” she replies, shaking his hand. If I weren’t looking at Marcus, I would have missed the slight tick of his jaw.

Was it a tick of his jaw? Maybe it was just a muscle spasm. Or maybe he knows the Brighams. Maybe he’s someone who wants to hurt us. Hurt me.

Everything starts to close in, and my chest tightens. Paranoia compels me to get away from the window, from the table, from this space.

“Going to the bathroom,” I say, popping up quickly, displacing Kitty. Four heads swivel in my direction. Everyone wears a bewildered expression except Rio.

“Let me escort you, ma’am,” Rio says.

I nod, but when Kitty tries to follow me, I bark a sharp, “Stay!”

Veronica’s eyebrows crease in a concerned look. “You okay, Win?” she asks, snapping her fingers to call Kitty over to her. When Kitty settles next to her leg, he whimpers, giving me a sorrowful look.

I’m fucking up all around.

“I’m fine,” I say breathlessly. “Just need to pee. Drank that whole bottle of water,” I add.

I whirl around and race to the bathroom with Rio on my heels.

I slam the door and lock it behind me. Then I wash my hands.

I don’t know why I do it. I just know that I have to do it.

So I wash them once. Then I follow the compulsion to wash them again.

Then again.

Then again.

I wash my hands six times, singing Happy Birthday all the way through.

Birthdays. Birthdays. I might be giving birth.

Oh, God.

I settle on the toilet seat, and when my bag slaps across my thigh, I remember the pregnancy tests in there.

Now is as good a time as ever. Right? I won’t get unpregnant-er by waiting.

Unless you miscarry.

My stomach clenches. Is this—is it starting? Is this the pain of me losing the baby?

The baby I don’t even know is real.

Stop. Breathe.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I’m a step down from panic-attack-imminent status. The boxes tap together in my bag, and I pull one out without overthinking it.

My hands shake so much that the paper insert with the instructions rattles in my hands. I can barely read the small print.

“Pee on the test. Hold it under the stream. Cap it. Let it do its thing,” I mutter once I get the gist of what I’m supposed to do.

The foil wrapper drops to the floor, fluttering like a rose petal, and I take the cap off the brand-new pink dye test.

“Here we go,” I say, breathing out against the cramping in my stomach.

I release my muscles, counting to five and capping the test to let it rest on my knee.

Breathe, Winter.

One.

One-two-one

One-two-three-two-one.

I watch mindlessly as my pee absorbs into the test material, chasing across the result window. The control line darkens as soon as it crosses the midline, and milliseconds later, another line materializes.

Maybe it will disappear?

These tests need time to process, right? Five minutes, according to what I gathered from the instructions. But as I stare at the cheap plastic, the line darkens even more, mocking my disbelief.

Positive. The pregnancy test is positive. I’m pregnant.

I slide off my porcelain throne and expel all the water remaining in my stomach in painful heaves.

You knew. You already knew, Winter.

I retch again, icy fingers of nausea and panic swirling inside every hidden crevasse of my body.

One.

One-two—

You’re bringing a baby into this. You’re bringing a baby into this danger.

One.

One-t—

You are a nasty, dirty, stupid whore.

One.

One.

One.

Falling. I’m falling over the edge. I shove everything into my bag and open the door slowly. Rio has moved further into the store and away from the hall that houses the bathroom.

I take a step toward the group. One foot. Then the other.

Move your body, Winter.

I whirl around.

And leave the store out the employee exit in the back.

I stand on the other side of the door for all of ten seconds, expecting my bodyguards to run me down and haul me back to Amelia Manor, never to be seen again.

But when they don’t, I blink, and the next thing I know, I’m mid-stride, running away from the café and over to the next street.

I angle my body toward Howard University, not slowing down, even though it probably looks strange that I’m running down the sidewalk in ballet flats and jeans.

My phone rings after five minutes.

I recognize Veronica’s tone. When it goes to voicemail, another call comes through. Then a text. Then another call.

Finally, I slow down. My chest burns, and I accept that I’m way too out of shape.

You’re not fit to give birth. You’ll die on the table. Your baby will die. You’re not healthy—

Nausea swells within me, and I lean my back on the brick wall of a clothing store.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

My phone goes off again, and I’m so on edge I chuck it into the street.

Where it’s promptly run over by a city bus.

Fuck.

I look around and see the edge of Howard U right in front of me. I must have run five blocks away from the store.

When my breaths return to normal, I think of a place to go. And then panic as another realization sets in.

I’m out here. All alone. Vulnerable.

Winter, you are a stupid, stupid bitch.

Suddenly, I want to wail. To weep big tears with gut-wrenching sobs.

You need to talk this out.

I need Genevieve.

I put my hand in my bag, then remember that my phone is in pieces on the street.

But I know where she is. I point my feet in the direction of Banneker Park.

One block. Two. Three. Then I push open the door of the office building and knock.

All these years, she’s been close by. I’ve always known this, and yet....

I’ve never seen her in person. I’ve never been in her office.

I count my heartbeats, getting dizzy at the thought that maybe she’s not here. Maybe, right when I need her, she’s—

Genevieve opens the door to her office, and her surprise at seeing me is evident.

“Winter,” she says with her soft island lilt. “It is so good to see you.”

I stare at her for a second and then say. “You’re so tall in real life.”

And then I break down in sobs.

TWENTY-SEVEN

HUNTER

When I get the call from Rio that Winter has run off, shock and rage prevent me from responding for a solid twenty seconds.

In those seconds, I imagine killing Rio and spreading his entrails across the Lincoln Memorial. Then I’d slaughter every one of the guards I assigned to protect her, Veronica, and Ella.

Clearly, they’re asleep at the wheel.

However, when Rio says, “But we’ve got her tracker, and we know where she is. She’s safe,” my bloodlust cools. But only by a slight margin.

I grip the phone, feeling the plastic strain under my palm, and say with eerie coolness that I do not feel, “It is for that reason alone that I may let you live, Rio.”

He is silent on the other line. “Yes, sir,” he says with resolve.

“Send me her location,” I demand and end the call. The fact that throwing my phone while on the plane would potentially harm one of the flight attendants is the only reason I place it on the side table with care.

Leo looks at me with impassive eyes. “She ran off, huh?”

I don’t answer him, but something in my gaze causes him to chuckle.

“This is funny to you, Leonardo?”

“Not at all, H,” he says smoothly. “Her running off is dumb as fuck. You in love, though?” He positions the tumbler in front of his mouth. “That’s hilarious,” he says. He tips the glass and takes a long sip.

I don’t validate that statement with a response.

Instead, I tap on my phone, cross-checking Winter’s location with the address.

Genevieve Clarke, PhD, PsyD, LPC

She’s with her therapist. I let out a deep breath. But what happened to make her seek out her therapist now—and in person? What caused her to run?

Or maybe she didn’t run? Maybe someone has her, and they’re tricking me into comfort.

The vision of my father’s decomposed body flashes behind my eyelids, so I snap them open, blinking up into the overhead light to temporarily blind myself.

The day before yesterday, prior to stepping foot on Isla Cara, I had all kinds of plans for my reunion with Winter. I planned on surprising her by sliding into bed with her and waking her up with a hot kiss to her snatch.

Now, not only do I have to deal with the fact that she’s run off, I have to figure out what to do about my father and his death.

Ella will be devastated.

I go to take a sip of my whiskey but end up taking a gulp instead.

“Make sure everything arrives safely at Amelia Manor,” I tell Leo. I keep the tracking app up on my phone, making sure it doesn’t move at all. Misha’s guys wanted to pack up everything in the vault right after I finished puking up my guts into the ocean. I let them do it because what did it matter?

But when they made Leo and I stay on the main island for an additional day so a new crew could come clean up the body in the office and give them a non-putrid space to find whatever the fuck they were looking for, I started feeling a little pissed off.

So instead of letting them roll me over and take everything with them back to Misha, Leo and I decided that everything was going with us. We ditched them at the airport in Martinique after I paid six muscular Martinicans to haul all the stuff into our plane and hold off Misha’s goons.

It was a relatively painless process, seeing as there wasn’t any bloodshed.

“Heard,” he says, not looking at me.

We’re both silent for a long while, long enough that I feel the nose of the 767 starting to tilt in its final descent.

“I know someone else who wore one too,” Leo says, and my eyes snap to his. I don’t have to ask him if he’s talking about one of the gold rings.

“When?” I demand.

He inhales deeply, holding his breath in his chest.

“With Isabel. When she was taken—” He picks up his whiskey, finishing it in a large gulp.

“When Isabel was taken, the Sheikh was there. He wore a ring.”

“Hm,” I say, rubbing my upper lip back and forth with the flat side of my thumbnail. “Morris Winthrope wears one as well.”

Now it’s Leo’s turn to hum.

“So now to figure out what the fuck it means and what it’s for,” he says.

I raise my glass. “And to that end, I think we’ll find a whole lot of shit we want to know nothing about.”

Leo presses his head back on the headrest of his seat, closing his eyes.

My phone beeps, and it’s a text from Rio with a picture of the outside of Winter’s therapist’s door.

Arrived and confirmed she is here.

I don’t respond. He sends another pic with all the guards in the frame, and I relax. But only a little bit.

We’ll discuss it when I arrive.

I look at the flight map in front of me. We have forty-five minutes until we land in D.C. If we hurry, I can get to Genevieve’s office in an hour and a half.

“Shit,” Leo hisses, and I turn my face to him. He waves his phone in the air for me to see an incoming call.

Misha.

“Here we go,” I mutter, and Leo moves to sit closer to me. He answers the call on speaker phone.

“There were issues at the airport, I hear,” Misha says as soon as Leo picks up. Leo and I share a glance, but I speak to the pakhan first.

“No issues, Misha. Your men simply misunderstood that I was taking my family property with me to examine. You’ll have it when I’m done.”

I steel my spine and Leo’s despondent and low, “Fuck,” doesn’t go unnoticed by me.

“I see,” Misha says simply.

Silence drags on the line, and the only sound to break it comes from the dulled engines and the tinkering in the galley as the crew cleans up after our inflight refreshments.

“Give us two days,” Leo adds, pasting on the charm and likely saving me from being personally assassinated by Misha Hroshko. “Please,” he tacks on.

The nose of the plane tips down in preparation for our final descent right as Misha says, “Fine.”

He’s gone before either of us could acknowledge his word.

“H?” Leo sounds as tired as I feel. “I can’t wait for all this shit to be over with.”

I finish off my whiskey. “Me neither.”

Once we touch down, I haul ass to get in the driver’s seat of the SUV waiting on the tarmac. When Leo tries to get in the passenger seat, I shove him back.

“Get your own ride,” I grind out.

His laughter is loud outside the vehicle as I drive off.

Finding parking in the district is a nightmare on any given day, but I had that fucker Rio clear out a spot for me right at the front. When I enter the waiting area outside Genevieve’s office, Rio faces me, squaring his shoulders.

I punch him dead in the face.

He stumbles back a step but otherwise doesn’t react.

“You put her life at risk ever again, and there won’t be a place far enough for you to run.”

He stands back up tall, and I have to hand it to him. He takes the consequence like a man.

“Got it, sir,” he says. He knows he fucked up, but Winter likes the fucker, and she would not like it if I killed him. And for that, he has his life. Today.

I throw the keys at him, and he catches them.

“Stay with my car. The rest of you, clear this area out, but stay close. My sister and Veronica...?” I ask.

“Back safe at Amelia Manor.” Great. Something is going right.

With a sharp nod, I instruct the men to leave the space. I sit in the uncomfortable chair when all is quiet, and the only sound is of the white noise machine on the other side of the door.

The silence forces the past seventy-two hours to push forward into my awareness. My father is dead. The stench of his decomposing body resurfaces. It’s a cellular memory now.

Misha’s men and the cleanup crew took the remains away and cleaned up the mess in the office. There was talk of sending the remains over for DNA testing, but there’s no doubt the remains are my father.

I pull at my hair and look at the closed door.

This is a lot, but I can’t drop this news on Winter right now. Later.

In total, Winter spends three hours in her therapist’s office. I’m worried. Clearly, something is going on for her to use this much time, but I don’t interfere.

Whatever she’s going through in her brain, she’s with the safest person she can be with to process it.

I breathe through the reality that she needs people besides me.

Still, my leg bounces up and down as I wait.

What if she’s sick again? How can I make sure she’s safe and she gets the help she needs? What if her therapist tells her to run for the hills?

Like any sane person looking in from the outside would tell her to do.

I run my hand through my hair, pulling at the roots, twisting. My father is dead. Winter is struggling with something….

What if she’s having some type of PTSD reaction?

What if—

The door opening cuts off my thoughts. A tall woman with waist-long salt-and-pepper locs twisted away from her face steps into the waiting room. Her impassive dark eyes narrow slightly when she sees me sitting there, but then it turns into a slight smile. She’s not surprised that I’m in her waiting room.

I stand, ready to shake her hand. “I’m Hunter Brigham. You must be Genevieve,” I say in what I hope is a kind voice. It’s hard for me to assess myself with my heart in my toes.

“I know who you are, Mr. Brigham,” she says with a soft accent and a slight laugh. Now that I’m close to her, I see her ebony skin is smooth except for small laugh lines around her eyes.

The bangles on her wrist clink together as she shakes my hand, but then she closes the door behind her, Winter still somewhere behind the barrier.

“Let’s have a seat,” she says kindly, ushering me back into the chair I just vacated.

I get a head rush.

She’s going to tell me that I need to leave Winter alone. She’s going to say to me that I’m making her sick—I’m killing her.

She’s—

I try to control the shaking in my hands, so I clasp them together.

Genevieve notices, I’m sure.

“First, Winter is fine. I will admit that I was surprised to see her show up at my office today, but I’m so glad she came.”

I nod in response, not trusting myself to talk.

“Winter has given me permission to speak with you,” she says, assessing me.

I squeeze my hands together in my lap even tighter.

“Winter has told me that she’s made you aware of her mental health diagnoses—her obsessive-compulsive disorder and panic disorder.”

I nod again because it feels like she’s waiting for a response.

“Good. When under stress or major life changes, it’s reasonable for her symptoms to get worse. But as one of the closest members of her support system, we all must be on the same page.”

Stress. Major life changes. It could be anything we’ve been dealing with over the last three months. “Yes,” I say resolutely.

Good job.

“Usually, I’d discuss the next steps in a treatment plan with my patients present, but Winter wanted me to give you a baseline of information before she saw you. One thing she’s worried about is that you’re angry with her. Are you angry with her?”

Her eyes are hard, and I feel about six years old under her maternal gaze.

“No, ma’am. There are very few things Winter could do that would make me upset with her. I do wish she wouldn’t have run from her security, though. There are things happening—” I pause, and Genevieve raises her eyebrow. I get the feeling that Winter’s filled her in on a lot.

“Mr. Brigham, very little fazes me in my line of work. Sure, I have required reporting for certain documented situations, but,” she lifts her hands. “Do you see notes anywhere? I’m sure the battalion of men you had in my waiting room did a sweep for bugs, right?”

She is correct.

“So, there you go.” She splays her hands out with a bored yet amused look.

“Right.” I swallow. “Things are happening that make it very dangerous for Winter to be out in public. Our home is the safest place for us, but I recognize the need for her to go to other places.” I rake a hand down my face.

Genevieve hums but stays silent.

“I love her very much,” I say. I feel like she’s waiting for me to say something, to land on some critical revelation. “I’ll do whatever is needed to make sure she is okay,” I vow.

She stares at me for another beat. Then she breaks out into a smile.

“Excellent,” she says. “Tomorrow, Winter needs to visit Dr. Greene. I’ve already contacted her regarding a combined treatment plan.”

My head spins. “What’s going on?”

She smiles at me and continues as if I said nothing. “She needs to see me three times per week for the next little bit. I’d love for those sessions to be in person, and I’m happy to come to you in light of everything happening. But if that’s not feasible, she must attend her virtual visits.”

The spinning gets worse.

“I’ll let Winter tell you the rest,” she says. Then she goes to the door. “She’ll be out in a minute.”

When the door snicks shut again, I feel like I just got run through by a tornado.

But when the door opens a literal minute later and Winter walks out, it takes one look at her stricken face for me to jolt out of my chair, bringing her to my arms.

“Sunbeam,” I say into the riot of curls at the top of her head. Her arms hang loosely around me, tightening as she breathes.

Holding her in my arms, I’m able to release the horrific images from Isla Cara and center myself back into the now—a place where it’s just Winter and me.

“I’m really sorry I ran away, H. That was childish of me,” she says, with her face pressed into my chest.

I think for a moment, then say, “I’m just glad you’re safe, baby.”

She finally looks up at me, and I smile at her. Her shoulders drop, the tension in them releasing. “Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” I say back, just as softly. Then I kiss her.

It’s sweet, gentle. Comforting for both of us.

“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her hand. When we’re on the street, she stops short when she sees Rio. In the hours I’ve been inside, Rio’s eye has swelled up and turned a prominent shade of purple.

“Rio!” Winter gasps, walking closer to him. I suppress a growl at her, showing care to another man, but Rio shakes his head and opens the passenger door for her.

Winter looks back at me, her eyes narrowed to slits.

“Fight me about it later?” I say.

She gives me a short sigh and then tries to get into the back.

“No, up front, Sunbeam.” She stops and looks at me, confused.

“What? You want me next to Rio?”

“No, I’m driving now.” Her eyes roll in the direction of her eyebrows. Without a word, she gets into the passenger seat, and Rio closes the door.

Winter pipes up again when I’m in the driver’s seat and pulling into the traffic.

“Where is everyone?” She looks around.

I glance at her. “I told them to give us some space.”

“Is that safe?” She brings her hand to her mouth, biting a nail. I pull her hand down, lacing her fingers with mine.

“Of course, baby.”

Probably. In any event, I have at least forty men surrounding us, out of sight.

She visibly swallows and gives me a sharp nod.

We’re silent for a while, taking the long way to our destination. When we finally pull up to 110UWest, she speaks again.

“My apartment? I haven’t been here in months,” she says.

“Call it nostalgia,” I say, then I kiss her hand.

The guards are close by, but I told them to be invisible to her. I don’t know everything that’s happening—in fact, I don’t know shit.

But I know that what Winter does need is me, and she needs it to be only us, even if it’s just for a little while. We can enter our bubble and pretend the world isn’t spinning off its axis.

We walk to her door, and before she opens it, I spin her around, bracketing her against it with my arms. She closes her eyes against the intensity of my gaze.

“Look at me, baby,” I murmur.

She’s slow to open her eyes but does all the same.

“Something’s going on with you, and we’ll hash it all out later. But when we go inside, I want you to try to push out whatever it is that’s got you running scared. When we cross the door, it’s just you and me. Hunter and Winter. No one else. Nothing else. Okay?”

She looks into my eyes with as much intensity as I’m sure is in my gaze. Then she says, “Perfect.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

WINTER

The lock whirrs as I press my phone to the keypad.

It’s hard to believe it’s been months since I last visited my apartment. But when I open the door, I don’t see a condemnable mess.

Instead, everything is pristine. Someone even watered my plants.

I spin around to face Hunter. “This you?”

He smiles at me softly, and I take a moment to really see him. He looks so exhausted. Dark circles shadow his eyes and wrinkles mar his messy shirt.

“I knew you wouldn’t like it if I ended your apartment lease without your input, so I made sure the place was taken care of until you were ready to let it go.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. I hear the unspoken context: Let it go or run back to it.

“I see,” I murmur. I drop my bag on the leather sofa I was so proud of purchasing when I moved into this place.

I walk to my meditation corner. The crystals are still in the same spot next to my sound bowl.

I turn back to him. “I really missed you, H.” And goddamn it, I’m close to crying again.

I spent seventy-five percent of my session with Genevieve crying. It wasn’t until the last thirty minutes that I was able to dry up my tear ducts.

I shouldn’t have stopped going to therapy. I need it. I likely will always need it as part of my treatment—even when my mental health struggles are in remission.

I’ve gotten better—gotten through—much of what happened on the surface.

But as Genevieve told me today, the body remembers.

“I missed you too, baby. I hate being away from you,” he says. He walks closer to me.

When I’m in his arms, I inhale and exhale deeply.

This was a major part of the problem. I just needed H. Without him, I feel untethered.

He’s silent, letting me guide what we talk about and how much we talk. I appreciate it.

“I had a panic attack,” I say into his chest. He rubs soothing circles on my back, and I feel major muscle groups unclench.

“Do you want to talk about what happened to set you off?”

Circle.

Circle.

Circle.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” His chest vibrates beneath my ear as he chuckles.

More silence.

“Well, first, we went to the convenience store, where I had the shock of my life when I pulled out my credit card.” I look up at him, and he has the good sense to look chagrined.

I raise an eyebrow.

“I like calling you Mrs. Brigham. I can’t help myself,” he says, and I put my head back on his chest and swallow down the words I want to say.

That it’s high-handed.

That it’s crazy and confusing because he hasn’t even proposed to me.

That I do want to be tied to him in marriage. That I want to be his wife. That I’m scared because I don’t know which way is up right now.

“I was feeling trapped,” I say, still not looking at him. “There were all these guards, and everyone seemed so on edge. And all I wanted was to sit outside on the p-patio, and R-Rio t-told me n-no.” I’m horrified that I’m crying again, choking on my words.

He hums and keeps rubbing my back, sliding his hand up my spine, between my shoulder blades, and into the hair at the nape of my neck.

“And then I realized that I’m never going to feel safe again because our lives won’t be safe. There will always be someone trying to kill us, right? And now—” I bury my face in his chest.

“I didn’t even get my t-tea,” I wail.

His chest vibrates again.

“Are you laughing at me?” I snap my head up to his, and humor fills his eyes. I growl.

“Baby,” he says, stroking my cheek. “Did you figure it out yet?”

Stroke. Circle.

“Figure what out,” I murmur.

“That you’re pregnant.” I go rigid in his arms and look away. I contemplate lying for a few seconds, denying the truth. But then he sighs and pulls me back into his body again.

He rocks me gently from side to side for a full minute before he steps back. My body automatically misses his warmth.

“Let’s order some food. I’m starving. What sounds good to you?” He strides over to the kitchen island and pulls his phone out of his pocket. Scrolling through the food ordering app, he says, “Italian, Asian, Indian, Mexican, American....”

At that exact moment, my stomach growls. “I want a quesadilla,” I blurt out. “With extra chicken and pico de gallo. Guac and sour cream on the side.”

I’m salivating. “Oh, and chips and salsa. Extra jalapeño.”

He smiles. “I’ll put a rush on it.”

“A lot of jalapeños. Like, double what they think is a lot.”

His eyes dance with amusement, twinkling in the overhead lights.

“Got it, baby,” he says with warmth diffusing his tone.

“Awesome,” I say to fill the space. The silence is heavy and awkward because I ignored his massive declaration.

He knows.

I know.

We know.

But neither of us are talking about it.

Hunter heads to the bathroom, and as soon as he’s out of eyesight, I sag onto the edge of the bed. Just say the words, Winter: I’m pregnant.

But if I say the words, that makes it real, and that makes the risks of everything surrounding our lives even more real. Sharper. There’s so much at stake. It’s one thing to keep myself safe, but to protect a baby?

I drop my head into my hands. I will not spiral.

The sound of running water startles me out of my thoughts, and then Hunter stands in front of me.

“Come, I got a bath ready for you.” He holds his hand out to me.

I take it.

Once we’re both in the bathroom, I allow him to strip me down. There’s nothing sexual about his movements until I’m completely naked, standing next to the nearly full, fragrant tub. Then he pulls me to him, my back to his front. His arms circle my stomach, and he rocks us from side to side with his head pressed to mine.

One hand goes to my breast—my heart. The other spans my lower stomach, right over my womb.

My breasts are so sensitive that the feeling of his warm palm against my nipples hurts, but I don’t stop him.

I just drop my head back against his chest.

We stand like that for a few more moments before he releases me, helping me into the tub. He turns off the water and says, “I’ll let you know when the food is here. For now, relax.”

And then he’s gone.

Left alone with my thoughts, I battle embarrassment at how I acted today.

Not only was it foolish, it was also dangerous. Stupid.

Don’t beat yourself up, I hear Genevieve say.

But the truth is, it was a terrible decision. Here I am again, letting my anxiety control my actions.

Give yourself grace.

Genevieve called Dr. Greene, and we all talked for a little while about medication management and sending me to a high-risk obstetrician with my past birth history. But first, Dr. Greene wanted to verify the pregnancy tomorrow to make sure everything was growing properly.

That sent me into another spiral.

What if something is wrong? ran through my brain over and over and over. I’m so grateful Genevieve was there to help talk me through the obsessive thoughts.

“I’m nuts,” I said to Genevieve. She smiled at me and said, “No, you’re not. You are a person who experienced several hugely traumatic events—events that altered the biochemistry of your brain. You have challenges, but you are not ‘nuts,’ Winter. And guess what? You’ve got control of your health before. You will do it again.”

I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again.

I close my eyes and rest my head against the edge of the tub. I must have dozed off because the next thing I know, Hunter rubs my face, and the water has cooled considerably.

“The food is here, baby,” he says.

He helps me out of the tub, wrapping me in a fluffy towel that smells freshly laundered. My robe, also fresh, hangs on the back of the door.

I put it on and walk out to the kitchen. When the smell of fajita meat and spices hits my nose, I stop myself from running to the kitchen island.

He’d opened the boxes and tore the paper bag with the hot tortilla chips open.

I don’t acknowledge him as I scarf down half of the quesadilla in less than five minutes.

When I finally look up to him, I cast my eyes back down quickly.

“Sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For eating like an animal,” I reply.

“Stop,” he barks. My head snaps up in his direction, and I see his face is serious. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’ve starved yourself for most of today, and it’s—” he looks at his watch “four p.m. now. You need to eat. Your body knows what it needs.”

I hum in acknowledgment of his words. I’m hyper-critical of myself right now. It’s a learned act, a default following such an anxiety-riddled day, so I absorb his words and take them to heart.

Once I’m full and sure my food will not reappear, I clean up the kitchen. Hunter wanders over to the window, and when I look at him after I’m finished, I’m slightly bewildered to see that he’s stripped down to his boxers and sits on the oversized meditation pillow.

“H?” I say, confused.

“Hm?” he says, throwing the sound over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m meditating.” He gives me an amused look. “Want to join me?”

I look at the pillow. “There’s not exactly a lot of space, H.”

“There’s plenty of space,” he says.

He pulls me down to sit in front of him between his spread legs. I butterfly mine, arranging my robe so I’m not flashing the world.

Then I examine the glass, noticing the windows are darker than I remember. At the top of the panes, there’s a mechanical-looking track. Blinds?

“I wanted to make sure the glass wasn’t see-through from the outside,” he says. “And that sun is disrespectful in the morning, so I added shades.”

He did all this in case I came back, even though he wanted me to stay.

I lean back against him, and his arms go around my waist.

“I want to do something,” he says suddenly. “I’ve been researching breathwork.”

I lift my eyebrows in slight surprise. I’ve studied somatics and breathwork extensively in my psychology classes, even though they’re woefully underfunded areas of study.

“I know you’re the expert here,” he says. “Wanna do some breathing with me?”

I smile slowly. “That sounds nice, H.”

He squeezes me gently.

“Wait, let me just—” I reach in front of me, bending over to rummage through the essential oil stash in front of us. When I find the bottles of clary sage and lavender, I jerk when his hands glide up the backs of my thighs.

I push back against him and frown when he removes his hand. I’m conscious that I’m naked under my robe—the scratch of the terrycloth material against my breasts amplifies my awareness.

Looking over my shoulder, I suck in a breath at his heated, focused expression.

“Put the oils in the diffuser, Sunbeam.” His voice is rough, so I don’t delay doing what he commands.

Settled back between his legs, I revel in the feeling of his heat radiating behind me.

This is what I need. This is what I missed. Everything is okay as long as Hunter is with me.

“Let’s do square breathing,” he says close to my ear. “Four counts to breathe in, hold for four, four counts to exhale.” He holds his hands palm up on each of his thighs.

“Let’s do it together,” he says.

I can’t speak, so I nod and place my hands on his, palm to palm.

Together, we inhale. It takes a few cycles before we’re in sync, but when we do, I feel like my body is so connected, so close to his, it’s like we’re two parts of the same soul.

I don’t know how many minutes pass as we sit in the most simple, perfect silence. The oils circle us, and the waning sunlight casts a warm glow across the hardwood floors.

I take Hunter’s hand and place it on my robe belt. He undoes it without saying a word, and it slips from my shoulders, pooling at my waist.

He doesn’t move again except for the slow, measured in and out of his breath behind me.

So I take his hand, putting both of them over my breasts. He lifts them, saving my sore tits from the pressure of gravity. I shiver. He kisses my exposed shoulder.

“Do you trust me?” he whispers. If it were in any other setting, I never would have heard his words.

I nod.

“I need the words, Winter,” he says. I lean into him.

“Yes,” I say on a breath. “I do trust you.”

His hands flex, squeezing my breasts. My resulting inhalation is sharp. He releases his grip a fraction, rubbing the sides of my flesh with his thumbs.

“Do you trust me to provide for you?” he says.

“Yes, I do.” He releases one breast, touching my stomach in soothing circles.

“Do you trust me to protect you?”

“Yes, H.” We rock slightly from side to side.

“Do you trust me to love you until I’m dead in the ground and beyond?”

I choke on his words, the ever-ready tears starting to form at my lower lids.

“I want to believe that, H,” I say, choosing to be honest.

He hums. “I guess I’ll just have to prove that one to you over our lifetime.” He kisses the top of my head. “I don’t mind,” he says, the words still soft.

“You haven’t asked me to marry you,” I tell him, allowing the tears to track down my cheeks. “I mean, it’s stupid because we’ve known each other for barely a year. But….”

He stills for a beat, and then he rubs his face against the side of mine.

“Do you trust that I’ll keep our family safe? That you’re always safe when you’re right by my side?”

I pause, unable to speak because of the lump in my throat. “Y-yes, I do.” Because it’s true, when we’re apart, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. But when I’m with him....

It’s not healthy to be so reliant, so co-dependent on someone. And yet....

“Do you trust that I need you as much as you need me? That you’re literal oxygen in my lungs?” His hand skims lower and rests over that part of me shielding the unspoken gift we’ve been given.

“Yes, H.”

He hums again. Then he moves his hand, reaching beneath the pillow. He pulls out my used pregnancy test, holding it in front of us.

We both stare at it for a long moment. I sniff, tears falling down my face.

“Winter,” he rasps out. “I’m with you forever. You don’t have to be afraid of this—of moving forward together. It’s my mission in life to slay all your dragons. And our life will be beautiful. Our whole family will be beautiful. I did the wrong things when August was born. I know I did, and I’m so lucky to have the chance to repair things with him. To atone.”

He squeezes me slightly at the last word, inhaling slowly, then relaxing his hold as he exhales.

“I’m so lucky to be able to prove that I can do better. To prove to myself and everyone else who matters that I can be who you need me to be. Who our baby needs me to be. Who our family needs me to be.”

I sob. “I’m so scared, H.”

“I know, baby. I know it’s scary.”

“What if something bad happens?”

“What if something amazing happens?”

I curl my lips inward, sniffing back the snot commingling with my tears.

He turns me around so we face each other, still pressed close. I lose the robe. We stretch our legs in opposite directions as our pelvises touch.

It’s an intimate position. I love it.

“I can’t control the future. Neither can you. But can we commit to making each day the best it can be? Can we commit to choosing our happily ever after?”

I don’t see an ounce of fear in his gaze. Instead, I see joy, pure happiness.

He’s already in bliss at our future, and if he’s not worried—he’s not scared—maybe I can release my fear too.

“Yes, I will try my damnedest,” I say, touching his mouth with mine and peppering kisses around his face.

“That’s all you can do, baby. And I believe in you. You’ve never failed yet.”

Then he takes over, kissing me with everything he has in his body and soul. I feel his passion. I feel his love.

I feel his radiant joy.

“I had this vision of what this would look like, me proposing. I wanted my mother’s ring and to do it at the top of the Eiffel Tower, not when we’re fighting for our lives,” he whispers against my lips.

“I can’t wait to make you my wife, hence calling you Mrs. Brigham.” He pulls back, grinning. “But I can see how that could be confusing, especially since I’ve jumped over a few steps with you.”

I snort. He kisses my nose.

“But I don’t want there to be any doubt or confusion. You are mine. You always have been, and you always will be. You are my wife. But once it’s safe, and this is all behind us, if you want a big wedding featured in US Weekly, you’ll have that, baby. It’s whatever you want.”

I kiss him in response, giving him all my love, hope, and dreams for the future.

When we’re both fully naked, facing each other in a tight embrace, I kiss him soundly when he says, “Will you give me the chance to make my vision real? I want to ask you as I do in my dreams. Can you wait?”

So I say yes as I lower myself onto his hardness. When we both finish, deeply sated and soaked in peace, we crawl into my bed, wrapped around each other. I sleep well for the first time since he’s been gone.

TWENTY-NINE

HUNTER

Dr. Greene’s office smells like lemon Lysol.

The medical assistant taking us to the exam room looks annoyed to be here on a Saturday morning, but she’s professional otherwise.

Winter left a urine sample in the bathroom as soon as we got to the office, and now I stand next to her as she sits on the exam table.

“Date of your last menstrual period?” The medical assistant asks, her long nails clicking on the keyboard with unnatural percussion.

“It was three months ago or so. Maybe a little under,” Winter says.

The assistant types swiftly, her fingers dancing across the keys as she enters the information.

“Mmmkay, and no bleeding, unusual discharge, pelvic pain?” Her gaze fixes on Winter, hands frozen above the keyboard. I instinctively rub Winter’s back as she draws in a sharp breath.

She leans into me and croaks, “No.”

“Mmmkay.” She clicks on the keyboard for a few more seconds, referencing the sticky note where she wrote Winter’s height and weight. I swallow annoyance that they should have that exact information from her visit four months ago and continue to rub Winter’s back.

“Is this your first pregnancy?” she asks casually without looking at Winter, which is good because I don’t want anyone to see the tears welling in her eyes and how pale she’s gone under her naturally light-brown skin.

“Um—”

“That’s enough questions,” I bark. The medical assistant jumps.

“I need this information for the doctor,” she says with more than an edge of annoyance.

“No, you don’t.” As my words hang in the air, she responds with a barely suppressed eye roll, a clear expression of irritation etched into the gesture.

“Well, I need to take her blood pressure and sats,” she says, standing up to pull a pulse ox out of her scrub pocket. When she steps forward, I put my arm in front of Winter’s body.

“Touch her, and I promise you will regret that decision. Leave the room and tell the doctor we’re waiting for her.”

My eyes don’t shift from the medical assistant’s shocked face. With an exasperated huff, she locks the computer with brisk taps. Without uttering a word, she whirls around, exiting the room.

“H,” Winter whispers. I look at her, keeping my face soft.

She looks lost, so I rub my finger on her cheek. “Talk to me, Sunbeam,” I say.

When I speak, she sucks in a breath. “If...something is wrong with the...with the baby—”

I pull her hand to my mouth, kissing the delicate skin inside her wrist. This silences her.

“Winter, let’s try something. You game?” She stares at me, her eyes watery. Her bottom lip trembles, but she gives me a sharp nod. “Let’s have our default setting be believing everything is okay until proven otherwise. How does that sound?”

She chews on her lip for a second. “That sounds like something a non-anxious person would do,” she drawls.

I chuckle, and she rests her head on my shoulder. “When the bad thoughts come in, remind yourself of our game. All is good until proven otherwise. Okay?”

We stay like that, her head on my shoulder and my arm around her, for several minutes until Dr. Greene walks in.

“Well, you most certainly are pregnant,” she says, looking over at the tiny stick in front of Winter’s pee. “How are you feeling this morning?”

Winter straightens, a hint of relief washing over her. “I’m all right today,” she says, a small smile on her lips. Then her face falls as quickly as her smile appeared. “No morning sickness for a full twenty-four hours.” She starts to bite her nails.

“Why does that make you nervous, baby?” I whisper just for her ears as I lower her hand back to her lap.

“Because—I mean—does the lack of morning sickness mean something’s wrong?” she whispers back, and then she turns her face into my chest and cries silently.

I rub her back and look helplessly at Dr. Greene. She smiles softly.

“Winter, what things are you worried about? Let’s talk about them.” The doctor puts her thin laptop on the counter in the corner of the small exam room. With a patient look, she gives Winter her full attention.

“I don’t know why I lost the last one.” Her voice is a rasp. “Is there something wrong with me?”

Dr. Greene’s understanding eyes soften. “I see. Can I explain it to you?”

Winter nods slowly, leaning into me.

“You were so young the last time you conceived, and the reality is that when very young people get pregnant, their bodies are still developing. You were just starting puberty, Winter. The body often isn’t prepared to handle something as strenuous as gestating a fetus that early in one’s fertility journey. In your case, that stress resulted in a placental abruption.”

Winter nods along to what the doctor says, and her gaze never wavers from the doctor’s.

“Let’s talk risks. There is a slightly increased risk that you might experience another abruption over the general population, but hear me clearly: The risk is still low.”

Winter clears her throat. “The risk is still low,” she echoes.

Dr. Greene smiles at her. “Would you like to see your baby, Winter?”

Winter lifts her head so quickly that she almost clips my chin.

“I—really? It’s not too early?” she says.

Dr. Greene doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she boots up the machine next to Winter after she rolls in front of it.

“Nah,” the doctor says, good-natured. “Wanna take a look?”

Winter nods her head.

“Lay back for me.” Dr. Greene puts a glob of ultrasound gel on Winter’s lower belly after Winter shimmies her pants down and lifts her shirt.

Her hand trembles in mine as Dr. Greene flicks off the overhead lights. Once she’s back on her rolling seat, Dr. Greene slides her eyes to us.

“You ready?” She holds the ultrasound wand suspended in the air. I nod for the both of us. The tension in my throat makes it hard to speak.

She puts the wand on Winter’s lower stomach and turns her attention back to the screen. She taps the machine and rolls the ball-looking knob, her face completely blank.

Now, I shake.

After a few more moments, the hazy gray static starts to clear, and I see a small circle of clear space in the middle of the screen.

“See that? That’s your baby,” Dr. Greene says, not looking at us and pointing with her cursor. With a few more taps, she makes the image larger.

“Nice fetal pole and a very normal-looking yolk sac,” she continues talking, but my eyes lock on the screen, on the flickering blob that’s a perfect blend of me and Winter.

Holy fucking shit.

“And if you give me just a moment—” Dr. Greene makes a few more taps, pressing the wand more firmly against Winter’s lower stomach. I look at Winter’s face. Her eyes are glassy, and she has the hand not holding mine pressed to her mouth.

The rapid glub-glub-glub of a heartbeat resonates through the room.

“Oh,” Winter says with a sharp inhale. “That’s the—that’s the heartbeat.”

“Yep,” Dr. Greene says brightly. “And it’s a super normal heart rate of ninety-nine beats per minute.”

We share a silent exchange as our fingers entwine, and I lean down to press a kiss to the side of her head.

“That’s our baby, Sunbeam,” I whisper in her ear.

That’s my baby.

The weight of responsibility for keeping this new life safe sits heavy on my chest like an elephant.

I fucked up by treating August so terribly, and I’ll never forgive myself for abandoning him.

But I’m so fucking grateful that I get to try again—not just with this new baby, but with August and Winter as well.

I’m so fucking grateful that the four of us get to make a family.

Gratitude mingles with the fear, bittersweet on my tongue.

The machine whirrs a few moments later after the doctor removes the wand from Winter’s stomach. She hands her a small hand towel.

Tearing off one of the ultrasound pictures, she hands the rest to Winter. It’s tangible evidence of the new life.

“Come back to see me in one week, and we’ll do bloodwork. But Winter?” She puts her hand on Winter’s knee, looking into her eyes. “I have no concerns right now. Everything looks good. Okay? So try to relax. Enjoy this time.”

Winter nods, her silence echoing louder than words.

“Good,” Dr. Greene says, rolling backward. “Take care of our girl,” the doctor adds, looking at me. Then she winks.

Once Dr. Greene is out of the room, I pull Winter into my arms, hugging her.

“Everything is okay,” Winter says with her face pressed into my chest.

“Everything is perfect,” I counter. Lifting her head to face me, I pepper kisses on her face. “Everything is beautiful.”

Her smile takes my breath away.

A knock sounds from the door, and before we can say anything, the medical assistant is back in the room with a canvas bag embossed with the name of some drug company.

She pops her gum before speaking. “Here. Inside, you’ll find information on cord banking, some prenatal vitamin samples, and some pamphlets for some of our doulas and birth classes.”

She begins to hand the bag to Winter, and then, with a glance in my direction, she puts it on the counter and exits, leaving the door open.

Winter and I exchange glances, her delicate snort a subtle punctuation to our shared amusement.

Exiting the doctor’s office and stepping into the crush around DuPont Circle would feel exhilarating any other day. Right now, everything feels delicate. Fragile.

I pull Winter’s body into mine, putting a protective arm over her stomach. The foot traffic is thick, but Rio is at the curb waiting for us.

We leave the safe shelter of the office awning and step onto the sidewalk when a sudden collision catches me off guard. A dark-haired woman in jogging clothes and a low baseball hat runs into us.

Winter drops the bag, and the contents spill over the concrete.

“Sorry!” Winter and the woman both say at the same time.

Winter reaches for the papers and pills, but I stop her from bending over. The woman quickly shuffles everything back into the bag before I can reach for anything. Keeping her head low, the woman hands everything to Winter.

“Sorry again!” The woman rasps before spinning around and jogging away from us, her ponytail bouncing from where it sticks out of her cap.

Winter blows out a sharp breath, pointing the force of her exhalation up so that her curly bangs flutter.

Scouring our surroundings, we make it to the car without incident, and before we know it, Winter’s hand is firm in mine as we both sit in the back seat of the Suburban. We’re at a stoplight about to enter the highway for the rest of the thirty-minute drive.

“I guess I better start taking these,” Winter says, thumbing through the prenatal packages.

“Absolutely, baby,” I reply.

The car glides through the city streets, the steady drone of the engine creating a backdrop to the quiet impact of the moments we’ve just shared.

Winter’s hand tightens in mine.

I instinctively glance in the rearview mirror. The cars around us seem ordinary, but something feels off.

My guys trail behind in the dark-tinted SUV, and Jared’s shock of blonde hair contrasts against the dark interior when I look out the rear window.

To the left, an inconspicuous vehicle mirrors our path, another Suburban.

To my right is the same make and model of vehicle. Even the color is the same.

I glance at the side of Rio’s face and note his eyes focused on the side-view mirror.

He sees what I see.

A prickling unease creeps through my stomach, a subtle warning to pay fucking attention.

What are the odds of four Suburbans being at the same stoplight?

Leo’s words echo in my mind, “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The ultrasound absorbs Winter’s attention, and she remains unaware, blissful.

“Three and nine o’clock, Rio,” I murmur as his head moves, already scanning the cars beside us. Rio’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, and he nods, indicating his understanding without turning around to address me in the back seat.

“I wonder what they’ll be like,” Winter says more to herself. Her soft smile almost snags my focus away from the danger surrounding us.

Rio wordlessly shifts the vehicle into first gear as I slide my hand to the firearm at my back.

I retrieve my gun, careful not to alarm Winter, who glances up from the pamphlets she’s sorting.

Wait. Shit. Fucking shit.

“What—” Winter objects when I snatch one of the flyers out of her hands.

A bright flash out of the corner of my eye rips my attention from the paper in front of me, and a millisecond later, the back driver’s side glass cracks.

“Down!” I roar at Winter.

Rio punches the accelerator through the red light. Our guys take off after us, and the two cars fall into line quickly. Thank fuck for the bulletproof glass, otherwise, that bullet would have gone straight through my brain.

“Hunter!” Winter’s eyes are wide, terror making them glassy. I don’t wait for her compliance. Instead, I unbuckle her seat belt and push her into the foot well.

A phone call comes from our car behind us.

“Did someone just shoot at us?” Winter’s voice pierces through my chest, her fear amplifying my anxiety.

“ID on the vehicles.” My words cut through the air, sharp and pissed off. When Rio maneuvers between a city bus and a minivan, my back slams into the seat.

I grab the gun and clip sitting inside the center console of the back seat. I hand it to Winter as Rio’s speed tops over a hundred.

“Is someone following us?” The wide-eyed expression on Winter’s face telegraphs her frantic thoughts. Her hand covers her stomach, trying to protect our child with the only thing she has.

“Load it,” I tell her, putting the gun and clip on the seat in front of her.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for the gun and does as she’s told.

I take the risk of leaning down toward her, putting my hand on the back of her neck so that I can force her to face me.

“Calm,” I say in a hard voice. “Calm yourself.”

She breathes in and out in fractured spurts, and after a few cycles, her breathing smooths.

“Ghosts, boss,” Jared’s disembodied voice says.

Pop-pop-pop erupts from the speaker a split second after I see the car on the left careen into the interstate median.

“Vehicle one is down, sir,” Carlos, the other occupant behind us, says.

“Stay with us,” I demand.

“You don’t want us to assess?”

“No.” If Winter wasn’t in the car, then yes, but with her trembling in the back seat, whimpering....

Fucking focus.

Rio weaves between a few cars. “We’re too exposed,” he says.

Winter’s choking sobs break through the tension. “What’s going on?” she cries with her eyes closed.

“Take the next exit,” I demand, swinging my body to the front passenger seat. “Stay down, baby,” I say over my shoulder to Winter.

I barely hear her strangled, “Okay.”

I want to haul her into my arms—to cover her body with mine. I’d gladly take a spray of bullets if it meant she were safe.

The remaining SUV revs up, weaving around a car and popping onto the emergency lane before swerving back over two lanes of traffic.

I lift my gun, ready to fire, when they suddenly decelerate. Fast.

“They just fell back and exited,” Rio says. He sounds just as confused as I am.

“Confirm,” I bark into the speakerphone.

“Confirmed. Do you want us to disable this vehicle and assess?”

“No,” I say.

I hear the other man say a low “fuck,” an utterance he obviously didn’t intend on me hearing.

“Everything looks normal now, boss,” Rio says, his eyes still scanning the vehicles around us.

This does little to ease my anxiety.

“Get us back to Amelia Manor,” I growl, swiveling my head to assess the surrounding area. My muscles bunch beneath my skin, and the gun in my hand is ready to fire at any threat.

Get Winter to safety. That’s the most important thing at this moment. Winter and the baby.

From between the seat and the door, I feel Winter’s hand latch onto my pocket. At the feeling of her closeness, I release a sharp breath trapped in my chest.

I squeeze her fingers.

And as the trees pass by, I look at the crumpled paper in my fist and try not to shake.

Staring back at me is the same unblinking eye that’s on the ring in my pocket.

THIRTY

WINTER

The drive back to Amelia Manor is quiet and tense—the oppressive silence between the car’s other occupants heightens the sense of impending doom.

Leo calls, and Hunter responds to his questions in short “yeses” or “nos,” giving nothing away.

Every bump makes me gasp, my fingers clutching the fabric of Hunter’s pants as if that singular lifeline could ensure nothing bad happens while we drive home.

Don’t worry until there’s something to worry about, my ass.

This indeed constitutes something to worry about.

“H,” I whisper, my face pressed against the crack between the door and the back of his seat.

“Yes, Winter,” he says in a flat, serious tone.

“Who’s following us? Your father?” I keep my voice low as if whoever is chasing us could hear inside the car.

Hunter’s silence makes a statement. “We’re not being followed right now.”

I swallow at his words, dread at the pointed non-answer comingling with the heavy fear swirling in my stomach.

Or maybe that’s morning sickness coming back.

Hold on, little baby.

It isn’t until we’re firmly behind the gates of Amelia Manor, the SUV parked in the massive ten-car garage, that Hunter says another word.

“Go to our room and rest. I’ll be up in a minute.”

That’s it. That simple command is all he gives me, as if we haven’t spent the last forty-five minutes in fear for our lives.

“Are you going to tell me what the fuck just happened back there?” I nearly yell, contorting myself to sit in the car seat correctly.

“Not now, Winter,” Hunter growls.

Rio leaves the driver’s seat and walks around the front of the car to talk to the other guards.

“Hunter, I deserve to know what’s happening!”

“Winter, I swear to God, just do what you’re fucking told!” he snaps at me, his voice too loud in the tiny space. His decree echoes in my ears, and I jump. He’s never spoken to me like that, and his harsh words cause involuntary tears to spring to my eyes.

His head thuds against the headrest and he pinches his eyes shut.

“Sunbeam...” he says with a sigh, but I don’t stay to listen to more of his words.

I whip the door open, practically running to our bedroom.

It takes everything within me not to slam the door.

Being in this room feels strange after the intensity of the last day and a half.

Finding out I’m pregnant.

Running away and having an anxiety meltdown.

Intense lovemaking and intimacy with Hunter back at my old apartment.

The pseudo proposal.

The ultrasound.

And then a car chase.

I flop back on the bed, the plush mattress sinking under me and contouring to my body. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes to stem the tears streaming out of them.

Feel what you feel, Winter.

So I do. My breakdown is silent, letting the swirling mix of anxiety and terror and joy and hope blend inside me like some fucked-up emotional gumbo.

I’m not alone for five minutes before a light tap on the door shakes me out of my daze.

“Come in,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine.

Veronica pops her head around the door, and through the opening, Kitty bounds in, jumping on the bed. He puts his head in my lap.

Veronica chews on her lip, which is an unusual move for her. “Can I come in?”

I sit up, wiping my face roughly with both hands. “Of course,” I say.

She sits primly on the chair across from me, clasping her hands together as she perches her body on the edge of the seat.

I inhale, holding my breath in before blowing it out in a long stream.

“I’m sorry I disappeared on you, Veronica.”

“Again,” she says through tense lips. “You disappeared again.”

Then, as if all the energy she funneled into her desire to be composed evaporates, her face crumples into an ugly cry.

I rush to her, and Kitty flops over on the bed at my sudden movement. “Oh, Rons, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I—”

“You can’t do shit like that, Winter!” I pull her to stand, clutching her trembling body close to mine.

“I’m so sorry. I just—I’m so sorry. I won’t do that to you again. Ever. I promise.”

She pulls away from me and wipes her nose on the sleeve of her shirt. I must make a face because she says, “I don’t care if it’s disgusting.”

“As if I would judge you,” I reply in a level tone.

“Winter, what the hell is going on?”

She looks at me, and I know she deserves the truth. I owe her that much.

At least you can use your big girl words.

“Okay, settle in, bitch,” I say with a wry smile. I hop on the bed, patting the space in front of me. She sits, and Kitty makes space between us.

I reach out to pet him, giving him scratches on his back.

“You’re stalling,” she says as she settles more fully on the bed.

I laugh, but it falls short of humored. “Where the fuck do I begin?” I say.

“How about you start yesterday? One minute, we’re about to have tea and crumpets—”

“Really, Rons? Tea and crumpets?”

“—and the next thing, you’ve literally left the building!” She waves her hands around her head to emphasize her words.

“Whew, okay, so thing number one,” I begin. Then I swallow. For fucking real, where do I start?

“To explain yesterday, I have to go back a little more. So shortly after I got back home, I learned that Hunter’s dad had something to do with my disappearance.”

She doesn’t move. Not even her expression changes. “Did you—is this not news to you?”

She shakes her head so slowly it’s like her neck sits on frozen, rusty hinges. “No, it’s not. I found that out shortly after you disappeared.”

Oh. Well then.

“Oh-kay,” I mutter. “I guess that’s not the point. We’ve been on high alert for several months because no one knows where Hunter’s dad is. Like, he’s obviously fucking insane and willing to hurt me, August, and Hunter. So Hunter and Leo got some help from this—”

I break off, unsure how to describe Misha without completely freaking Veronica out or getting on the bad side of a mob boss. Loose lips sink ships and all that bullshit.

“Friend,” I conclude.

“Let me guess, tall Russian motherfucker?”

“How? Um. No, he’s Ukrainian, actually.”

Veronica shrugs.

“Okay, later. I’ll ask you how you know about him later. Anyway, the trip Hunter went on had something to do with Misha. Misha’s offering us protection somehow, but I’m not clear….”

I realize I don’t actually know what’s happening. All I know is that Hunter thinks we’re in trouble, and we are if today’s events are any indication.

I just jumped in, trusting whatever he said and asking no questions.

Who the fuck am I right now?

“Okay, that’s all great and all, but yesterday? What happened yesterday?” She enunciates her words, emphasizing them with a poke to my kneecap.

“Ow! Okay, right,” I say, fidgeting. I don’t know why I’m so nervous to share this with Veronica. She’s my best friend, my sister, and honestly, she should have been there with me while I was peeing on the pregnancy test.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. I drop my gaze to my stretchy pants, not wanting to meet her eyes.

Turns out I don’t have to. Two seconds later, Veronica body slams me back into the soft mattress.

“Rons!” I yell in her ear, pushing her off me, but she winds her arms around me even tighter.

“Sister! You’re gonna have a baby! Oh, my God! Are you excited?” She yells in my ear, her breath hot against my cheek.

I press my head back and yell, “Veronica, get off!”

She releases me, sitting back on her bent legs. “Or are you not happy about it? Do you—do you plan on keeping it? Or—”

“Yes! Oh, my God, yes, I’m keeping the baby.” My hand drops to my stomach as if I could protect the little bean from their aunt’s words.

“Hey, no offense,” Veronica says, throwing her hands up. “I just—how are you feeling about everything? I thought you were on birth control? I know we never had the talk, dear, but—”

“Okay, Mom,” I say with a laugh. She laughs back, pushing at my leg.

“I didn’t get back on birth control after everything. Hunter and I talked about it, and I thought about it, but I never felt that strong of an urge to get that whole situation sorted.”

She grins, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “Babe, do you have a breeding kink?”

I throw a pillow at her.

“I mean, or I guess Mr. Brigham has one? No judgment. I can somewhat understand the appeal.”

“Veronica Marie Lance.”

“Calm down, don’t full-name me, yeesh,” she says, tossing the pillow back at me again.

“If you’re happy about the baby, why are you in here looking like you went three rounds with Rhonda Rousey? And don’t give me that bullshit about ‘I’m hormonal,’ because I invented the game, mmkay?”

She tries to make a joke, but I know her. There’s a shot of pain reflected in her gaze. “You were struggling this whole time, weren’t you?” I murmur.

She grabs my hand, and I squeeze hers in return. She shrugs. “Life be lifein’ sometimes, babe.”

I nod at her sage wisdom.

“Keep talking, heffa,” Veronica says, breaking the heavy mood.

“So yeah. I found out I was pregnant at the coffee shop. I mean, I went and got pregnancy tests at the convenience store and took one at the coffee shop.”

“And that freaked you out?”

“Thoroughly.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I ran around and eventually ended up close to Genevieve’s office, so I went to see her. Hunter showed up.”

“He’s back?” she asks.

“Yes, he, um....”

“Did he whisk you away so y’all could fuck like bunnies?”

“You’re killing me. Straight murder, sis.”

“I bet he’s been murdering that pooo-say—Ah!” She shrieks when I push her off the mattress. “I’m sorry! I can’t help it. I have always wanted this for you.” She crawls her way back up to the bed.

“I know,” I say simply. “So we went to Dr. Greene today, and everything is great. But on the way home...um....”

“On the way home, what?”

I bite my nails.

“On the way home, what, Winter?” Veronica’s eyes flash with deep trepidation.

“So, don’t freak, but we were kind of in a car chase.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. “Excuse me, what?”

“You heard me right,” I say helplessly.

“The actual fuck, Winter?” She hops off the bed and begins pacing around. In a snap, she spins and heads for the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” She flings the door open, whirling around to respond to me.

“To find your baby daddy so I can rip his dick off!”

“Stop! It wasn’t his fault. The people shooting at us—”

“People fucking shot at you?” she bellows, and I’m a little surprised security isn’t stampeding down the hallway.

I shush her. “Stop yelling! I don’t want August to overhear. I’m not happy about it either,” I say hotly. “But I’m mad at him, so please don’t chase after him because then I’ll have to follow you, and I don’t want to see him right now.”

She inhales sharply, holding her breath. When I think she’ll pass out for how long she’s trapped the air in her lungs, she blows it all out.

“Only because you are with child will I honor your request,” she says, tipping her head back to look down at me past her nose.

“Thank you,” I say, my shoulders relaxing.

Her face breaks into a stunning smile. It’s contagious, and I find myself smiling back at her. Then I yawn.

“Ah, the first-trimester exhaustion. I get it. Want something to eat before you crash?”

I shake my head. “Not right now. I wanna sit in silence for a little bit. Maybe close my eyes.”

She gives me a tight hug. “I’ve missed you so much, Winter.” Her words quiver. “I’m really fucking glad we’re okay again.”

I kiss her cheek, and we pull away from each other. “I love you, Rons.”

“Ditto, bitch.” She sticks her tongue out. With a kiss on my cheek, I’m alone in my room again.

The conversation was exhausting, but I feel a little lighter having told Veronica everything, especially about the baby.

The baby.

Hearing their little heartbeat and seeing them flicker on the screen was the most surreal moment of my life. There’s a little life inside me. A life that Hunter and I created together.

I love Hunter, and I’m fucking pissed at him.

I wander into the bathroom, ready to take a hot shower to release my tense muscles. When I’m naked, I stare at my body in the mirror.

My breasts look larger and swollen. The force of gravity on them, with my bra removed, straddles the line between pain and relief.

I turn to the side. My stomach has never been flat, and I’m not a tiny woman. I hold my stomach skin up, pushing it toward my ribs to see my abdomen.

Goddamn, there’s a tiny bump there.

My other hand runs over my lower stomach, and I press my hand there.

Girl, you’re just bloated.

Icy fear ricochets through me. A baby. A baby to keep safe. A baby to get to term.

Don’t die—don’t die—don’t.

I slap my hands on the cool marble. The feeling of the surface beneath my palms shocks me enough to stop the spinning thoughts.

Ground yourself as often as you need to. Genevieve’s words echo in my brain.

I step into the spray, not waiting for it to warm up fully. The frigid water pelting my body serves as a cognitive reset. Soon, the steam from our shower billows around me, and I feel muscle group after muscle group relax.

You are safe.

I reach for the tabs of eucalyptus designed to add aromatherapy to the shower and drop them on the floor near the drain. Then I sit on the ledge, letting the warm water cascade over my chest and thighs.

My thoughts turn to Hunter, even though I’m desperate to clear my brain of everything.

Something is going on. I mean, that’s obvious. But this doesn’t feel like the same issue we’ve been dealing with.

This feels even more dangerous.

And here he goes, not fucking talking again.

No. He did this before. He shut me out and didn’t tell me the whole truth of what was going on. I will not let him do this to me again.

There’s too much at stake. We’re beyond this.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past year we’ve been together, it’s that Hunter’s reluctance to be forthcoming about the things that impact me—impact our family—doesn’t lead to safety.

I add conditioner to my hair and clean my body in quick movements. After I rinse everything off, I step out of the shower and detangle my wet hair, braiding it into two thick French plaits. I wrap a black rubber band around the ends.

Determined to get dressed again and confront my wayward boyfriend–fiancé—seriously, because what the fuck even are we at this point?—I adjust my towel and swing the bathroom door open. I run face-first into a shirtless Hunter.

I gasp when his arms band around my body.

“Hunter, what—”

“Just give me a moment, Sunbeam.” His voice is sharp and desperate, and his arms around me tighten, pinning our bodies together.

He trembles, pressing his face into my neck.

I want to relax into him—to tell him it’s okay. That all of this is okay, and I’m here.

But I can’t. Not this time.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his face still pressed into my neck.

“Sorry for what, exactly?” I raise my eyebrow, pulling back.

He lets out a humorless laugh.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m sorry that I’ve put you in danger again. I’m sorry that what should have been a beautiful day turned to shit.”

I put my hand on his cheek, and the rasp of his five o’clock shadow tickles my palms.

“Apology accepted. But also, you know that wasn’t your fault, right? I mean, unless you took out an ad to have us shot at as part of some fucked up game.”

His face twists into a rueful smile. “I did not.”

“Well, there ya go. It is what it is, babe. Sometimes them be the breaks.” I shrug.

He kisses my forehead.

“That said,” I say over my shoulder as I move to our dresser to grab underwear. If I have my way, we’ll have a heavy talk, and I don’t want him to try to distract me with sex. “What exactly, specifically, is happening that has resulted in us being chased and shot at today?”

I shimmy into my panties, and when the towel starts to fall, I let it tumble to the ground. “Is it your father?”

I look over my shoulder as I try to snap my bra together behind my back. The look in his eye causes my pussy to clench.

Down, girl.

“Hunter, focus.” The look on his face doesn’t change, but he does release a slight sigh. “The answer is, I don’t know, and that pisses me off. But now….”

When he stops talking, I turn around fully. After I pull a loose dress from another drawer and put it on, I twirl my hands to gesture at him to keep going. “But now...?”

His mouth twists.

“What aren’t you telling me, Hunter?” My voice drops with determination. He will not keep me in the dark.

He shakes his head.

And says nothing.

“Hunter, you have to tell me what’s going on.” His mouth tightens even more, and with his hands on his hips, he turns away from me.

Wow.

“Hunter, you know that keeping things from me—”

“I’m not trying to keep things from you, Sunbeam. I just…I want to know more about what’s going on before I get you jumbled up in this mess.”

I raise an eyebrow. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” I deadpan.

He lets out a frustrated groan and runs a hand through his hair. “For now, you need to stay locked in Amelia Manor,” he says, the finality of his words dropping like an anvil in the space between us.

“Excuse me?” My body flushes with frost.

“Sunbeam,” is all he says in response.

“Hunter, you can’t just lock me away in here with no explanation!”

He tsks and turns away from me again, walking toward the door. “Don’t leave the inside of the building. Anything you need will be brought to you.”

Breathing is painful, the scratch of air raking down my trachea. I must make a sound because he turns to me and swears under his breath when he sees my face.

“When we were on Isla Cara, we found human remains. It was my father. He’s dead.” He says this in the most emotionless tone. I gasp at his words and want to reach out to him. But I also want to throttle him.

Yes, I wanted Benjamin Brigham to bleed out until he died a painful death. Hunter wanted him gone too.

That’s still his father, though, and running across his dead body would be a lot for anyone.

“Oh, H,” I say on a breath. I reach a hand out to him but pull it back to my chest. Kitty circles me before standing on his hind legs, pawing at me to get my attention. “I understand that things are scary right now—”

“Scary?” he says in a low voice. He leans against the door, much like the stance he took the last time he locked me in a room. “Things are beyond scary, Winter.”

Thick silence follows that statement. I search for the right words to say, but I take too long because Hunter fills the void.

“I’m not—” he knocks his head back against the hard wooden door. “I’m not in control here.” Each word sounds heavy, like they’re difficult to form on his tongue.

“Control is an illusion, H,” I reply. My voice is barely over a whisper. I pick Kitty up with trembling fingers, searching for the calm I usually find by plunging my hands into his fur. He licks my cheek.

“Control is what will keep us alive,” he says with a rasp. The frenetic energy in his words is new, foreign. “There’s so much you don’t know.”

“So why don’t you tell me!” The words burst from my lips.

“How can I tell you what I don’t even understand? That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I need to figure this all out. I don’t know what I’m dealing with or who I’m dealing with. I don’t know what’s real or what’s fake or what’s all an illusion. I need to get a handle on this situation and figure out which way is up before I bring you into this.”

“Hunter, it’s too late—”

“I don’t care, Winter! I will not lose you again. I won’t stand losing any of you.”

His anger, frustration, and…fear is plain on his face.

Even when we were being chased and shot at, he had a cool calmness that was impressive. While I was a mess, he was able to figure out the next steps and bring us home to safety.

But now, as I take in the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and the way his chest rises and falls with rapid bellows, I know the truth. Hunter Brigham is frightened. Not of death. But of losing the people he loves.

And it all makes sense because that’s the only thing he’s ever feared.

“No,” I say.

More silence. His eyes slide shut. “No?” He opens his eyes again.

“No. I won’t stay locked in this house. Not unless you tell me what’s going on.”

Not another word from Hunter. He’s stoic, icing me out.

“I have therapy and doctor’s appointments, and I-I can’t be h-held prisoner. It’s too much like— It’s too much like Adam, and I….”

I stop talking when I feel the first tear land on my chest. Even through my weary plea, Hunter is unmoved.

“I’ll do whatever is needed to protect you, Sunbeam, even if you don’t like it.”

The only kink in his resolve is the slight feathering of the muscle at his jaw.

“Hunter…” I don’t realize I’m stepping away from him until the backs of my legs hit the bed.

“I get that you’re mad at me, so I’ll give you space.”

And with that, he’s gone. The final word of our argument is the whirr of the lock sliding home.

THIRTY-ONE

HUNTER

It didn’t take long for Misha to summon Leo and me, probably annoyed that we didn’t let his guys take any of the evidence gathered on Isla Cara.

I only got a day with Winter and August before I had to deal with this fuckery. This fuckery being discovering my father’s corpse, being chased and shot at on the highway, and fighting with Winter.

Although I’m not sure our disagreement can be classified as a fight. After all, I made a decision that’s in the best interest of our family. Winter continues to present unreasonable alternatives.

I lift a crate, wedging it next to its twin in the bulletproof Suburban. In all, we recovered only a few items from Isla Cara. Cabinets full of papers, disks, and tapes are packed in ten neat, medium-sized boxes.

“When you come back, I would like to show you the latest video from the RC helicopters national convention,” August says once I re-enter the foyer. The SUV idles in the circle drive with Leo in the passenger seat.

“Of course,” I tell him. “Any reason why you want me to watch?”

August rocks and makes a rapid throat-clearing sound. “I would like to work toward going next year. Competing, maybe.” He drops his tablet so it thunks against his hip as it hangs from the strap.

August has an unnatural talent at RC helicopters. Not only is he a wiz at flying them, he’s also innovative at the retrofitting he comes up with.

“Whatever you want, I’ll help you achieve it.” It’s quick, but a smile flashes across his face.

“Okay.” With that simple reply, August runs back toward his game room.

I lift my gaze to the top of the stairs, wishing I could summon the other person I really want to see without having to seek her out.

I’m trying to keep everyone safe the best way I know how…and it fucks with my head that I don’t know much.

I stand in the foyer long enough for Leo to lay on the horn. Looking over my shoulder to where he leans out the window from the passenger seat, I give him the middle finger through the open entryway.

“Hurry the fuck up,” Leo snipes.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I yell back. I grab my phone, pull up the messaging app, and hover my thumb over the last text string.

I sent her a text last night before going to bed and this morning when I woke up. I sent them, rather than talking with her in person, because Winter kicked me out of my own bedroom.

Whatever it takes to keep you safe, Sunbeam, I’ll do it.

I send her one more message.

I love you. Completely. Transcendentally.

I stare at the screen as the notification turns from “sent” to “delivered.” She doesn’t reply, even though a moment later, the notice changes to “read.”

Leo honks the horn again.

Gritting my teeth and shoving aside the unsettled feeling in my chest, I head to the car and leave Amelia Manor behind.

Leo is silent as he flips his phone in his hand for most of the forty-minute drive.

“I can hear you thinking from over here,” I say, gripping the steering wheel tight.

“I got an interesting text today,” he says. I wait for him to fill in the rest. He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls out his phone and brings up the message.

Each Threats Ignited

Venues Canon

Heir

“What the fuck kinda Dr. Seuss riddle is that?” I whip my eyes back to the road.

“Fuck if I know. Couldn’t track who sent it either.”

I contemplate the message.

“You know, I got a message too. It was a few weeks after we got back. I had Max look into it, but he couldn’t trace it.” I rub my upper lip with my thumb, thinking about the words.

“Wonderful. I have all the warm fuzzies now,” Leo adds, sarcasm thick in his voice.

“What are the common variables, Leo? Because from where I’m sitting, there’s a lot behind my father’s death.”

Leo rolls his head on his neck.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

“This is beyond your father and his fucked-up games, H. This is way beyond that.”

I press my foot on the accelerator, edging us over ninety on the two-lane road.

“I believe you.”

When we reach the gates of Misha’s compound, his guards wave us in as soon as they note our car. No extended search or pat down.

“This is fucking weird,” Leo mutters.

“Agreed.”

We roll to a stop in front of the main house, and seven of Misha’s men come to unload the evidence as four other cars housing our detail pull in behind us.

“Friends,” Misha says jovially. “I’m glad for your safe return. Come, let’s have a drink in my office.”

Pocketing my keys, I keep my hands loose at my sides as we follow Misha back into his mansion. Besides the men milling around, there’s no one else here.

“Luna?” I ask Misha’s back.

“She is painting fruit bowls and such right now. It’s a new hobby,” Misha says with amusement. I scan his features for any hint of deception or malice.

He’s eerily calm. “Your men can make themselves comfortable, no? Da, they can get something to eat and drink in the kitchen. We’ll be back,” Misha says.

Our guys spread out across Misha’s foyer, a few heading toward the kitchen, but most setting up at strategic locations.

Two stand outside Misha’s office, respecting the pakhan enough to not enter uninvited.

Leo and I follow Misha into his office. The boxes string along a long table, and a handful of Misha’s guards rip through them.

Their movements are precise and focused. They search past the pictures of horrible acts of torture, tossing the images aside as if they’re nothing.

Leo and I stand off to the side with our backs to the wall as Misha goes from box to box, looking at each of his guards as they get to the bottom of their respective crates. When he reaches the final one, Misha dismisses his men with an unreadable look.

The last one shuts the door.

Misha gestures to the seats, instructing us without words to sit. Neither Leo nor I move.

“You already know we didn’t find the book or whatever you’re looking for.” Leo’s voice is low, deadly calm.

Misha regards us for a moment before dropping his hands. A split second later, the convivial smile is back on his face.

“Drink?” he says.

When we remain silent, Misha lets out a humored puff of air and slowly sits in his wingback chair. With his legs spread wide, he is the picture of nonchalance.

“We’re friends here, no?” Misha asks as he picks up the glass of brown liquor he must have poured before our arrival.

“You tell me,” I grind out.

He tilts his head to the side. “Of course, my friend. You have, after all, saved my beloved Luna’s life.”

He lifts the glass, his throat moving as he takes a gulp.

I wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t in a hypervigilant mood. Ice runs through my brain at the disbelief, but that feeling turns into a bolt of white-hot fury.

Misha looks down to place his glass on the side table, and I take that moment of distraction. I sniff, and Leo takes it as the signal it is.

I whip my gun out from behind my back, Leo following suit. In a blink, we both point our weapons at Misha.

Misha, the pakhan of the Ukrainian Mafiya, doesn’t even flinch or draw a weapon.

He stares at us with a sardonic look on his face.

“How do you Americans say? What’s crawled up your asshole?” He leans further back in his seat as if Leo and I wouldn’t hesitate to unload our clips into him.

“The eye,” I spit out.

“The eye?” he says back, drawling the word with a patronizing lilt of mock confusion.

“Don’t play fucking stupid, Misha.” I blow a bullet into the shelf behind him, whizzing past his head and the crude tattoo behind his ear.

The same tattoo I saw on Uvalde’s body. The same mark that my father and Morris Winthrope wore.

It’s small, and if he hadn’t turned his head to the side, if his blonde hair weren’t positioned so I could see the brand, I would have missed it. But I’ve been staring at the same symbol for the past forty-eight hours, so I can’t help but notice it.

Misha only blinks in response to the gunfire.

“What do you think you know?” Misha asks casually.

That’s the thing. I don’t know shit. All I know is that this eye has popped up too many fucking times, and it’s important.

“Stop playing games, Hroshko,” I say, biting off every word.

“You stop playing games. Where is the book?” he growls.

“What book? We gave you everything that was on Isla Cara. All you need to rule the roost. You’ll be a wealthy man who can own any politician and member of any monarchy you want. You’ve sent me on a trip to Death Island, but you won’t even tell me what for or why. And yes, I get to ask why.”

I walk up to him, gun steady, even though my anger is quickly morphing into rage.

“It’s too damn convenient. You show up right as the FDA blocks Panacea. You show up at my home with information about my abducted girl, all as a setup to make us your bitch. But you and I both know there’s much more going on. So you’re going to tell me every fucking thing.”

Just then, the doors fly open and seven guards, including the three that shadowed us on Isla Cara, stream into the room.

Misha stares at me hard before he slowly begins to clap. “Little Hunter Brigham finally found his balls.”

He gives his guards a dismissive look, waving them away as if nothing about this bothers him. But I won’t allow him to think I’m insignificant. The guards follow their boss’s unspoken command and exit the study, but not before giving Leo and me a threatening look.

I won’t allow him to underestimate me.

His arrogance brings fury to my mouth. Sharp and metallic.

I shoot the leg of the chair Misha sits on.

Misha hisses. “Calm down, Hunter.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down, motherfucker.”

An exasperated grin twists Misha’s lips.

“You’ll feel like an idiot when I tell you what’s going on,” he says in a sing-song voice.

The air thickens as Leo adjusts his stance beside me, his steady two-fisted grip a silent acknowledgment of support.

“Let me be the judge of that,” I growl. My hold on my gun tightens.

Misha sighs. “Fine.” All humor drops from his face.

“You are well aware of your father’s dealings and the things he does.” He nods toward the emptied boxes. “But there’s so much more to it than him hosting fuck-fests on his island.”

He stands and raises his glass, finishing the last of his drink. “This,” he rasps, pointing to the crude tattoo behind his ear, “is the sign of The Legion. It’s a secret society that’s actively trying to steal your technology and the organization that will destroy the world rapidly once they have their hands on what they need.”

I want to blink in confusion, but I don’t allow myself to. “Uh-huh, and if this secret society is so evil, why the fuck are you wearing their mark?”

His face grows grim.

“I don’t have this brand because I want it.” There’s so much loathing and anger in his words that I almost flinch. He gives my gun a dismissive glance before settling his gaze back on my face. “If you want to know more than that and how I can save your pathetic lives, stop pointing your fucking guns at me.”

His eyes are hard, and I try to keep any response to his words off my face.

Secret society.

Stealing our technology.

A bewildered chuckle escapes me. I’m in a goddamn Dan Brown novel.

My head spins as I struggle to process the idea that my father’s actions are part of some grand, ominous plan.

Nonetheless, I lower my gun, and Leo does the same.

“Excellent,” Misha says with a release of breath. He takes a step, and Leo and I lift our guns in reflex. “Fucking goddamnit, I’m not going to kill you. You both could have been a blood smear on my floor five minutes ago if I wanted to harm you,” he spits out.

I try not to nod. He does have a point.

Lowering our weapons, I watch Misha shift to his desk and take his jacket off. Leaning over his desk, he starts to speak as he types on the keyboard.

“I’ve been tracking you extensively. Both of you. You’re both of interest to us for various reasons,” Misha says without looking at us.

“Both of us?” Leo speaks up.

“Yes,” Misha says, looking up. “Both of you.” He holds Leo’s gaze for a hard beat before he lowers his head again, clicking the keyboard a few more times.

“You’ve heard of New World Order?”

“Like the Illuminati and shit?” I ask.

“Eh, sure,” he says, waving his hand in the air. “The premise is that the world has fallen into corruption and needs to be rectified and unified to end war, famine, and poverty. It is a nice dream—one happy planet spinning in the Universe.”

“Except?” Leo fills in.

“Except the ends do not justify the means when it comes to The Legion.” He spins his computer around. On the screen is a rendering of the eye, and fuck if looking at it doesn’t make me want to avert my gaze.

“This is the Eye of The Architect. The Architect is the leader of The Legion and is very uncomfortably close to ushering in that New World Order. Except a lot of fucking people are going to die.”

My head hurts. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Everything,” Misha says. “Your father was under consideration for the position of Engineer of America. There are seven Engineers from what we can tell, and they are the puppet masters controlling the events of the world. The Architect likes to think they are God. Your father and Morris Winthrope are supposed to be adversaries, as they were up for the same position. Instead, they decided to join forces.”

My head spins.

“How very Manifest Destiny of them,” Leo says with a rough tone.

“According to our intel, your father was already in the lead to become the next Engineer, but there was a shake-up last year. That’s where Morris Winthrope came in. But now Benjamin is dead, and there’s a vacancy in The Legion. And if the thought of Benjamin Brigham being in charge was deplorable, Morris Winthrope is much worse.”

I blink hard. “Okay,” I say dumbly.

“Somewhere, your father has all of the information about The Architect, as well as the secrets that allow them to keep people alive and well for...much longer than any human should be alive. It is thought that the only person to have this information, the secret formulas, is The Architect, but somehow Benjamin Brigham got ahold of it.”

I clear my throat. “Wait, what do you mean ‘keep people alive longer?’”

“You think you’ve created the ultimate panacea? They’ve had it for decades.” Misha’s gaze swings to me, and a long-repressed memory comes to my mind.

Darkness. Underground in Isla Cara. A woman on a pedestal being stabbed over and over.

And after each swipe of the blade, she healed.

“One of our plants discovered Benjamin Brigham had this information a year ago, and we believe it to be on Isla Cara. Believed it.”

I nod at his words, and I feel Leo shift to lean against the low bar a few steps away from us.

“Why couldn’t your plant get it if they knew it was there?” I ask.

“They were compromised. We only found part of their torso floating in the Caribbean,” Misha says, spitting out every word.

“Sheikh Farid Al-Mansoori?” Leo’s raspy question hangs in the air.

“He’s the Engineer of the Middle East.”

Leo doesn’t move a muscle at this revelation.

“Okay, so my father was about to become the head of the shadow government or some shit. You still haven’t told me what that has to do with me.”

Misha gives me a hard look. “Your father made a deal with Morris Winthrope. We still don’t know the full details, but we know it had to do with the sacrifice of you and your sister.”

“My sister?” I growl. Heat radiates from my chest as all this fuckery settles in.

At my side, Leo takes a step toward Misha.

“You need to start saying a lot more words that make sense, Hroshko.” Leo’s voice is dark, menacing, and his aggression is palpable.

“Yes. You were to have a genetically perfect child with Blair Winthrope, and your sister was to be delivered to The Legion.”

“What?” I start to pace, finally putting my gun back into its holster.

My father wanted me to get with Blair and have children with her...for an experiment?

“The accident. Winter’s abduction,” I grind out.

“They wanted to clear everything that stood in their way.”

I stop pacing. “Did you know?” I swallow, but my mouth is dry. I stare right into Misha’s eyes. “Did you know that Winter was going to be abducted?”

Misha’s moment of silence tells me everything I need to know. I lurch over to him, only to be stopped by Leo. “Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet in your brain right now. Tell me why we should trust you? You knew she was going to be taken, and you did fuck-all to prevent it.”

Leo’s tense presence at my side mirrors my outrage.

“Wait, H,” Leo interjects, his voice more calm than mine ever could be.

“Don’t you fucking get it? This is about more than any one person. This is about the survival of humanity.” Misha’s voice is low, urgent, and I struggle to wrap my brain around the words.

“Fuck humanity. She was raped repeatedly. Beaten. She was innocent before he took her. Now she’s had to kill, and I know that will stay with her forever.”

Misha’s expression flickers and remorse lands in his eyes, but only for a moment. “I’m very sorry that happened to her. If I could have intervened, I would have. I helped the best way I could.”

His words, with their sincerity, cause me to deflate. I move away from Leo, walking away from them both.

This is too fucking much. I whirl around.

“You keep saying they’re going to bring on the Apocalypse or some shit. How? Be specific.”

Misha squares his shoulders at my words, returning to his computer.

“We’ve figured out that it’s called Elysium.” He motions us to look over his shoulder. When we both move to the side of him at the desk, I try not to choke on vomit.

Pictured are grotesque approximations of humans. People with arms coming from their legs. Faces with no eyes, mouth, or nose. Babies with their heads upside down.

“The fuck is this?” Leo says. He steps away from the computer, bringing the back of his hand up to wipe his mouth. He swallows several times.

“That’s the early stages of what they’ve created. Elysium is their plan to engineer perfect humans that don’t get sick, live forever, and have perfect offspring. They are using the same technology to build a type of super soldier. Think super-fast healing, impervious to bullet wounds.”

Misha continues, flicking through the images one after another.

“Stop,” I say, turning away. I walk back to the sidebar and begin to pour myself a drink. I knock back the finger of whiskey in one shot.

“So they’re trying to build a perfect human. That shit looks far from perfect,” Leo says.

“Yes,” Misha replies. “They’ve been working on this for decades now, since the sixties. They came up with the cure-all a few decades ago. Cancer, HIV...you ever wonder why celebrities get that shit but stay alive much longer than anyone else would? The Legion. The issue is their cure is post-facto by design, but they’ve had a breakthrough thanks to you.”

I balk at the statement. “Thanks to me?” I ask in a flat tone.

“Yes. BwP’s gene therapy is the missing link they need to pair with their deployment system. They created nanotechnology to disperse microscopic bits of engineered bio-matter into the air. We breathe it in, and just like that, we’re all “infected.” The Legion can activate the nanotech anytime, and The Undesirables will die in the streets.” He snaps his fingers. “Just like that.”

Misha’s words land like a bomb in the room, dropping the temperature by a dozen degrees.

“So they’re going to kill everyone?” Leo pipes up.

“Well, not everyone. That’s why they want Hunter and Ella. They’ve identified several elites that they want to replicate. They’ll use their genes to train the nanotech, so The Desirables are spared.”

“And The Undesirables are eradicated,” Leo concludes.

Misha holds his hands out to his side, his gesture saying, Exactly.

“Well,” I say, pouring another shot. “That’s one way to solve the global overpopulation problem.”

No one laughs. I knock the drink back.

“So what does that make you, then? Robin Hood of the Rapture?” Leo says with a sarcastic lilt that doesn’t match the severity of his expression.

“Something like that.”

“And what exactly do you want from me? Besides being your errand boy,” I say, gesturing to the empty crates.

“To bring you over to our side. You have things we need. You’ve already given me two of them.” He nods his head toward the boxes.

And the other thing...?

“Luna’s treatment. You have access to BwP’s tech now because it’s floating inside your wife.”

Misha’s smile is more of a grimace.

I don’t have a moment to digest that statement before Misha continues talking.

“Once The Legion finishes encoding all the genetic data they need to finalize the tech, they’ll deploy their mission.”

“Which is?” Leo asks, but Misha doesn’t say anything further when the door slams open, flying into the adjacent wall.

“Misha,” Luna sucks in air as if she’s run through the entire compound.

“Moya lyubov.” Misha rushes to his red-faced wife.

“There’s been a breach at Amelia Manor,” she says. Her words ring in my ears until they’re quickly replaced with buzzing. I whip my head toward Luna.

“Explain yourself,” I rush out.

Luna spares me a momentary glance before turning back to her husband. “We’ve lost eyes on Amelia Manor,” she says.

I begin to vibrate when she mentions my home.

“What?” I snap.

She ignores me, continuing to speak.

“I know Rio is down. He sent the distress signal.”

“Rio? My employee, Rio?”

I stomp closer to Luna, and her flinty gaze lands on me before she says a sharp, “Yes,” and turns back to her husband.

“Ready the helicopt—” Misha starts.

“Someone better start answering my fucking questions, starting with what is happening at my home and where the fuck my family is!”

My enraged bellow echoes off the expensive ceramic artwork.

Luna sighs shortly, turning and looking at me in a way that’s a complete one-eighty from our previous interaction at dinner.

“There’s an attack on Amelia Manor,” she enunciates as if I were a misbehaving child.

I should have never come here. I should have never left Winter and August alone. I should have—

“Hunter, wait.”

I’m moving, headed to the door, when Misha’s words and hand on my arm stop me. I whirl around, sliding out the gun I’d previously re-holstered and pressing it under his chin. “I don’t know who the fuck you are or why you’ve decided to fuck with me and my family, but I will blow your head off if you don’t get out of my way.”

August. Ella. Winter. Fuck—I need to get to them.

“Let me help you. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

Leo puts a hand on my shoulder.

My muscles are seconds away from a full, uncontrollable spasm.

“He’s right. If there’s this whole secret society gunning for us, we need backup.” I let Leo’s rational statement spin in my brain.

Misha’s cold eyes stare down from his head’s tilted position. He doesn’t move.

I lower the weapon. “We’re out of here in no more than five minutes.”

I walk over to Luna, who wears all black with matching tactical pants. “You better bring all the firepower you’ve got because anyone who is fucking with my family gets mowed down where they stand.”

THIRTY-TWO

WINTER

“You know, for imprisonment, the digs ain’t half bad,” Veronica says as she curls up on the corner of the massive couch, throwing popcorn in her mouth. She misses only half the time.

Rather than a traditional sofa, our seating is a raised platform with pillows. It could sleep a bunch of people comfortably and it’s the thing teenage sleepover dreams are made of.

Summer coos in her sleep, and I look over at her reflexively. She’s such a precious baby, and she looks so much like Veronica it’s uncanny. In the flicker of the video playing on the screen-slash-wall in front of us, I almost start to cry when she pokes her little tongue out like she’s sucking a bottle in her dreams.

“Yeah,” Ella says, her voice flat. She curls up under the blankets, staring at the screen. She’s in the exact spot I was on Valentine’s Day.

Since Hunter returned and told her about her father’s death, Ella has become withdrawn. She didn’t cry like I’d expected her to. Instead, she went silent. She asked Hunter if he wanted to have a funeral for Benjamin, to which Hunter said no and then left it all at that.

This is the first time I’ve seen her in a full day.

“This movie is funny. I have never seen this actor. What is his name?” August says.

“Adam Sandler,” Veronica calls from her corner. She takes a large chug of her White Claw.

“If you like this one, you’ll love his backlist. The Waterboy a hundred percent could not have been made in today’s world, but it’s hilarious,” I tell August.

“Can we watch it next?” August says.

“Of course, Augs.” I tap his shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze.

I look at my watch, frowning when I notice it’s been three hours since Hunter left without a word. Well, he did leave a word. A text. A text that had me wanting to throw myself into his arms and say, “Forget it! I’ll stay prisoner here as long as you love me.”

I wanted to see him before he left, but if I’m honest? I stayed in our room to give myself space to think about everything. And in my contemplation, I realized that I don’t know who I’m turning into. The Winter Before Hunter wasn’t a pushover. She was strong, a little naive, but brave.

Winter After Hunter is….

I don’t know who that person is.

I’m livid about what Hunter did, so I resent the bubble of anxiety that wells up when we’re apart.

You are safe in this house, I chant to myself.

“I’m hungry,” August says.

“Want some popcorn?” Veronica says.

“He doesn’t eat popcorn,” Ella and I say at the same time. I smile at Ella, but the quick flick of her eyes to my face is the only acknowledgment I receive.

“I am going to get Cheese-Itz. I will be right back.”

August scoots off the sofa and exits the room, closing the door behind him.

He took the news of the pregnancy really well. I was still seething at Hunter when we met up in the game room to break the news, but I pulled it together for August.

I’d do anything for August.

I don’t know when I started to embody the role of August’s stepmother. I know I’ll never replace his actual mother, nor will I ever try to. But along the way, August went from being a kid I liked to my son.

I wonder how he’d feel if I were to call him that?

I must be making a face because Veronica’s sock-clad foot pokes my side.

“What’s up, chica?” She tilts her head to the side, rocking her White Claw gently from side to side.

I blow out a breath. “It’s the hormones,” I say, waving away the concern. Kitty huffs at the movement, settling back into my side.

“I still can’t believe you’re knocked up, Winter,” Ella says in a ponderous tone. She looks up to face us both.

“I can’t believe it either,” I say.

“Really?” Veronica pipes up. “Do you need me to have the talk with you again? Because with how much you and Hunter fu—”

“Uh, God, please don’t.” Ella groans from beneath her pile of blankets. Through one of the cracks, her hand snakes out to grab a sour straw.

Veronica cackles, and I rocket one of the forty throw pillows at her.

“I’m so excited to be an aunt again,” Ella says in a voice that sounds anything but excited. “What do you want, a boy or girl?”

I think about her words, and I’m thrown off guard. I haven’t thought much about the sex of the baby or what I’d prefer. I want to get through the pregnancy uneventfully.

“I just wanna get them gestated and out safely. I don’t care either way,” I say honestly.

Ella nods and Veronica says, “That’s very new age of you, babes.” I toss another pillow at her.

We settle in a comfortable silence, unironically watching Big Daddy with the volume turned low.

“August has been gone for a while,” Ella murmurs. She checks her watch. I do the same, noticing he’s been gone for more than fifteen minutes.

“Let me go check on him,” Ella says, and I stop her with my hand on her arm.

“Nah, let me go. I need to get more water anyway,” I say. I stand up, and Kitty rolls over to settle in my vacant spot. He starts snoring again.

Ella shrugs in acceptance.

I wander out of the media room, feeling my way along the dark corridor. It’s not far to the kitchen, but I tilt my ear in that direction, hoping to hear August.

I receive silence instead.

Turning down the next hall, I plan to head to the nearest bathroom. Instead, I stop cold in my tracks.

There’s a body on the floor. It’s one of our guards, and an unimaginable amount of blood pools beneath him. With his face down, I stare at the back of his head where chunks of missing bone and brain matter should be. I clasp my hand over my mouth so I don’t retch or scream.

I reach out a trembling hand and pull on him with silent movements. Even though the bullet removed half of his face, I can tell it’s Rex, August’s guard.

Static fills my ears and my vision clouds around the edges.

You will not pass out. Find August.

I take a step back as silently as I can, keeping my hand over my mouth to contain the loud, sobbing breaths that I can’t control.

“This house is too fucking big,” I hear. I know that voice, but I’m not able to place it.

“Just kill the bitches, grab the girl and the kid, get the fuck out of here. Simple, Rodrigo.”

My memory catapults me to the foyer on my first day here. The guard who attacked August. His name is Rodrigo.

I pick up my speed and try not to vomit the terror swirling in my gut.

Step. Step.

Get the fuck out of here, Winter!

I keep my hand near the wall but don’t touch it so I won’t make any noise. I pause for a split second when I feel a bump in the paneling.

The tunnels.

I press on the panel and lurch into the dark space, whipping the door shut before babying it to return to a locked position.

I’m safe here in the walls.

But not for long.

Veronica and Ella, I need to get to them. They’re too exposed. They’re—

I head down the hall, retracing my path back to the media room. When I feel the crease in the wall, I open the panel.

Veronica shrieks, but I shush her immediately.

“Come, now!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice a whisper. Ella and Kitty don’t hesitate, but Veronica does.

“What?”

I run into the room, grabbing Summer. “Let’s fucking go! The house is under raid.”

“Oh, God!” Veronica chokes out. Within seconds, I lock the five of us in the tunnel.

“Where’s August?” Ella whispers.

Tears well in my eyes, and panic surges through me.

“I-I don’t know.” I bite my lip until I taste blood. “We have to get to safety, Ella,” I say haltingly.

She cries, bent over and clutching her stomach, but she struggles to stand upright at my words and nods her head. I start running and they follow.

The baby lets out little grunts of displeasure, and I pray that Hunter’s promise about this area being soundproof is true. In a few minutes, I slap my hand onto the palm reader and usher them inside the safe room.

“What the actual goddamn fuck is happening, Winter?” Veronica takes the baby and paces, and I move around to take inventory of our supplies. I didn’t do that before, never expecting to need to use the space.

I head to the computer next to the television and boot it up.

I hope this is set up for surveillance and not just for watching episodes of The Big Bang Theory.

Once the computer whirrs to life, I exhale when the black-and-white CCTV populates twelve separate squares.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I ran across a dead body in the hallway. It was… It was Rex,” I say.

“Oh, no,” Veronica says, her voice choked.

“I heard two voices, and I recognized one.” I turn to Ella. “Rodrigo?”

She’s stopped crying but stares at the floor with a vacant, haunted expression.

I scan the screens frantically, trying to maintain my composure at the dead guards on the front porch and the other dead bodies strewn across the foyer and kitchen.

How the fuck didn’t we hear anything?

In the bottom right corner, there’s movement from the camera looking over the rose garden. A moment later, August’s messy mop of hair appears in the frame, held by two hulking guards. They each take one of his arms, and his head flops to the side.

Oh, God.

Two obscured figures come into the other side of the frame, and I squint to make out their features. I stop analyzing them when August stands drunkenly.

I move back to the kitchen area and hand Veronica the can of shelf-stable milk. “There are bottles in here, I checked.”

Veronica doesn’t say anything. I think she’s heading into the same shock that Ella is in.

I turn to her, intending to soothe her, when a quick, urgent pounding rings from the metal door. I push Veronica and Summer toward the back of the safe room and head to the weapons closet on the opposite wall.

Ella whimpers, but she doesn’t move.

“Leo,” she whispers. Her normally tan skin is pure white with terror.

The banging starts up again, and I rack the chamber, lifting the Glock level with my chest like Hunter taught me.

“Mrs. Brigham? It’s Rio. Shit. Please let me in.” A speaker embedded in the wall rattles as Rio’s voice pierces the thick air of the safe room.

That shakes Ella out of her stupor, and she jumps up and rushes to the door.

“Stop,” I hiss at her, pulling her back into my body.

“But it’s Rio,” she sobs.

“I also just overheard people who used to work here talking about killing us all, so yeah.”

“Winter, please,” Rio says, his voice more urgent.

I walk toward the door after pushing Ella in the same direction as Veronica and Summer.

“How do I know you aren’t here to kill us?” I say into the microphone.

“I’m not. I wouldn’t.”

“You have a lot of reasons to hate Hunter. He punched you in front of everyone. That would make anyone salty.”

“That was him doing his job. I deserved it because I shouldn’t have let you get away so easily. I fucked up that day. But I’ve sworn to protect you and your family, and I intend to keep that promise.”

What do I do, Hunter?

Taking a deep breath, I unlock the door. Stepping back, I point my gun at the opening as Rio stumbles in. He collapses on the floor when he’s a few steps inside.

“Oh, my God, you’re bleeding! Winter, he’s bleeding!” Ella cries as she takes frantic steps toward Rio, who nurses a ragged gunshot near his collarbone. I close the door quickly, locking us all inside.

Veronica rushes over, her medical training taking over. “Take the baby, Ella. Make a bed for her. Winter, where are the medical supplies?”

“In the cabinet over there,” I say. She rears back when I point in the direction with the barrel of the gun.

When she walks off, I lean over Rio and slowly press the gun to his head.

“What do you know about what’s happening out there?” My voice is deadly calm, steely in contrast to the chaos inside my brain.

August. I need to get to August.

“Fuck, I swear—” he hisses when I press the gun more firmly to his skull.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, Rio. Because from where I’m sitting, it’s real suspicious that you got off with just a little scrape when it looks like the rest of our security team is dead in my foyer, and August is missing.”

Rio’s eyes are glassy, and his jaw works as he clenches and unclenches his teeth.

“I don’t just work for your husband.” He shouts, biting his lip, when I press my shoe to his wound and apply pressure.

The room is silent, and I feel Veronica standing near me. The sting of alcohol wafts from the tools she holds.

“You all are in more danger than you realize. A group called The Legion wants you dead. I was placed here by a counter-group to bring information back and keep you safe. I’m from The Resistance.” He yells louder when I press harder on his wound.

The Resistance? The Legion? What the fuck is going on here? I shake my head, hoping to clear the confusion. I don’t have time for this.

I add even more pressure to his shoulder.

“So you’re a spy? You’ve been spying on my family.”

He groans; it’s a guttural and primal sound. I realize that even though he’s injured, he could stop this. He could easily overpower me, take my weapon, and kill us all.

Instead, I watch his trembling hands ball into fists at his sides, letting me hurt him.

“I’m here to keep you safe. Those fuckers pulled one over on me.” His breaths come in choppy pants, and his skin takes on a gray cast, but his anger is still unmistakable.

“Winter,” Veronica whispers. I don’t take my eyes off Rio’s.

“You can either believe me or not, but if you’re going to kill me, just do it now so I can get out of this fucking agony.” With that statement, he lets the tension go from his body and looks at me. Resignation rings true in his gaze.

I search his eyes, looking for any hint of desperation, and I scroll through my memories of Rio. I look for signs of deceit in my recollection.

I look at his hands as they shiver, restrained.

Breathing deep through my nose, I step back.

“Help him,” I say to Veronica. Rio releases a locked breath, and he passes out.

I take sure steps to the weapons cabinet, stuffing two more full magazines into my bra. I swing on a bulletproof vest. Then I head to the door.

“Lock this behind me,” I yell to the room over my shoulder as I take determined steps toward the exit.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Veronica is frantic, pressing onto Rio’s wound, and Ella rushes from the back of the room, having found a bassinet in the supplies.

“What? Winter, you can’t go out there!” Ella cries. I look over my shoulder and take a grounding breath.

“I’m going to get my son,” I say. And with that, I close the door, and the locks shut, sounding like a death knell.

THIRTY-THREE

WINTER

Ihonestly don’t have a death wish.

In fact, I plan on not dying for a very long time, hopefully surrounded by loved ones and with a low amount of pain.

But I can’t wait around for someone to come and maybe help us. Help August.

Please, God. Please let him still be alive. Please help me find him and get him to safety.

Standing outside the closed safe room door, I readjust my weapons. August was last in the rose garden, and I pray they haven’t moved from there.

Move, Winter!

I spin around and feel my way toward the exit, trying to remember which door Hunter showed me all those weeks ago leads to the rose garden.

It feels like it’s been forever.

I take a deep breath as I press the panel, opening the door to find myself in the kitchen.

Darkness shrouds the mansion, and the absence of light highlights the death now present throughout the house.

I calculate every step, and my senses heighten with a mixture of fear and determination. I can’t afford any mistakes, not when August’s life hangs in the balance.

A muffled pop rings out from the direction of the foyer, and I jump, clutching my chest and dropping to the ground.

Get to August. Bring him to the safe room. Kill anyone in my way.

I’m in the space between the kitchen sink and the island, and I silently position my body to crouch on the balls of my feet. The gun is heavy in my hand, and I flex my fingers around the grip.

Shoot to kill. Hunter’s instructions clang around my brain, and I take a silent, cleansing breath to ground myself.

“Where the fuck are they?” Rodrigo’s voice again. It’s a low murmur, as if he’s talking to himself. The static feedback of a walkie-talkie activating almost causes me to jump.

“We have the boy,” a voice on the other side confirms. August.

“They want him alive, so don’t fuck him up too much,” Rodrigo says, amusement in his voice. He sounds totally uncaring about his safety.

The other speaker verbally acknowledges Rodrigo’s words. Rodrigo’s footsteps become louder as he draws closer to me.

“I don’t know why they want the retard to live but do as they say. Follow your orders,” he adds.

Blazing fury surges through my veins at the slur. So I jump up from my hiding spot with my gun pointed at Rodrigo’s head.

“Yeah, you’re fucking done,” I spit out. The only reason I’m able to pull the trigger and place a bullet right through his skull before he does the same to me is because he doesn’t have time to draw his weapon.

He collapses to the floor, and blood rushes from the hole in his skull.

My ears ring in the shockwave of the blast. The shot is loud—louder than I was ready for without hearing protection.

I shake my head in hopes it will stop the tinny reverberation in my ear canal.

Move!

The rose garden is around the corner and down the hall. I leave my spot on the other side of the island while I analyze all the places August could be. I keep close to the walls, leaning into the shadows, when I walk past the entrance of the great hall. But before I hit the path leading directly to the rose garden, I whirl around when a piece of furniture screeches across the floor. Gun raised, I have my finger on the trigger when a pained “Wait” sounds from the floor inside the entrance to the dining room.

Within a shaft of moonlight, I recognize the bloodied face. Jared, Rio’s right hand and one of Hunter’s detail.

I bite my lip. I know what Hunter would tell me to do. He would tell me to keep moving, stay focused, and get my ass back to safety.

“Ms.…Winter….”

Suppressing a frustrated groan, I take four big steps over to him, making sure we’re alone in the room before assessing his injuries.

He’s bleeding. A lot. But I need to know if—

“The Resistance. I’m on your side,” he rushes to say. Pain laces his words, and when he shifts, I zero in on the wound in his thigh. Getting on my knees, I bend over him after placing my gun on the floor.

Thigh. Lots of blood. Did it hit an artery? I pull the belt off my jeans and start to wrap it above the bullet hole as a tourniquet.

“There’s no time,” Jared urges. He takes the belt from my hands, winding it around his thigh and pulling it impossibly tight with a solid fist.

“The hangar. I don’t think there’s enough time for backup to arrive before they take August.”

“Where would they take him?” I rasp.

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re all trying to figure out.” He bites his lip, choking back a groan.

“I’ll come back for you,” I say. “When I get August, I’ll come back for you.”

Hunter, what the fuck do I do? Where are you?

“Don’t,” Jared bites out. “Get to the hangar and get August. They’ve got all of us down. Help is on the way, but if August leaves this estate, we might never get him back.” A fine sheen of sweat covers his face.

“Go,” he urges. He pulls his gun out and hands it to me. “Your gun is too loud. Use mine with the silencer.”

My hands tremble.

“Go,” he says with even more force.

August. Get to August.

“Shoot ‘em if someone comes to finish the job before I get back.” I slap my gun on his chest, picking up his hand to place it over the firearm before I rush out of the room.

The quickest way to the hangar is straight through the rose garden. The most covered path to the hangar is around the side of the solarium and through the small patch of trees that line the back of the airstrip.

The high-pitched whine of a helicopter starting up chooses for me. I go through the rose garden.

My muscles are unused to running and the heft of the bulletproof vest, especially while healing from my injuries, but I push through, push myself to stay vigilant to threats and get to August before whoever has him takes off.

Step one: get to the pavilion.

I push past the memories of the place—of the embraces Hunter and I shared. Just when I step under the wood and wrought iron awning, a bullet buzzes past my head and embeds into one of the posts.

I drop to the ground, flipping over more on accident than with intention, and fire immediately.

I gasp when I hear a masculine grunt. Looking up, a man dressed in all black stares me down while grasping his right arm.

He’s twelve feet away from me, and with my next breath, I fire my gun again. This time, it goes through his chest based on how his shoulder rears back, and he collapses to the ground.

No time to investigate.

I look left, right, and up in search of more shooters and August.

Just run like hell, Winter.

One. Two. Three—I sprint out of the pavilion and down the path that leads to the hangar. I keep low to the ground, allowing the bushes and blooms to conceal my trek.

Flashing red and white lights shine from the helipad, and the sight causes me to go faster. But the area around the helicopter is empty, and it doesn’t look like anyone is in the pilot’s chair.

I allow myself to take a deep breath when my back hits the structure’s metal siding.

Think, think, think.

Voices come from inside the building, and I keep my steps light as I shift toward the open door.

“We will not leave until we have Brigham’s daughter.” A deep, rumbling voice.

“Well, by now Brigham will have reinforcements coming, so we should pull out,” another man volleys back, an edge of sarcasm lacing his tone. “He told us—”

“Remember your fucking place,” the other man grinds out.

My brain vibrates when I allow myself to acknowledge that I know the voices.

No….

Things are silent for a second, and I crab walk closer to the door to peer in.

I take in the scene for a moment before pressing back to the side of the building.

August lay on the floor, curled in a ball near the open sliding doors that are large enough to taxi in a small jet. From my vantage point, I see the slight flicker of his eyes open and shut—just a sliver of awareness.

Standing over him is a red-faced Carlos, a lead guard on Hunter’s security team.

…And Marcus Law. My dimple-faced former neighbor.

I knew he was too goddamn smiley.

My heart rate triples as I try to formulate a plan to get August out of the hangar, across the garden, and into the safe room.

It’s too risky.

Angry, hot tears pool in my eyes, and I let them fall. This is all so fucking unfair.

“You know what? Fuck you, Law,” Carlos growls.

“Eh, no thanks,” Marcus says. Seconds later, a familiar pop-thud echoes off the metal.

I chance a look back inside. Carlos is down, blood leeching from his temple as his eyes stare at the too-bright ceiling.

Marcus sighs. He peers over August’s still frame, and I raise my gun, ready to point it through the open door and shoot Marcus in the back, but feedback from his hip forces me to still.

“Law, Rodrigo is out. Tank is down, shot in the garden, but he’s alive. Says he got shot by Brigham’s bitch.”

My heart jumps in my throat. Okay, they know I’m around here. And I shot a guy named Tank?

Marcus pulls his comm from his belt and growls into the microphone. “Well, find the bitch and bring her to me,” he grinds out.

Right then, a loud boom echoes across the manor, and when I take my eyes off Marcus to look toward the mansion, white smoke billows into the night sky.

Flames.

The sound of Marcus’ hard boots is loud in my ears, but he walks away from my hiding spot and out the hangar doors to stand on the helipad, facing the house.

“Who the fuck started the fire?” he practically yells into the walkie-talkie.

The reply is immediate. “Brigham’s backup,” the voice suggests.

“Fuck,” Marcus hisses into the air. He marches back over to August, crouching over him for a moment before lifting his head and seemingly staring off into space.

Take the shot, Winter.

I lift my gun again, putting my finger over the trigger, when he stands in an instant and rushes out of the building and into the night.

I count to ten before I inch inside the hangar and over to August.

“August!” I call out softly, not wanting to startle him. He looks up slowly in surprise, his drowsy eyes glimmering with a mixture of hope and uncertainty and sheer terror. He doesn’t look harmed physically, but the slow roll of his head on his neck suggests someone’s drugged him.

His lips part, but no words come out. His thin body trembles, reflecting the fear and exhaustion the last half-hour has brought.

He rocks his head back and forth on the concrete, but I can tell he’s trying to control his movements. His tablet is missing, and that pisses me off to an unreasonable level.

The man I saw in the surveillance footage likely was Marcus Law. The woman…I have guesses. In either event, even though we’re alone now, we won’t be for long.

“Can you walk?” I pant out slowly, pantomiming the action with my hands. August shakes his head no.

Fuck.

Hunter is close. He has to be.

Another boom echoes over the field, and the quick pop-pop-pop of gunfire lets me know there’s a battle going on inside my house.

I can’t get him to the safe room.

I look at the helicopter. That’s not an option because obviously, I can’t fly.

I look over my shoulder. The gun range. If I can get August and myself to the gun range, I can barricade us inside. There’s a whole cache of weapons in there too.

Please, God. Let us make it out of this alive.

With one final deep breath, I pull his arm over my left shoulder so I can hold the gun with my right.

I haven’t shot anything one-handed before, and I hope I have the wrist strength to do it.

August tries to help me, lurching along as I try to drag us toward the room. The hangar is large, but it’s only a few steps ahead.

“You even walk like a cockroach,” an arrogant voice calls out from my right.

Blair.

I whip around at her words, using all my strength to throw August off my body and closer to the door. I raise my gun and fire a shot in the same move.

It’s not quick enough. While my shot goes wide, hers hits its mark, piercing the flesh of my left shoulder.

The pain doesn’t register for a second, but then everything rushes in.

My position is now on the floor—my legs refusing to hold me upright.

The fire, absolute agony, radiating from my shoulder.

I realize my gun isn’t in my hand. I must’ve dropped it by reflex when I took the bullet.

I want to scream at the overwhelming pain, but I don’t.

Hunter is coming. Hunter is here.

“Hey, bitch. Why am I not surprised to see you here?” I snarl through my pain and tightly pressed lips.

She tilts her head to the side.

“I will admit, I am surprised to see you here. It’s mindboggling how you managed to survive all the shit we’ve sent to kill you.”

“I guess that whole will to live thing isn’t so overrated,” I shoot back.

She chuffs in a humorless laugh.

“I’ll be taking the kid,” she says. Her lip curls, and a surge of protectiveness makes me want to launch my body over August’s, but I remain steady.

“Hell to the naw,” I drawl.

She quirks an eyebrow.

“Why do you want him, anyway? You and your sugar daddy tried killing him enough times,” I add.

“Oh, we didn’t intend to kill him. At least, not for a while yet. You and I know Hunter will do anything we demand in exchange for his son. Plus, Daddy promised me that I could play with his brain.”

I blink hard.

The. Fuck.

“Is that so,” I say, hoping to keep her talking, buying time for Hunter to break through whatever’s happening at the front of the house and rescue us. “I guess you’re part of The Legion?”

She bristles, her eyes narrowing.

“What do you know about The Legion?” she asks in a calm tone.

I know not a goddamn thing.

“I know enough,” I reply.

The side of her mouth lifts. It’s apparent when she decides to revel in this moment, preparing for a monologue that might be enough to allow help to arrive. I shift to my knees.

“Nu-huh,” she says, lifting her gun again, lining it up to my face. I settle on my hip, but the movement brings me closer to my gun.

I don’t think she notices my new proximity because she walks to stand over me in her high Louboutins that are absurdly inappropriate for the venue.

“You’re pretty enough,” she says after assessing me for a long moment. Crouching down, she reaches out toward my face. Her finger coils around the lock of hair hanging over my eyebrow, and I resist the urge to move my gaze from her gun, which now hangs between her spread knees. “I suppose I can see why he’d want to fuck you.”

Her eyes move up and down my body.

“That is, if one likes to fuck livestock.”

My eyes water with the force of my concentration to stay still. If I could just reach the gun on my hip or the one across from me….

I put extra firearms on my body before leaving the safe room, but with the state of my arm and the fact that she’ll kill me more quickly than I could secure the gun, I freeze.

Hunter, what do I do?

“Fuck. You.” I enunciate, biting into each word.

She leans in closer. She’s so close that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

“Your very existence annoys me. You sicken me, if I’m honest, and not just because you and your people are a waste of space on this planet. Not just because of your intellectual and physical inferiority to me. But because somehow, you—you crazy, used-up, inconsequential facsimile of a human being—have managed to inconvenience me. You’ve managed to make things difficult for me, and that is intolerable.”

Her sick smile grows.

“You people think you can take over this country, turn it into some poverty-run free-for-all. ‘Eat the Rich’ you whine, but in reality, you want to be like me. You’d kill to be in my shoes. But we won’t let you take over this country and run it into the ground like you people have tried to do around the world. You won’t replace us.”

She stands and steps back slowly, keeping her eyes pinned on me until there is a solid fifteen feet of space between us.

“I want to play with your dead body. I want to tear you apart, piece by piece. I want to examine you like a lab rat—like the vermin you are. Maybe I’ll find something that makes you different, but I doubt it.”

I contemplate shooting her now, just pulling the gun out and squeezing my trigger to mow her down, but I know before I’m able to get my bullet out, Blair will have shot me in return.

I have to get more distance. I have to get August out of here.

Before I can move, I hear a swift snick, and through the open bay, I see the person perched on the roof of the manor fall, rolling quickly over the shingles to smack into the ground.

Blair quirks an eyebrow, but the loud, long blow of a horn interrupts her next action.

The ground beneath us shakes, and there’s a low rumbling in the distance. With each second it grows, and we both whip our heads to look toward the main house through the hangar opening.

Even more smoke billows from the front side of Amelia Manor, and guessing from her slightly bewildered gaze as she analyzes the building, I don’t think the destruction comes from her crew.

And because my gaze is fixed on Blair, I note the precise moment when she rolls her eyes.

“Well,” she says, not looking at me. “It’s time for you to die.”

But before she can turn her head to lock on me fully, my gun is out and pointed at her chest.

I pull the trigger and fire.

THIRTY-FOUR

HUNTER

Misha has a tank. I almost thought he was joking when he mentioned getting the massive military vehicle on the back of a transport truck and sending it to Amelia Manor with the ground crew.

I didn’t question him about anything else when I saw the armored vehicle roll onto the back of an oversized eighteen-wheeler two minutes after our standoff in Misha’s office.

“Come with me in the helicopter,” Misha yells over the commotion. At least two hundred people rush through the compound, and all of them carry guns. Their orderly movements would stun me if I weren’t so enraged.

So yes. Helicopter good.

Leo and I file into the MD500 and put on the headsets hanging from the ceiling. Before I can close the door, Misha hops into the pilot chair.

“Where are we landing?” I bark out.

“We’re going to the front door,” Misha says, his voice just as short.

“Is that wise?” Leo asks, his jaw tight. I’ve never seen the wild look in his eyes before.

“Oh yes,” Misha replies. Then he presses a button and heavy artillery weapons release from the side of the aircraft.

“Ah,” I say.

Seconds later, we’re in the air, speeding toward Amelia Manor. Misha’s focused face reveals the calculations spinning in his brain. I glance around the cabin. MD500s are military aircraft, and with the weaponry on the outside and the ARs and AKs mounted in the back, it certainly feels like one.

Although Misha pilots the helicopter smoothly, Leo’s leg bounces up and down, mirroring my movements.

“Have you heard anything from inside?” Leo says with rushed words.

“Except for the distress call Rio sent, nothing.” A muscle pulses in Misha’s jaw.

Leo’s hand clenches into a fist.

It’s only been ten minutes, but it feels like forever before we see the illuminated road that stretches toward Amelia Manor. Beyond it, the house is dark.

“Let’s light their asses up, yes?” Misha says with a dark smile.

When I look down and see several people—at least fifty—scrambling near the front gate below and the glint of their semi-automatic weapons pointing toward us in the sky, I hiss, “Yes. Let’s.”

Misha banks hard to the left, and I twist to take the joystick that controls the right side of the helicopter’s retrofitted weapons.

I’m prepared for the too-loud, rapid trill of the minigun as it releases fifty rounds per second, but I’m not prepared for the fucking missile Leo launches toward the front gate.

“Holy shit!” I yell as I grapple for a handhold when Misha banks right. When we circle back around, the people I saw at the gate are gone.

Virtually misted like we’re in a fucking comic book.

“Hold on,” Misha says in a voice that’s entirely too calm for what we’re facing. He picks up speed, zooming us up and forward at an alarming rate over the rose garden. Near-blinding lights illuminate the area from the bottom of the helicopter.

“Anything?” Leo asks.

“No,” the rest of us say as we scan the garden for movement.

Right as Misha aims for the same field where August and I flew toy replicas of the aircraft I’m currently sitting in, Luna’s voice comes through the headset.

“Just got a distress call from the safe room at Amelia Manor. Rio says Ella, Veronica, and her baby are accounted for.”

She pauses. “The dog is there too.”

Leo’s shoulders drop, and his leg stops shaking.

Alarm clangs in my head when I focus on what she says and what she doesn’t say. Misha drops the helicopter into the field and begins the shutdown sequence.

“What about Winter and August?”

The silence continues long enough for me to repeat myself. “What about Winter and August?”

“They’re not with the group,” Luna says. “But it’s a good thing you put the tracker in both of them. We’ve narrowed their location to your hangar.”

I swing the strap of the nearest loaded AR-15 over my shoulder and rush out of the helicopter in seconds.

“Wait for backup!” Misha yells, but I ignore his words.

Over the vibrating whirr of the slowing rotary blades comes the loud, unmistakable crack of gunfire.

Gunfire that comes from the vicinity of my hangar.

In a break in the noise, an unmistakable, terrified bellow comes from that direction.

August.

I run across the field, trusting Leo and Misha to have my back. The AR-15 is light in my arms, at the ready to gun down anyone standing between my family and me.

I go in the direction of the gunshots, running full-out and increasing my speed.

Agony is thick in my chest as I round the last pathway and jet into the open bay of the hangar.

“Winter! August!”

My eyes swing to a form on the ground that I quickly determine to be Blair’s bloodied body. Her arm twitches, and she faces away from the entryway in a pool of crimson.

Then I look at August, trembling but clutching onto Winter, who sits up on the ground, holding on to August despite the crimson flowing down her arm.

“No!” I roar, sprinting to them both.

“Winter! August, are you hurt?” I say, assessing my son while I move my hands over Winter’s face. August screws his eyes shut, clutching onto Winter tighter and vocalizing with wild shouts.

The action makes Winter groan.

The MD500 still idles across the field. I could get us up in the helicopter and out of here in a few minutes, and I could be at the hospital in fifteen.

“August, I need to look at her,” I say, trying to sound calm.

August releases Winter, blood soaking his light-colored shirt.

“Winter, I’m going to get us all out of here,” I vow, but my voice cracks.

“H, can I just tell you that getting shot fucking hurts?” Winter grumbles, her face screwed up in obvious agony.

I move to get her into my arms and get us the fuck out of here.

“All you had to do was follow the plan.”

My head snaps up, meeting Blair’s gaze. Hot tears spill from her rage-filled eyes, and the gun trembles in her hand.

August makes a grating, distressed sound, but I don’t spare him a glance.

Because from this position, I watch as a bullet goes through Blair’s right eye socket in a flash.

August shouts, a guttural, then piercing sound, and I stare for a second, dumbfounded and unable to reconcile that my son just saved us.

He just killed someone.

“August.” My voice is a dread-filled rasp, adrenaline and despair commingling and tying my vocal cords.

The sound of pounding feet interrupts the moment, and in a second, Misha is there.

“Da-d.” August produces the word with effort, choked and low.

He turns to me, his hands trembling with such violence that the gun clacks to the floor.

“I’ve got you. We’re getting away from all this. Go with Misha. I’m right behind you.”

He trembles, still vocalizing his distress and pain and fear, but after a second in my embrace, he lets go and goes with Misha.

“Hunter…” Winter groans, weak. “I think I might pass out.” She blinks once, slow, as if her eyelids are heavy.

Her eyes slam shut again, and I don’t stall. I don’t look at Blair’s body. I swing Winter into my arms, choosing expediency over being gentle. The pain must shock her into alertness because she screams, her teeth gritted.

“We need to move, Sunbeam.”

“I put on the vest.” She pants. “You didn’t teach me about that.” Her voice rocks with each step I take.

I exhale. “Smart girl.” My voice shakes.

“Eh, some people think I’m smart,” she replies. Then she’s out cold again.

I pick up the pace, rushing back to the helicopters. Misha and my son are already there, and August sits wide-eyed in Leo’s seat.

“Where is Leo?” I yell over the sound of the accelerating blades.

“He went inside to the rest of them,” Misha says. I don’t have time to respond before Misha throws a headset at me and we’re up in the air.

We leave Amelia Manor as if nothing happened despite the tank rolling up the driveway and gunning down more people as they spill out of my house. Later, I know Misha will send people to clean up the bodies.

No one will ask questions about the people killed.

But Blair’s death...that one will be harder to cover.

Winter’s eyes flutter open, slowly focusing on my face.

“I promise I’m okay,” she says, her voice hoarse. “It’s just a little cut. The sight of blood makes me….”

She looks at her shoulder, grimacing when she tries to lift it for better assessment in the inconsistent moonlight. She looks back at me. “I’m a little sensitive to the sight of blood.”

Misha banks left in the direction of his compound, and Winter groans when the movement jostles her.

“Hospital,” I bark.

“No,” Misha says in a flat tone.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” I grip Winter tighter, and she lets out a yip of protest.

“Use your brain, Brigham. Your home was just attacked. Do you think you’ll be safe at a hospital? I have a full hospital at my home, including excellent healthcare providers. She will do a lot better there.”

I stare at the side of Misha’s face, unsure what to do. All I know is I’m three seconds away from hijacking this helicopter.

This whole situation is confusing and angering. I don’t know who knows what, who has what, which side is right or wrong, or if there are sides at all.

“I’m okay, H.” Her voice is soft over the headset, and I look down at her. “We’re okay.” Her lips tremble. “She barely clipped me. And….”

Her hand goes to her stomach, and she bites her lip. “Misha’s right. I don’t know up from down or left from right.”

I flex my fingers and try to keep calm, even though they are coated with blood. Her blood.

“I trust you,” Winter says. She places her bloody hand over mine.

She trusts me. I will make sure she never has a reason not to.

“I saw you, you know. At Isla Cara when I was a kid,” I say, not taking my eyes off Winter’s hand covering mine.

Silence. Then Misha says, “I know.”

I inhale deeply. “You were with them.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Hunter, I was never with them. One thing you’ll need to learn quickly is that you cannot trust your eyes, and everything you know about your life is wrong.”

I move my gaze to where my son sits. August’s eyes flutter, rapidly twitching from left to right as we pass over trees.

How can I decide what’s best when I don’t know what we’re fighting against?

“Well, everything except maybe her,” he adds. When I turn back to him, he nods to Winter’s still form.

A minute later, we touch down at Misha’s compound and the place is alive with activity.

Without exchanging words, Misha exits the helicopter, and I follow suit. After a brief examination of the helicopter, Misha walks through a short line of people who command his attention. A kind-looking woman with soft features approaches August, handing him a new tablet and talking with him in soft tones.

August looks in my direction, hoping for guidance. I nod and say, “It’s okay, we’re safe here.”

August walks off with the stranger. I pray I’m not wrong about our safety.

Winter’s soft hand lands on my shoulder, and I shift to help her out of the helicopter.

Everything feels surreal. I should move. Instead, I grow roots in this spot.

Misha’s sure steps toward the front stairs are starkly different from how he’s always presented himself. He was formidable as the pakhan.

Shedding that persona and stepping into…whatever this is? It’s fucking terrifying. We’re not on even ground, and it’s fucking with my head.

Misha pauses as if thinking and then turns. His cool gaze settles on me. The movement feels heavy, and the din around us drops to almost nothing. It’s as if everyone is waiting to witness this next interaction.

“You don’t have to accept our help,” Misha says in a clear voice. “You could put your head in the sand and pretend nothing is happening around you.”

Misha’s eyebrow quirks as he moves to stand an arm’s length in front of me.

“But if you decide to stay, you will fight with us.”

He takes one more step closer.

He lowers his voice. “What do you choose, Brigham?”

The night air stills in anticipation. I think about the options, what’s safest for my family, and what it means to have this ability to be useful not just to everyone I care about but to the world.

It’s fucking heavy shit.

Winter presses into me, and I run my finger down the side of her face. When I cup her cheek in my palm, she lifts her chin.

“I trust you, Hunter Brigham.”

“Hunter.”

It takes me a second to register the familiarity of the voice. I scroll through my memory, trying to match the sound of my name to everyone I’ve encountered.

It doesn’t make sense.

So I turn to face the speaker and every single synapse in my brain breaks.

Completely shatters.

The ghost smiles, but it trembles before it says:

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Want to know what happens next?

Keep reading for a sneak peek from Reverie, Book three in The Devils in D.C. Saga.

REVERIE

CHAPTER FOUR: WINTER

“Winter, can you wake up for me?”

I groan as the voice pops me into consciousness. One moment, I’m in blackness; the next, someone yells in my ear a split second before my shoulder starts throbbing.

Which is terrifying because I just walked in here and sat on the table for an examination.

The rest is blank. When did I fall asleep?

“Ow,” I grumble. A second later, the low hum of a machine starts, and coldness runs up my arm from the bend of my elbow.

I crack open one lid.

“Hunter? Where is Hunter?” I ask, gasping as a cold feeling settles in my chest.

The room I’m in is white, but gratefully, it's dim in here except for the lights over the counters and one glowing from behind my head. Rolling my eye to take in the room, I note the three walls surrounding me and the tan curtain hanging over the entrance I used to come in here. Three nurses move around the medical suite.

As if someone stabbed me, everything rushes back with a wave of potent anxiety.

The raid.

The safe room.

Veronica and Ella.

Rio.

August.

Blair.

And then….

“August,” I rasp. The nurse closest to me fiddles with a bag of IV fluids hooked up to a pump.

I try again. “August. Where is August?”

She looks down at me after she gets all her IV lines sorted. A mask covers the bottom half of her face, and when she doesn’t respond to my question, alarm shoots through me.

I look at the IV site and begin to sit up. Fuck this.

“Whoa, ma’am,” a voice to my right calls. It’s another nurse. Her mask hangs off her ear, and her warm smile greets me, but I’m still on guard.

“Where the fuck is my…” I bite my lip, dropping my head back onto the pillow that’s way too plush to be a plastic hospital one. “Where’s August,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. In a rush, my eyes start to feel heavy. Even though it takes much effort, I turn to look at the nurse to my left, near the IV poles.

“Did you drug me?” I slur. She taps the IV container.

“Winter, you are safe here.” I whip my head to my right, and I’m irritated that my movements are slow and don’t match the intensity I want to give off. “We’re not giving you anything that could hurt you. Just something to help you relax,” the smiling nurse says. She steps up to the bedside and pats my hand.

Despite the meds sent through my IV to relax me, panic surges anyway. Confusion edges in as the smiley nurse begins to sign to her colleague, her fingers a rapid show of language.

“Marta is hard of hearing,” the other nurse says. I feel my body release some tension, and the masked nurse nods. The corner of her eyes crinkle a bit.

A smile.

Maybe the nurse doesn’t plan on harming me.

But then my brain shakes as I try to tilt my head, and a renewed sense of panic rushes up anyway.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out. “I…can’t…have…drugs.” When I attempt to open my eyes, everything spins.

“Why the hell did you drug me? I didn’t consent to being drugged!” Forming words is hard. “I just have a scratch, and it doesn’t even hurt that bad!”

I shrug my injured shoulder but force myself to bite back the groan of pain I want to release.

Okay, maybe it hurts more than a little.

The smiley nurse pats my hand. “We know about the pregnancy. You were pretty amped up when you got here, and we were afraid you were going to harm yourself with how your panic attack took over. Do you not remember?”

I search for any recollection of the events the nurse talks about, but I come up with a big blank box of nothing.

“The medicine we gave you is short-acting, and the doctor will be in shortly. Just try to stay calm.”

I take in a deep breath, and my shoulder throbs. “You didn’t answer my question.” I force my eyes open, staring at the nurse holding my hand.

“August is fine,” she replies. When she smiles again, my paranoia increases.

Breathe, Winter.

I close my eyes against the spiral of panic, but behind my lids, all I see is blood.

So much fucking blood.

I shot Blair just before Hunter came into the hangar, and the agony of August squeezing me as I lay on the ground made me want to scream.

I knew my gunshot wound wasn’t anything fatal when it happened, but getting shot hurts like a motherfucker.

“Where is Hunter?” I mutter. The masked nurse finally walks away from me, heading to a wall of medical supplies.

“He will be here in just a moment,” the remaining nurse says. She flicks her eyes above my head, and when I follow her gaze, my vitals appear on the most teched-out hospital monitor I’ve ever seen.

Everything feels so unreal, and I’m uncertain if the source of my discombobulation stems from my anxiety or the medicine they shot me up with. I’m here in a medical bay in the home of a Ukrainian mob boss, as if that’s normal.

What the actual fuck is happening?

Where is Hunter?

My gaze travels around the room and then to my IV site.

I look at the clock on the wall. Two hours. Why don’t I have any recollection of the last two hours?

They explained that to you.

Am I really safe?

Can I trust these people?

Is this…are they going to hurt me? Us?

The sudden thought that Hunter and August are in trouble—hurt or dead—and I’m next snaps into my brain.

Just as sudden as the thought comes on, the rise of panic batters the door of my subconscious, fighting against what feels like benzos running heavily in my system.

I reach for the IV and rip it from my elbow.

“Winter!”

Sitting up on the edge of the bed, I wad the twisted bedding against my bleeding arm.

I try to place my weight on my leg, and my knee buckles. I catch myself with my good hand, falling back on the bed.

“Girl, if you don’t sit your ass down!”

Veronica stands in the doorway with Kitty at her side and Summer strapped to her chest in a soft structured carrier.

Just as I make sense of her appearance, another figure materializes.

Luna?

I’m distracted by my confusion when Kitty comes bounding in, and the high-pitched whistle that escapes my constricted throat causes him to use all his power to jump onto the high hospital bed.

He misses a few times before Veronica helps him up by his hind legs.

Kitty immediately goes to lick my cheek, and I don’t say anything as I clutch onto him, shaking as I try to soak in calm.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

Kitty sniffs at my bandaged shoulder, then plops down to settle into my lap with a distressed whine. When I push my fingers through his fur, he sighs.

Still, a fine tremor runs through his tiny body.

“Veronica, I….”

The room tilts at an odd angle, and the urge to vomit is so strong that I bend sideways to hover over the edge of the bed. A kidney basin appears from nowhere right as I heave.

I retch once, twice, and when I feel I have a reprieve, I look up at my best friend.

“Veronica,” I choke out, and she jumps into action without me needing to say anything further.

“All right! Everybody give her some space. You,” Veronica says, and the masked nurse turns. “You’re freaking her out. Leave. You.” She points at Luna. “Go find Hunter and bring his ass back here.”

Luna cocks a hip out and puts her hand on it.

Luna and I had a brief moment together the last time I was at Misha Hroshko’s home. She took me to their garden, having heard that I love flowers. That feels like years ago rather than a little over a week.

The grounds on Misha and Luna’s estate are expansive, rivaling Amelia Manor.

But their garden is nothing like the one back home.

Home.

Is Amelia Manor still standing? Before we flew away, it sounded like bombs were going off at the front of the mansion.

I swallow, my throat dry, but when I close my eyes at the same time, the image of the man I killed right there in my beloved garden greets me.

Breathe, Winter. Just breathe.

“He’ll be here in a minute,” Luna says.

Veronica lets out a closed-lipped chuckle, but it’s anything but humorous.

“A minute is too long. Go get him so that Winter can chill.”

Luna’s eyes narrow as she bores them into Veronica.

“Please,” Veronica adds.

Luna still doesn’t move.

“Pretty please with cherries on top?” Veronica pastes on a bright smile.

Luna grumbles something unintelligible but heads for the door nonetheless.

“Do you know what’s happening with August?” I ask Veronica once Luna is out of the room.

“Everything is okay, Winter. August is resting in one of the guest rooms. You, on the other hand, need to lie down. In case you haven’t realized, you’ve been shot.”

I want to roll my eyes at her, but I’m too dizzy to perform the action.

Note to self: Don’t get shot. Again.

Veronica strides over to me. She puts a soft but firm hand on each of my forearms and positions me back on the bed. When she lifts one of my legs and then the other without permission, putting a firm hand on the back of Summer’s head as she does so, and slides the blanket over me, the feeling of gratitude for not being upright marginally blurs my fear and uncertainty at the motivations of the people surrounding me.

Summer, the most amazing baby on the planet, sleeps through all the jostling. My best friend’s hand on mine gives my strained nervous system a slight reset.

“Everything is okay. Hunter is here. August is here. Everyone is here.”

The quaking in my hands gets stronger, but I force myself to look at her.

“We’re safe right now, Winter.”

My shoulders relax into the pillow behind me.

“Knock-knock,” a new voice calls, pulling the curtain back and sliding inside.

“Who are you?” I blink hard. There are so many fucking people coming in and out of this room, and my anxiety has me feeling like I’m standing in a pile of fire ants.

“I’m Dr. Whitney,” the woman says. She takes the stethoscope from her pocket and lifts it up. “Mind if I take a listen?”

I don’t move or respond.

“Her vitals are a little erratic. Do you want to give another dose of Ativan?” This comes from the smiley nurse.

“Another dose? I did not consent to being drugged in the first place!” I look at Veronica, helpless, and the doctor takes up residence near my hip.

“You were quite upset when we wheeled you back here, so we wanted to help you relax while we stitched you up. Luckily, you just got a graze, but I’m sure it hurts like hell,” the doctor says.

Her words are reassuring, I guess, but I’m so weirded out and worried about the baby.

I lift my shaking hands to my stomach.

“I wanted to run your samples down to the lab myself. All is well.” Dr. Whitney’s eyes are friendly, and she doesn’t reflect a hint of malevolence.

“Are you sure?” Drugs. Meds. The baby.

My hand flexes on my lower stomach, and try to rise off the bed again.

“Please, Ms. Vaughan,” one nurse says, placing a gentle hand on my good shoulder.

I flinch away from the touch.

“Nuh-huh, don’t touch her! She needs space, not you crowding her,” Veronica growls with one hand on the back of her daughter’s head.

“How do you know? How do you know everything is okay?” I begin to wail, and the monitors start to chime. I try to breathe in and out.

The doctor speaks. “Ms. Vaughan, your heart rate is getting a little too high—”

“Is my baby okay?” I feel the press of panic settle in my sternum, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

The baby.

The baby.

Oh no, oh no, oh n—

“Your baby is doing great, Winter,” Dr. Whitney says. She motions to the mask-covered nurse to bring over a wheeled device. When it’s in her possession, the doctor spins around what turns out to be the smallest ultrasound machine on the planet.

Dr. Whitney pipes up. “While you were out, we checked the baby’s heart rate with the Doppler. Now that you’re up, let’s do an ultrasound. Here, watch.”

She taps the screen a few times, and in short order, she has an ultrasound wand pressed to my bare stomach. I hold my breath until my baby starts wiggling on the screen. The strong wlub-wlub-wlub of their heartbeat causes tears to well up. I begin to sob.

“I need Hunter,” I whisper through my tears. “Please.”

Dr. Whitney sighs and says, “Of course, Winter. First, you need more fluids. I’m also running IV antibiotics through your line because the last thing I need you fighting is an infection. So can we please restart your IV? That way we can give you what you need.”

“No pain meds,” I grind out. Even though the initial flush of the sedative has leveled out, I still don’t want more. The smiley nurse heads to my IV stand and lays a new butterfly needle kit next to my hip.

“No pain meds,” Dr. Whitney agrees as the nurse begins to wipe down the bend of my other elbow with an alcohol wipe.

Dr. Whitney looks at a few more of my vitals before patting my hand and striding toward the door.

“I have to check on our other patients. Veronica, thank you. You saved Rio’s life,” she says.

Veronica dips her chin but doesn’t say anything as Dr. Whitney leaves.

“Winter, if you pull some shit like that again, I will kill you myself, I promise,” Veronica says in that calm tone she uses when she’s really, really angry. She shifts from side to side, rocking her baby.

She even smiles at me before she leans down to kiss Summer. The baby snorts and then settles back into sleep.

“I had to save August,” I say.

Has someone thoroughly evaluated him after he was drugged? I can only imagine so, but what if they missed something? Is he okay? Is he safe? How will this impact him?

…will he be all right after having killed someone?

My heart rate starts to kick up again at my worry for him.

“First question, sis,” Veronica says. “Are we staying or are we going? Because I go where you go.” Summer begins to fuss, and she pulls her out of the sling, bouncing her as she looks at me. After a few moments, Veronica huffs and does some kind of magic that allows her to nurse her baby without pulling her breast out.

Not that I haven’t already seen Veronica fully naked on several occasions.

“What do you mean? I’m staying here,” I say.

Leaving Hunter isn’t even a question. Sure, I’m still mad at him. Really mad at him—and for so many things at this point.

But running away and leaving him behind to…what? No. Not an option.

“Winter,” Veronica says. When I take in her expression, I immediately want to glance away. Because she’s wearing the same tired, pitying look she wore the first time I told her I loved Hunter.

And that proved to be stupid because how much was he hiding?

“Winter, I mean this with love…but how much should we trust Hunter?”

I swallow, but my mouth is dry. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this man has only brought hurt and devastation to you. To us. So why are we still blindly following him?” Veronica’s voice is soft, but her delivery is strong.

“Hey! He’s not an idiot,” I say, heat flushing my cheeks.

“No, he’s just controlling to a fault. He locked you away. Twice! He got you knocked up and did so knowing that you were in a vulnerable state.”

“He isn’t—he didn’t manipulate me into getting pregnant. I was a willing participant in that.”

“Were you really, Winter?” She blinks at me.

“I—I,” I stammer. I’m going to throw up again. “I want my baby. I want this,” I reply.

Veronica’s face softens. “Of course you do, Winter. And I love them already. But he’s making life choices for all of us, and to be completely frank, I’m not related to him, nor am I fucking him, so…” Veronica shrugs to communicate the silent part of her rant: She’s not going to let Hunter Brigham get her or her daughter killed.

“What do you suggest then?” I say. A headache blooms behind my eyelids.

She switches Summer to her other breast, using the same skills to keep her breast covered.

“We need to go to the top. The scary Russian—”

“Ukrainian,” I correct.

“Ukrainian. We need to go to him to figure out what the fuck is going on. Then we need to bypass Hunter and decide the safest option for us.”

Her plan makes sense. It really does, but….

“Let me talk to him. He’s just amped up right now. I did just get shot, and his son was drugged and nearly abducted. I can get him to be a team player.”

I think.

Veronica stares at me in silence. After several long blinks that communicate many different messages, she speaks.

“You have one shot, and then I’m gonna do what I do. Because I love you so much, Winter, but I’ve got to look out for myself and Summer.”

She delivers the words with no heat. I don’t blame her because she’s right. She has to look after herself and her child.

And so do I.

“Right,” I mumble.

The IV pump whirrs as we sit without talking, so when the curtain slides back, I jump.

“All right, one Hunter Brigham comin’ right up,” Luna drawls, opening the fabric wide.

Hunter rounds the corner, taking slow steps into the room. He’s changed clothes since I last saw him, and he wears a plain T-shirt and jeans. It’s such a casual look that I want to cry all over again.

“Sunbeam.” The word makes my muscles unclench, and I fully collapse into the bed.

He looks normal, while I must look like a mess.

I feel like a mess.

Our last major conversation resulted in him locking me in the house again and me stonewalling him to punish him for his high-handed ways.

We were both wrong: Him for locking me away, me for ignoring him like a child.

Stonewalling. And you know that’s a death knell for relationships.

Hunter moves to the sink on the far wall, turning on the taps and lathering soap over his palms with a slow calm that I feel borders on shock.

I force myself to breathe in and out to the count of three.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

When I finish the last round, Hunter turns to me, drying his hands on a brown paper towel. He walks closer.

“They’re okay?” he says, his eyes never leaving mine but directing his question at Luna.

“Yes, Hunter. She’s doing quite well, all things considered. She just needs to rest and baby her wound,” Luna says. Pulling a granola bar from her pocket, she adds, “Like I told ya, Hunter. She’s fine.”

Hunter’s jaw ticks, and by the slight quiver of his eyebrow, I can tell he’s about to lose it.

“Great. Everyone out,” Hunter commands in a low voice.

“McScuse me?” Veronica says, and when I whip my head in her direction, her eyebrows are nearly to her hairline. “How about this: how about you explain what the fuck is going on.”

Hunter inhales and exhales slowly. “The less you know, the better,” he says. And that’s the exact wrong thing to say.

“Ha!” Veronica’s voice rises. “Yeah-no. I almost became a bloodstain on your oversized couch monstrosity, so you don’t have the right to tell me, ‘The less you know, the better.’” Veronica’s voice turns mocking as she mimics Hunter’s words.

“Lord above,” Luna mutters from where she reclines against one of the counters.

“Here’s what I know,” Veronica says, seething. “Hold my baby.” She startles me when she unceremoniously places Summer in my good arm.

“After I saved Rio from bleeding out and dying in your goddamn bomb shelter, I learned a few things from him. I learned that you, Hunter Brigham, are connected to some very deep, sinister shit.” Veronica begins to pace, placing her hands on her hips as she circles around the room.

“I also know that you and your best friend Rico Suave have done the idiotic thing of creating a technology you have no control over. Do you even know what’s in your product?” For her last statement, she stops to face Hunter as she interrogates him.

I frown as I track Veronica’s words. Hunter has told me very little about his work.

And is that normal, Winter?

“Me? Personally?” Hunter replies.

“Yes, you! Personally!” she yells. Summer grunts, and I bounce her while I gently shush her, my eyes never leaving the scene in front of me.

“I—” he begins, but when Veronica gives him a withering look, he says, “We have people for that.”

“Mmhmm. And where are those ‘people?’” She makes air quotes, and I don’t think I’ve seen a more sarcastic gesture from a person.

Hunter grumbles in response.

“That’s what I thought. So you’ve basically created the perfect conditions for The Terminator Part Seven, and yet you have no real plan to keep it under control.”

“We had a billion-dollar security system—” Hunter begins.

“I. Don’t. Give. A. Flying. Fuck what you had, Hunter Brigham. The fact is today, right now, in this year of our lord and savior Betty White, you have fucked up.”

She points her finger at me. “And you have the nerve and unmitigated gall to pull my sweet, naive sister into your bullshit.”

“Rons…” I say, suddenly very, very tired. “Quit it.”

“Abso-fuckin-lutely not! This man wine, dined, sixty-nined you and got you knocked up and got you out here getting shot at—not just shot at, actually shot!”

Veronica yells outright, so when Luna interrupts, I’m grateful. “Well, y’all are a dramatic bunch. Veronica, come check on your charge with me. I hear that Rio really wants to see you.”

There’s a hint of amusement in Luna’s voice, and I’m too tired to keep up with the rest of their conversation.

Leaning over to get Summer from me, Veronica takes the opportunity to kiss my hairline.

She keeps her face close to mine as she says, “When you want to talk about all of this, come find me. I love you.”

I murmur, “Okay.”

When Luna and Veronica leave the room, Hunter and I are silent for a long moment. The sound of the IV delivering another bolus of fluids is loud as he stares at me.

His eyes shift as they travel across my face and down my body, but when his gaze lands on my stomach, he closes his eyes and swallows hard.

I can’t stand it.

“Hunter, I—”

Hunter moves so quickly that I almost get confused at the suddenness of it. He sits on the bed, leaning over to rest his head on my stomach.

Then he shudders, and a choked, strangled sound erupts from him.

“H,” I rasp. “I’m…” There are so many words I want to say. I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re alive. I’m still fucking mad at you.

The latter one feels trivial in the grand scheme of things, though.

“I’m glad you and Bean are okay, Winter.” He rubs his face against my stomach. “I’m so fucking glad.” He sighs, the sound ragged against my ears. I bring my free hand to his hair, running my fingers through it.

“Bean?” I question with a half-smile.

He shrugs and lets out a slight laugh. “It felt appropriate to give them a name. At least, until we give them one that’ll stick.”

He lifts my top—a hospital gown, which is alarming because who changed my clothes—and places a gentle kiss against the flesh over my rib.

“H, is it all over?” I whisper the question, not adding the rest of it. The rest of it being that August shot Blair in the face, or that Marcus Law is in on things, or that our house may very well be in ashes.

He sits up and grabs my hand. And doesn’t answer my question.

“What happened while you were gone?” I sigh as he rubs the back of my hand with his thumb.

“You first, Sunbeam. Tell me how everything went down.”

I blow out a breath and close my eyes to recount last night’s events.

“Ella, August, Veronica, the baby, and I were watching a movie in the media room when August left to get more food. When he was gone for too long, I went to find him. That’s when I ran across a body in the hallway.”

Nausea wells in my throat as I recall the blown bits of brain matter on the floor and walls. Sensing my distress, Hunter lies next to me, pulling me in so that I rest on my good shoulder as he presses his front to my back.

“It was Rex. I can only imagine he was with August when he was taken.” I look down at my trembling fingers. I didn’t know Rex very well; not like I knew Rio. Or, I guess, I thought I knew Rio. “August must have been so scared.”

Hunter breathes in and out, but his arm tightens around me a fraction.

“I overheard two men talking and I recognized one of them as Rodrigo, the guard from when I first interviewed with you. Do you remember him?”

His response is immediate and dark, “Of course I remember him.”

“Right,” I say. “I used the tunnels to get back to the media room and grab everyone.”

Hunter’s arm flexes across my chest, and he presses his mouth to the back of my head. When he inhales sharply, I close my eyes and try to ground myself in the now.

“What else happened, Sunbeam?” he murmurs into my hair.

“Once I got everyone into the bunker, Rio came. He was shot and…” My head starts to hurt.

“He said that he’s been spying on us. But that he’s part of something called The Resistance.”

Hunter hums.

“So you know about The Resistance?” I ask. I try to turn my head to look at him more fully, but Hunter presses into me with a firm hold. My shoulder starts to protest the movement.

He hums; the sound is an affirmative.

I raise my eyebrow at that.

“Well, after Rio came in and I decided he wasn’t a threat, I left everyone else in the safe room to find August. Along the way, I came across a few bad guys. I-I shot two people. I think I killed them both.”

I know I killed Rodrigo. And the other guy is probably dead too.

“Jared!” I shout with a gasp.

“Was he a traitor too?”

“No! No, he helped me. He gave me a better gun, but he was in bad shape. Is he…?” I cover my mouth and shift to look at Hunter. The expression he gives me is troubled.

“I don’t know, baby. I wish I did.”

I close my eyes and swallow as tears fall.

“I found August, and Marcus-fucking-Law was there.”

“Marcus Law? Your neighbor?” He rasps, incredulous.

“Yes, one and the same. He killed Carlos, the bastard, and was standing over August. I thought he was going to kill August, so I was ready to shoot him from my hiding spot, but then he just…walked away.”

“Huh,” Hunter says in a thoughtful tone.

“August?” I murmur. Hunter flinches. “You haven’t checked on August? Is he okay?” I force him to release me from his hold.

“He’s…” Hunter begins, and I scoot up the bed, ready to haul myself around the complex to find him.

“Wait, Sunbeam. August is safe. I need to make sure you’re okay,” he says.

“He was drugged, H!”

“And you were shot,” he explodes. His nostrils flare as he inhales sharply, and I rear back into the pillows.

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing, Winter!” He jumps up from the bed, walking to the other side of the room before stopping with his back to me and his hands on his hips. His head hangs low.

He turns.

“It’s not a competition on whose life I value more—yours or August’s. You both are immeasurably important to me. So I cannot stand the thought of anything happening to either of you.” He breathes in deeply, holding in the air before exhaling in a great bellow.

“Why did you leave the safe room?” His words are low, and he doesn’t look at me as he delivers them.

I blink at the question.

“Why?” I ask again. “How could I not?”

More silence, and then he hums.

“What you mean to say is, ‘Thank you, Winter.’” His eyes lock on mine, and I lift my chin in defiance.

“Thank you?” he whispers.

“Yes, thank you. Because I saved the day once again. I took the bullet for everyone again—the literal bullet this time—and I prevented even more horrible things from happening to August. So I think the words you’re looking for are, ‘Thank you.’”

Hunter stares at me so hard I feel the physical weight of it.

“I was on the way. You should have waited.” He walks closer to me.

“Excuse me? First, how the fuck was I supposed to know that you were coming back? You were gone for hours in the first place! Was I supposed to let them go and dissect August like a fucking laboratory frog in an eighth-grade science class?”

“Winter,” he growls.

“No, don’t ‘Winter’ me!” I unleash torrents of rage on him. The wounds we face are too fresh, too close to the surface for us not to explode.

“What part of I can’t lose you don’t you understand!” He whips around, and I suck in a startled breath when he throws the metal instrument tray into the wall.

It falls to the ground with a frightening crash. Kitty barks, finally reaching his limit. Growling at Hunter, he bares his teeth as he moves into a protective position in my lap.

“Fucking goddamn it, Winter,” Hunter says. He sounds so, so tired. “I can’t lose you. I won’t lose you. If you’re not here, I might as well not be.”

A tear balances on his lower lashes, and he sniffs and looks away, preventing it from dropping.

“Don’t say shit like that, Hunter Brigham. Your life shouldn’t be tied to anyone else’s, not even mine.”

He straightens, folding his arms over his chest. Blocking me physically as much as he is emotionally.

We’re silent, breathing together.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sunbeam,” is his reply.

“Okay,” is all I can say in response.

He jerks his head down—a sharp nod.

We are both lost in our thoughts for a long moment before I say, “Will you help me up to find August? I really…I really need to see him, H.”

He nods. “Yes, I will help you. But first, you need to rest for a little bit.” He looks at his watch, and I notice with dismay that a smear of blood mars the face of it. “It’s almost five a.m.”

“Okay, H. You look exhausted,” I reply. I want to lift my arm to caress his face, but the wound on my shoulder prevents me from doing so.

Just a flesh wound, my ass.

“H,” I say. “Come rest with me.” I run my fingers over my stomach. “With us.”

He stares at me as I let my peace offering hang in the air. When he steps closer and leans over me, I’m sure he will settle into the bed.

I’m sure he’ll call a truce.

But instead, he presses his lips to my forehead in a crushing kiss.

“Sleep, Sunbeam,” he says.

Instead, I cry once he walks out the door.

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Oathbreaker. I hope you loved it and can’t wait for the next book. If you did love it, please leave a review wherever you purchased your book from. Want to really make this indie author’s heart soar? A Goodreads or BookBub review from you would make my entire life.

Hunter and Winter’s story concludes on September 24, 2024 with Reverie. If you need more Hunter and Winter to tide you over, hop over to my website and join my mailing list to receive an exclusive bonus scene!

https://www.angelmshaw.com/oathbreaker-optin

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Oathbreaker could not exist without the tireless support of my editor, Wendee Mullikin. Wendee, you’re the peanut butter to my jelly–the ham to my sandwich. I’m so, so, so appreciative of you and how you’ve held space for me through this journey.

To my writer friends in the Author Ever After community, thank you. Thank you for being there, for co-working with me at strange hours, and for listening to me come to my own conclusions when my anxiety-addled brain tells me that the sky is falling. Love y’all.

To my author and mentor, Danika Bloom: Thank you for being you. You are brilliant in seeing my brilliance and reflecting it back to me…even when I’m convinced it isn’t there. You are a blessing in my life.

Many thanks and much gratitude go to my beta readers, Melissa, Lauren, Amanda, Crys, and Tami. Y’all are the best cheerleaders anyone could ever ask for.

Finally, to Mr. S, my husband and my ever after. Thank you for letting me hold you hostage in my office while I pelted you with question after question. You’re my biggest cheerleader. I love you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angel M. Shaw (she/they) is the author of dark contemporary romantic suspense novels with lots of heat and heart. A New Orleanian by birth, she lives in Texas with her three children and spouse, where she spends as much time outside as she can, eats lots of crawfish, and people watches to find inspiration for her next novel. You can follow Angel on Instagram, TikTok, or YouTube or visit her website at www.angelmshaw.com for more information.

Find Angel’s social media links and email address here: http://social.angelmshaw.com.

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