REVERIE

A DARK BILLIONAIRE ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

DEVILS IN D.C. SAGA

BOOK 3

ANGEL M. SHAW

CONTENTS

Content Acknowledgement

Prologue

1.  Winter

2.  Hunter

3.  Hunter

4.  Winter

5.  Hunter

6.  Winter

7.  Hunter

8.  Winter

9.  Hunter

10.  Hunter

11.  Winter

12.  Hunter

13.  Winter

14.  Hunter

15.  Winter

16.  Winter

17.  Hunter

18.  Hunter

19.  Winter

20.  Hunter

21.  Winter

22.  Winter

23.  Hunter

24.  Winter

25.  Hunter

26.  Winter

27.  Hunter

28.  Winter

Epilogue

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: 979-8-9899843-5-0

eBook ISBN: 979-8-9899843-4-3

Reverie: A Dark Billionaire Romantic Suspense

- Books > Romance > Romantic Suspense

- Books > Romance > Contemporary

- Books > Romance > Multicultural

- Kindle Books > Romance > Multicultural & Interracial

- Kindle Books > Romance > Romantic Suspense > 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: depositphotos.com

First edition 2024.

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

- Avengers ® Marvel Characters, Inc.

- Band-Aid ® Johnson & Johnson

- Cheez-Itz ® Kellogg North America Company

- Cliffs Notes ® Course Hero, Inc.

- Eggos ® Kellogg North America Company

- Folgers ® The Folger Coffee Company

- Hallmark ® Hallmark Cards, Incorporated

- iPad ® Apple Inc.

- Kleenex ® Kimberly-Clark Corporation

- Legally Blonde ® Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc.

- Listerine ® Johnson & Johnson

- Mean Girls ® Paramount Pictures Corporation

- Moleskine ® D’leteren Group

- Montblanc ® Compagnie Financière Richemont S.A.

- Oreo ® Intercontinental Great Brands LLC

- Saran Wrap ® S. C. Johnson & Son

- Sugar Babies ® Tootsie Roll Industries, LLC

CONTENT ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

My books are intended to be read by adults and feature 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 potential triggers you’ll encounter in Reverie, 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.

For the 1 in 10. Your stories matter too.

PROLOGUE

Bloody sand coats my tongue as I crawl on the shore of Isla Cara.

The air smells thick and earthy as the storm approaches the island, and soon the winds and rain will wash away more of the sand and snap the palm trees like twigs.

It’s monsoon season, and a crack of lightning arcs across the night sky.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Thunder.

“You know why I had to do this. Right, Hunter?” Father sounds as if he’s sorry—remorseful.

I turn my head away from the ocean to stare at his bare feet. As he stands above me, his fists drip with blood.

My blood.

I try not to flinch when he crouches next to me.

“Hunter, you know it’s my responsibility to keep this family safe. To keep the Brigham name safe.”

I open my mouth to speak—to say what he wants me to say, which is that I understand—but a painful hacking cough is all that comes out.

Father curls his upper lip, disgust clear on his face.

He pulls a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his linen outfit, wiping his hands with slow precision.

“I don’t—” I start to speak, but the sharp ache in my ribs when I try to inhale and exhale stops me.

“I don’t know anything,” I spill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I try to make him believe me. I call on everything he’s taught me about how to deceive: How to look like you’re telling the truth, even when you’re not.

But he’s the master at that game, just as he’s the master of everything.

Father sighs, and his face morphs. The mask falls.

“Get up.” He doesn’t need to yell. Menace is plain in his voice. I press my fingers into the sand, willing my body to rise. Father stands with a strong lunge, pulling me up with his broad hand anchored under my armpit.

I bite my lip to prevent a scream. More blood floods across my tongue.

He drags me across the sand and over to the stone steps that lead to the raised veranda. Yesterday, Father hosted a party with more than a dozen of his friends. Dignitaries, politicians, Hollywood movie stars.

Today, the space is empty—dead in the aftermath of all that happened on the marble floors.

I wish I could shake out the memories.

When we reach the landing, Father drops me to the floor, and I prevent my skull from cracking on the pavement at the last minute. I resist the urge to curl into a ball.

Father continues to walk away, heading toward the long bar at the center of the space.

Usually, Johan and a few other butlers would move around to serve the guests. The bar seats at least fifty people along the oval counter.

But now, Johan is dead.

Dead.

Dead because of me and my sin of the summer.

Father swipes his scotch from the bar. He takes a long sip, draining the glass, before he turns back to me.

Leaning against the counter, he crosses his ankles and arms in a casual pose.

Another bolt of lightning cracks across the sky.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Thunder.

“Let’s start over, Hunter,” Father says in a rush. He jerks his body straight and rubs his hand across his jaw as if in deep thought. “Perhaps I was a little…hasty in my discipline.”

My entire body pulses.

“I’m sure you’re scared, having to hold such a big secret.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have any secrets,” I whisper. The lack of strength in my delivery should be from the waning energy in my body. Instead, it’s from the force of my lie.

Father continues as if I didn’t say anything. “Let’s try this again.”

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and takes three seconds to light one.

I coil tight. After he inhales the tobacco smoke and exhales in a haze, he begins to speak.

“Tell me what your mother has planned.”

I stare at him, ashamed that tears spring into my eyes. Mom trusts me. She needs me.

I force myself to lock my gaze on my father, but I don’t allow myself to see him. I see through him—to the past.

To all the people he’s hurt and killed.

The thick tropical air seems to vibrate, swirling around me.

There are so many people he’s made me hurt.

There are so many things he made me do.

I want it all to stop.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

When I’m silent for too long, Father sighs again and shakes his head.

“All right. Have it your way, Hunter.” Rolling his eyes, he reaches over the bar and pulls out the cordless phone. After a few taps, he brings the phone to his ear.

“Do it,” is his only command.

As he disconnects the call, there’s another strike of lightning.

One. Two. Three.

The breeze kicks up.

Get up. Don’t die on your knees, Hunter.

Johan’s face before I put a bullet in his brain flashes before me.

I pull myself to a sitting position. As I do, Father saunters over to me.

“Need a hand?” he asks, reaching out to me.

I don’t dare take it.

Another sigh. “Don’t be so damn stubborn, Hunter.”

With one hand holding his cigarette, he pulls me to my feet. The world spins for a few seconds before stabilizing. He directs my movements, leading me to the long-cushioned sofa that lines a significant portion of the veranda. It’s often moved around the space depending on the needs of the crowd. Now, it arcs in front of the stage where the artists who come to the island perform.

He drops me onto a pillow without care.

Taking in another draw, he says, “You know, son.” He speaks while holding in the cigarette smoke. A beat later, he exhales. “You’ve brought this all on yourself, you know.” He flicks the end of the cig.

“You are so damn much like me.” He smirks.

What a terrible thought.

The door to the patio slides open, and Father prevents my view of the people who enter.

“Let’s see if this jogs your memory.”

Father steps aside, and icy panic rushes down my face.

Mom.

Amelia Brigham never comes to Isla Cara. But now she’s here—her mouth covered with tape and her arms and legs bound as three of Father’s guards drag her along the tile before they drop her onto the stage.

Everything goes silent—the wind stops, the ocean and the air seem to hold their breaths.

“Father, I-I—” I stammer.

“I-I,” he mocks. Walking to Mom, he presses the burning cigarette over her right eye socket.

Her screams cause all sound to resume—the crashing waves, the violent breeze whipping through the trees as the storm presses on, the thump-thump-thump of my heartbeat between my ears.

Even though the thick tape covers her mouth and muffles the sound, it’s as loud as though she were yelling into a microphone.

“S-stop!” I lean forward, engaging all my muscles to stand and rush to Mom. Once I’m upright, Father removes the butt from her face…only to whirl around and backhand me so hard I fall back into the sofa cushions.

Spinning. Spinning. Everything tilts.

He tsks.

“Hunter,” he says with a tone bordering on caring.

“Hunter, it’s simple. We can bypass all this drama. All you have to do is tell me.” Father holds his hands out to his side, a single rivulet of smoke wafting from the almost spent cigarette.

I don’t grab my cheek. Instead, I look at him over my shoulder for a hard moment. Likely seeing the resolve I channel into my expression, he flicks the ash one more time, takes a long draw, and exhales as he crushes the cigarette beneath his foot.

“Okay,” Father says, much in the same way one might say, “As you wish.”

I painfully flip around so that I face him. One of the guards observing the scene moves from his spot across the veranda and enters the server area. He crouches to search for something and returns a few moments later to stand next to Father with a gallon glass jug in one hand and a pair of rubber gloves in the other.

Father moves to Mom, tearing the tape off her mouth.

Once freed to speak, Mom grits her teeth and says, “Let him go, Benjamin.” Each word is a pointed stab aimed at tearing at my father.

He smiles at the assault.

“And why would I do that, Amelia?”

Father bends over so their faces are level. Mom chooses to say nothing.

She stares hard at him, but in contrast to the steel in her spine, her chin trembles.

Still, she says nothing.

I clamp my lips shut. Neither will I.

“Amelia…” Father whispers. “So beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

Mom looks at him hard, giving him a hostile gaze. “And you, Benjamin, are death in the flesh. Evil. Pure evil. I pray for the day you rot in Hell.”

Father continues to look at her with a gentle, soft gaze. Then he says, “And to think I actually loved you.”

He runs his finger down her cheek, then leans down to kiss her lips.

Mom fights the caress. When he removes his mouth from hers, she pauses for a moment before spitting in his face.

With her chest heaving, she says, “I’d rather die than spend another moment with you.”

A muscle ticks in Father’s cheek.

She continues, “But Hunter had nothing to do with this. He knows nothing. Don’t hurt him anymore. Let him go.” Her voice shakes on the last sentence, and for the first time since they dragged her from the house, she looks at me.

Even though she tries to suppress it, my mom’s face radiates what it’s always shown whenever she looks at me.

Strength.

Care.

Love.

“Hmm,” Father says.

Mom’s gaze flicks toward him before she looks back at me. In the shift, I read her silent message.

It’s okay.

Her eyes move to the bottle in the guard’s hands.

No matter what they do to me, it’s okay. She says this all in that silent way we’ve always been able to speak.

I’m helpless against the shaking that starts in my hands, traveling up my forearms.

“Hunter’s freedom depends on him. He knows how to stop all this,” Father says to my mom as if correcting an errant child.

He turns to me. “One last chance, Hunter. Tell me the plan.”

No. Because I’d rather die than betray my mom. I can be strong. I can be strong enough to do this.

I grit my teeth and do something I’ve never done when it comes to my father.

I say, “No.”

The word falls heavy between us. The slight movement of my mom’s head causes me to look at her again. There’s a soft smile on her face, and for the first time, I don’t really know what it means.

The guard hands the gloves to my father.

“Suit yourself, Hunter,” Father says as he pulls on one glove and then the other.

The guard hands the bottle to Father, and he unstoppers it.

“Think about it while she dies.”

Father tips the alcohol over Mom’s bare shoulder. She sputters, but it only takes a second before her skin begins to turn red and bubble.

She screams, and the sound stabs my brain.

I watch in horror as her skin bursts, leaks—eaten away by whatever Father just poured on her.

Not alcohol. Acid.

She tries to flail away, run away, but with her bound hands and feet, all she can do is endure the pain.

Her screams turn to sobs, and I rush over to her, falling over myself as I try to save her. The sharp, foreign scent of her skin crumbling away assaults me.

Mom screeches, “Don’t!” and I stop dead in my tracks.

What do I do? What do I do?

I want to vomit. I want to sob.

What do I do?

“Hunter. Tell me what I want to know!” Father bellows.

I look back at my mom, and even though her face is gray with agony, her mouth makes two shapes.

O. K.

I shake my head.

“No!” I yell.

Father growls, then before I can react, he tips the jug over Mom’s head. She flinches at the last second, but it still lands on the right side of her face.

More screams.

What do I do?

Her skin melts, melts, melts like wax. I take another big step toward her.

“No, Hunter! No! No!” She shakes her head, rubbing the side of her face on her shoulder on instinct. She writhes and, at the same time, deflects my advances.

“What do I do?” My voice cracks, and I grab my hair, completely helpless to the tears that spring out of my eyes, the sobbing that wracks my body.

I’m breaking. I’m breaking.

“Tell! Me!” Father roars.

He comes closer, but my gaze turns to Mom when she begins to shake in violent tremors.

When Father raises the jug, ready to pour the acid on my body, I fall to the ground, covering my head.

Father lets out a dark chuckle, pulling on my arm to expose more of my skin. “You’re a pussy, Hunter. A weak mama’s boy.”

Two guards grab me, and my scream rents the air. They spread my arms wide, exposing my whole body right as Mom shouts in a foreign-sounding tone. “It’s,” she draws in a sucking breath, “ok-ay.”

I turn my head to look at her. As soon as our eyes meet, she blinks hard. The remaining part of her mouth twitches. A flicker.

Then she loses consciousness.

“I’ll give you one last chance, Hunter.” Father, in his angry aggression, holds the jug high, ready to pour the contents on me. “I don’t want to kill you, son. But I will. I so fucking will.”

It’s okay, Mom said.

“It’s okay,” whispers in my mind.

“I’m sorry,” is what I want to say, but she won’t hear it.

So with one final look at my father’s enraged face, I open my mouth and choke out the words.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

ONE

WINTER

“Hunter, we have so much to talk about,” the woman says.

She’s backlit from where she stands on the landing with the door behind her. The darkness shadows her features, but I can make out enough to tell she’s tall, willowy, with long black hair.

How does she know Hunter?

At once, the people milling around Misha’s compound spur into action, everyone deciding that whatever they need to do is more important than watching the drama unfolding outside the entryway.

“Hunter?” I whisper, staring at the woman. When he doesn’t say anything, I turn to face him. He’s pale—his skin taking on the color of death. A fine sheen of sweat covers his face as he stares slack-jawed at the woman on the landing.

“Hunter?” I repeat.

“I saw you die,” he says under his breath. It’s so low that I can only hear it because I’m standing next to him.

“Hunter? What’s—”

“They threw sulfuric acid on you. They dumped your body in the Caribbean,” he continues, unblinking, his voice rising in volume with every word.

I shake my head in confusion, and the laceration on my shoulder aches at the movement.

“I know, Hunter. I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”

I snap my head up at the words to stare at the woman. She takes slow, measured steps toward where we stand in the driveway—away from the light spilling from the open front door. When she’s a few paces from us, the spotlights and the full moon cause her features to come into view.

I try not to flinch as I take her in. Her chin is taut as if she’s trying not to cry, but the right side of her face droops as if she had a stroke or as if something severed the muscles beneath her scarred skin. In place of her right eye, she has a prosthetic. It shines silver-white behind the obviously surgically reconstructed lid.

Misha speaks up. “Hunter, perhaps you and your mother—”

Mother?

Hunter bends over at the waist with his hands on his thighs, breathing deeply and staring at the gravel. He shifts his weight from side to side, a nearly imperceptible movement, and the rocks crunch beneath his boots.

I try to make sense of the scene, piecing together the fragmented parts of this story playing out in front of me…but this is too much. This is too fucking much.

This is his….

Feeling edgy and uneasy, I watch as Hunter spirals. I try to hold on to myself so I don’t follow him down the same mental path.

I reach out a hand to touch his back, to give him some comfort and peace, but he jerks up before my palm makes contact.

“What the actual fuck?” Hunter directs the sharp words at the pakhan as he turns away from the ghost.

Mother. This woman is…his mother. Amelia Brigham.

My heart hurts for him with every contraction.

“Why don’t we all go inside,” Misha says.

“Great idea,” I chime in. Hunter looks over his shoulder at me, and I try to give a wobbly smile despite the sickness swirling in my belly and the dull throbbing streaking from my wound.

“Sunbeam?” he questions, concern creasing his eyebrows.

Misha claps a hand on Hunter’s shoulder and begins to direct him toward the open doors of the mansion as if he were a child. Hunter shakes off his embrace.

“Don’t fucking touch me, Hroshko.” Hunter’s voice is so low that the menace in it is unmistakable. Misha smirks and the sight of it must tip Hunter over the edge.

“Or what, Brigham?” Misha’s eyes reflect ice and venom in return.

I blink and open my eyes to see Hunter pressing the edge of a switchblade against Misha’s jugular.

“Is this how you want us to work together?” Misha’s words are slow, and he raises his hands up as if surrendering.

Taking in the impossible scene, I snap my mouth shut and take a step forward.

“Hunter!” I place my hand on the arm holding the knife, pleading with him to release the mafiya leader from his hold. “What the fuck are you doing, H? Let him go!” I rasp.

Hunter’s jaw ticks with tension. “Don’t fuck with me,” he says with malice.

Hunter holds Misha’s gaze. The words are low enough that they’re just for the pakhan, and I barely suppress my whimper when a bead of blood trails from a small nick in Misha’s skin.

“Hunter, please!” I glance toward Amelia, who I now notice sports several guns strapped to her person. But despite the badassery she displays with her uniform, the way she clutches her hands over her mouth as if holding in a scream gives me pause.

Hunter’s mother—a woman who was gravely injured at some point in the past—is torn up at seeing her son again.

Did she plan this?

Did she know?

How the hell did she survive an acid attack?

I shiver at the thought.

“What are you going to do, Brigham?” Misha’s voice mocks Hunter’s silent aggression.

Hunter opens his mouth to say something, but he freezes at the unmistakable sound of a racked gun chamber.

Luna stands with a pistol pressed to Hunter’s temple.

“Moya lyubov, Hunter here is just having a moment. He’ll step back in a second and put his weapon away.”

I pull on Hunter’s arm again, hoping to force him to pull the knife away from Misha’s neck. Hunter growls when Misha smiles, and I prepare myself to jump on his back and tussle him to the ground if he doesn’t get it together.

“He fuckin’ better,” Luna drawls, her grip steady on her Glock. “Y’all might be family, but I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in his brain.”

The words clang between my ears, but the significance of them doesn’t land until Misha’s humored expression turns…worried. He grimaces.

Wait. What?

“What do you mean by family?” Hunter drops the knife to his side and turns to face Luna, which puts the barrel of her gun between his eyes. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Luna swears and pulls her weapon back, reholstering it while she bites her lip.

“Y’all had all this time to talk and you didn’t tell him, Misha?”

Misha inhales. “Blyad,” he mutters under his breath.

“We wanted to ease you into this, Hunter. You’ve had such a terrible evening,” Amelia says, and Hunter just stares.

And stares.

And trembles.

Hunter takes several steps back until he’s close enough for me to grab his hand, and I pry the knife from his clenched fingers and secure the blade. He doesn’t acknowledge my movements.

Amelia moves back into my line of vision, and the stress of this situation causes my brain to buzz.

“Hunter, there’s a lot we need to talk about,” his mother chimes in. “Can we talk?”

“Talk about what?” Hunter stares at Luna as he speaks, ignoring his mom.

Luna taps her foot and runs her hands through her dirty blonde hair. When she flips it, she looks like a fair version of Lara Croft—only short and mixed.

I turn back to Misha. Then I see it.

His hair is several shades lighter than Hunter’s. There are wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes, showing the differences in their ages. But that’s it: His eyes.

Side-by-side, his eyes are identical to Amelia Brigham’s…just like Hunter’s and Ella’s.

“What the actual fuck…” Hunter mutters, taking one step and then another away from the group. Amelia, who stands near Misha dressed in all black and with tactical gear strapped to her body, looks like a female version of the Ukrainian to her left.

What the actual holy hell is happening right now?

“Hunter,” I say, but I don’t complete the sentence. I don’t know what the fuck to say.

This is all going to shit. Fast.

The crush of a new set of tires on the gravel signals Leo’s arrival.

At the sound, Hunter’s gaze returns to Misha, and I watch as he takes in all of him.

I do the same, and with Hunter’s mother standing next to the Ukrainian, it’s easy to see the resemblance.

A muscle in Hunter’s jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth.

Leo exits the passenger side of the blacked-out Suburban almost before the driver has the vehicle in park. He looks ragged—his usually perfect hair falls in messy hanks over his brows and his shirt is untucked from his slacks.

Hunter keeps his eyes fixed on Misha as he says, “Is my sister with you?”

Leo pauses, looking at Hunter, and I notice his eyes are bloodshot. “H, what—”

“Is. My. Sister. With. You?” he grits out.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Get her out of here. And don’t let her see the bitch over there.”

I whip my head toward Hunter’s mother at the sound of her gasp. Pity washes over me when I see the tears on her cheeks.

I turn back to Leo, who stares slack-jawed at the older woman.

“H, is that your—”

“Yes,” Hunter snaps. “Get Ella out of here. She doesn’t need to see this.”

“I don’t think…” Leo stops at Hunter’s deadly stare, choosing to take a step back toward the vehicle.

“What the fuck is happening out here!” I would laugh at the perfect timing the Universe gifts us when Ella hops out of the SUV. She takes in the scene before her, her eyebrows slamming down with her severe frown.

“Leo?” she asks, turning toward Hunter’s best friend.

Leo snaps his question-heavy gaze toward Hunter. When he doesn’t answer Ella, she huffs and turns to Hunter.

“Hunter?” Exasperation is clear in her voice and after several silent seconds, she turns to take in the entire group.

Amelia doesn’t move, facing Hunter. Letting him control this moment.

“Um, Mr…?” Ella’s words are cautious as she looks at Misha and the shorter woman to his side. Ella folds her arms over her chest, and she looks so, so lost. The image of her shocked movements in the safe room flashes in my brain.

A deep quaking starts in my chest.

Luna and Misha share a look, and Misha cracks his neck from side to side.

“Fuck it,” he grinds out.

“You better not, Hroshko,” Hunter says.

“Ella, this is your mother,” Misha says, pointing at Amelia.

Ella blinks, scoffing as if Misha made a joke. “What are you talking about?”

Misha rolls his eyes. “Keep up. This woman is your mother, Amelia. Also, I’m your half-brother. It’s a long story that we don’t have time for, so your assistance in getting everyone inside is much appreciated.”

Ella shakes her head, and she turns to Hunter.

“What the hell is he talking about?” she whispers, her voice choked. With agonizing slowness, she turns to face her mother. She takes in the woman in front of her for several long heartbeats and then whirls back to Hunter with sharp movements.

“Is this true, Hunter?” Tears start to crest her lower lids. “Don’t lie to me.”

I watch in slow motion as Ella tries to comprehend the incomprehensible.

“Ella, go inside,” Hunter presses. He’s agitated, and I sense that he’s desperate to keep her separated from this fuckery.

My arm throbs along with my head.

“Our mother is dead,” Ella says. Her words are heavy as she lowers her eyes to stare at the gravel beneath Hunter’s feet.

Hunter doesn’t respond to Ella’s statement.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifts her head, and her face is dry. A prevailing emotion shines from her eyes: Hope.

She turns to Amelia. “You’re…alive.”

Amelia sucks in oxygen as if she’d been holding her breath since she “died.” She takes one step and then another until he’s close to Ella.

She turns her body away from Ella, hiding her scarred side from her daughter’s focus.

“M-mom?” Ella says. Wide-eyed, Ella raises a trembling hand to Amelia’s matching black hair.

But when Amelia’s face cracks and she touches Ella’s cheek, I watch as Ella starts to break.

“Ellie girl,” Amelia whispers. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

Ella shudders and collapses into her mother’s arms, and Amelia’s whole body shakes as she grasps Ella in a fierce hug.

Returning my gaze to Hunter, I jump into action when I see that he looks moments away from either vomiting all over the ground or passing out.

Or both.

I press my body into his side, smashing my breasts into his upper arm and banding my good arm around his stomach. Still, my injury pulses again in protest.

“Hunter, I’m hurt. Can you help me?” I close my eyes and bring my mouth close to his ear, hoping to drown out all his other thoughts and bring him back to me.

“Hunter.” I kiss his shoulder, tightening my hold. “Please, baby.”

Hunter’s chest expands as he drinks the air, and I turn his face toward mine.

Please. Please, please, please.

I just need tonight to be over. I need things to stop whirling out of control.

“I need to get bandaged up. I probably even need stitches.” I run my hand up his chest as I shift to stand in front of him. I keep my body pressed to his.

I swallow as I focus on the thoughts I’ve kept out of my consciousness for the last few hours.

“We need to check on the baby,” I murmur.

It takes him several moments to focus on my face. When he does, he grimaces.

“Of course, Sunbeam. I’m sorry.” In a flash, he places his hand behind my head, pressing my ear to his chest. His heartbeat is rapid, thudding so hard I feel it racing against my cheek as much as I hear it doing so. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats.

“It’s okay,” I choke out. The pain of my gunshot wound and all the shit that’s happened over the last few hours hits me as if I’d run into a brick wall. The world starts to tilt, so I close my eyes against the dizziness and lean into Hunter.

I so need to sit the fuck down.

And check on the baby…if the baby is even still alive.

A wave of panic washes over me and I clutch at Hunter’s shirt.

Calm down. Calm down, calm down, calm down—

“I-I’ll bring you.”

My eyes snap open when Hunter’s mother’s voice startles me out of my spiral. Amelia and Ella stand next to each other, Ella clinging to her mother with her head on her shoulder. Amelia looks happy. So when Hunter grips the back of my shirt and growls, I watch her face fall.

“Not you,” he snaps, shifting us so he can look at her over his shoulder. The movement causes her to come back into my line of sight in enough time to see her head tick back a fraction as if he’d smacked her.

He faces Luna.

“You. Take us to medical help,” he commands in a voice I’ve never heard him use before.

I stare at his profile, taking in all his emotions as his face morphs from shock to fury to resolute coolness.

Hunter is…not himself.

Who is he? What are we dealing with here?

I suck in a breath, and Hunter looks down at me sharply. I give him a smile, but I feel my cheek muscles spasming, my grin warbling.

His frown deepens and I can’t stand the sight, so I look away from him and toward the rest of the crew around us.

Luna pauses for a moment with narrowed eyes. When she purses her lips and then smacks them, I feel a nugget of gratitude when she says to Hunter, “I’ll ignore the fact that you’re bossing me around in my own house.”

Thank God.

She walks up to us and pauses.

“For now,” she adds. She walks past us and into the building.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I will keep it together. I will keep it together, together, to—

Pulling on my good arm, Hunter startles me out of my anxiety attack, but I feel it there, right there.

Keep it together.

We follow after the short blonde when Misha speaks up behind us.

“I told you that everything you know is a lie.”

Lies. Lies, lies, all lies.

The air thickens and spins around me. My hand flexes where I grip Hunter’s bloody shirt.

A muscle in Hunter’s face spasms before he says, “Obviously. But tell me why I should expect you to tell the truth?”

He doesn’t wait for Misha to answer.

TWO

HUNTER

Ifollow Luna in a daze, but part of me feels it’s important to be hypervigilant to my surroundings.

Everything you know is a lie.

Well, fuck if that isn’t the truth.

We continue walking and move past a dining area. There’s a buffet set up with various dishes on display, and it’s the most bizarre sight in the context of what we’ve just gone through in the six hours since Leo and I departed Amelia Manor for the first time.

It’s as if Martha Stewart decided to show up and play hostess for our gaggle of vigilantes.

I return my focus to Winter and try not to break down at the reality that I almost lost her tonight.

Again. I almost lost her again. When am I going to be enough to keep her safe?

Control. Control yourself, Hunter.

Her hand moves up and down on her stomach.

I will keep them safe.

My focus on my surroundings continues to go in and out, and the only thing anchoring me to this moment is Winter’s hand in mine.

Her skin has a sickly cast, and I’m concerned at how her chin trembles with each step. She was so strong as I broke down in front of my….

I open my mouth to ask Winter how she’s doing when Luna interrupts the moment.

“Here y’all go,” she drawls, using her hand to open one of the medical-grade double doors. We all cross the threshold, and Luna goes to one end of the room where two people in black scrubs stand next to a medical device. The clinic is pristine, and there are several more people milling around the triage area.

In one of the bays is my son.

“August!” Winter rushes toward him. As she approaches, August puts one hand up to his ear and uses the other to point at Winter’s bloodied arm.

Winter draws up short and says, “August, are you all right?” She frowns, and I force myself to unglue my feet from my spot.

“August,” I say, rushing toward him. “Shit, I’m sorry I handed you off back there.”

August rocks from side to side and then turns away to sit on the floor with his back to the wall.

Winter turns to the medical staff surrounding August.

“Has he been assessed? Who is in charge here? Where the fuck is the communication tablet he just had?” Winter’s voice rises with each question, and I swing my gaze from her to August.

The tablet I watched him take when he got off the helicopter is gone.

“Hi, I’m Alison. We had a little mishap with his tablet, but we’re working on getting a replacement within the hour.”

“A mishap?” Winter presses, emphasizing each syllable. “How? Why? When? Where?”

The short brunette grimaces against the force of Winter’s demands.

I walk toward my son but speak to Winter. “Breathe, Sunbeam.”

I settle into a crouch in front of August. Pulling out my phone that’s miraculously still functional, I tap into the app that connects with August’s AAC account.

“August,” I say with a soft voice, “what do you need?”

Winter moves from person to person, interrogating each one about August.

I hand him my phone, and he takes it with a trembling hand.

Rocking back and forth several times, he taps his thoughts out on the smaller screen.

After a few strenuous minutes, he taps the “talk” button.

“I am scared.”

His words hit me in my chest, and it takes me a moment to start breathing again.

“August, I’m so sorry all of this happened,” I say, and the words are thick in my throat.

Sorry. I’m always saying fucking “sorry.”

He releases a deep, keening sound, bending over so tightly it’s almost like he’s trying to make himself into a ball.

It breaks my fucking heart.

“August—” I rasp, and he surprises the fuck out of me when he jumps into my arms. He squeezes me tight, and the tremor that wracks his body makes me want to kill people.

I band my arm across his back, giving him firm pressure to orient himself like Winter taught me.

“We are safe right now,” I vow to him.

Please let this be true.

“Let go of me!” Winter’s pained scream causes me to jerk to a stand, August still in my arms.

“Hey!” I yell, and someone who looks like a medical assistant drops her uninjured arm. Another person in scrubs stands behind Winter with a wheelchair. Luna stares at Winter with a strange look from her place in the corner.

I shift my attention back to August when he makes a distressed sound, and I follow his gaze to the blood tracking down Winter’s arm.

He’s beyond overwhelmed and heading into meltdown territory.

In a snap, he pushes away from me and runs out the door, taking my phone with him. He can have it.

The people assigned to him rush out in pursuit.

“August, wait!” Winter moves to follow him, but the medical assistant who tried to muscle her into the wheelchair steps in front of her.

“Ma’am, you’re hurt. Please let us help you,” the man says.

“He’s my...That’s my—get the hell out of my way!” Winter yells as she groans. She tried to use her injured arm to push the man aside.

When her legs buckle, I lurch to catch her.

“H, you have to go after August,” she says. Her skin pales even more, and there’s a distant look in her glassy eyes. “You have to go. He’s alone and scared!”

Her eyes start to twitch from side to side, her breaths coming more rapidly.

“Sunbeam?” I rasp, grabbing her uninjured arm. I feel her muscles twitch beneath her skin as she begins to pant.

“Panic…attack,” she says with broken breaths. She grabs her chest, bending over. “Just give me—” She puts her bloodied arm straight out in front of her, backing away from all of us. I see it on her face when the pain registers. Her strangled, pained roar causes a primitive part of my brain to rebel.

“Sunbeam, breathe,” I command, hoping to force her out of her attack, even though I know it doesn’t work that way.

“Go with August, Hunter!” she screams at me, still backing away from all of us until she’s tucked into a corner of the room—the same space August vacated.

I put my hands up in front of me. “Let’s get you okay first. We need to get you stitched up and check on the baby.”

Winter’s eyes go wide as she says, “The baby…” and then collapses into my arms.

“Fuck,” I mutter, picking her up in a bridal hold. Winter groans, squeezing her eyes shut tight.

I spin to the wheelchair guy. “Fucking help us!” I shout, my voice reverberating off the tiles. A second later, Winter leaves my arms and lands in the chair.

I follow, only to have a mean-looking woman in surgical scrubs stop me.

“You need to wait here. There’s limited space and we need to triage and stabilize Winter before we can let you back.”

Red haze covers my field of vision.

“The. Fuck. You. Will,” I spit at the woman, and I question for the first time tonight if I’m losing my mind.

Mom. August. Winter. Mom. August. Winter. Winter, Winter, Winter….

The nurse crosses her arms, and I spot a tattoo on her forearm that marks her as special forces.

“The. Fuck. I. Will,” she snaps back. We’re in a stare-off, but when two huge figures—Nameless One and Nameless Two from our trip to Isla Cara—come into view, I feel my chest getting tight again.

Isla Cara.

Father. Dead.

Bile rushes up my throat as the cellular memory of the stench of rotting flesh assaults me.

I nod sharply, spinning around.

“C’mon, Brigham.” Luna sighs as if she’s over the drama in front of her. Then, in three quick steps, she’s in front of me, pulling me by the armpit.

“Here you go,” she adds.

“The fuck?” I mutter as she drags me away.

She sighs again and anger flashes in her eyes. “Listen, we can do this the simple way, or we can do this the way that causes you to lose a few ounces of blood.”

She looks me up and down.

“Well, hopefully only a few ounces. You never know,” Luna says.

She’s deceptively strong because it seems as if it costs her nothing to pull me alongside her and down the corridor.

We move back through the mansion for several minutes before she happens upon a door that looks just like the one we used to enter Misha’s office hours ago.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been a matter of hours, not days, since Leo and I left Amelia Manor with every intention of returning to our normal lives there.

She ushers me into the room, releasing her grip on my upper arm.

“So!” she says, clapping her hands once and spinning around to face me where I stand near the entrance. “Sit down for a spell.”

I bite back the grunt I want to emit from escaping my throat. “Any way I can convince you to take me back to Winter?”

She rolls her eyes. “Winter is fine. She’ll be all right without you for a few minutes. Plus, before you go in there, I need you to chill out.”

“Chill?” Is she out of her mind?

“Yes. In case you haven’t clocked it, there’s a helluva lot going on. Ya know, since a whole bunch of people just died on your front step?” She sits on a plush leather loveseat, kicking her legs out to set them on the low glass coffee table in front of her. “I don’t need any infighting going on right now. So yes, you need to sit ya’ ass down and chill.”

I blink at her.

This office is smaller—not the same size as the one Misha’d taken us to. There are touches of feminine accents around, and I realize this is Luna’s sanctum.

“Sit,” she says, nodding to the chair across from her. I do what she tells me and plop into the leather seat. It takes everything within me to resist telling her to fuck off.

“How do you know how Winter is doing?” It’s been all of ten minutes since I last saw her, and it feels ten minutes too long.

She points at her smartwatch. “I got a text from Dr. Whitney with her status.”

“Who the fuck is Dr. Whitney?” I look from left to right, expecting something to stick out in the unsettling normalcy.

Everything you know is a lie.

Luna gives me an annoyed look. “Dr. Whitney is a doctor. A physician. A medical provider.” She sighs shortly. “Listen, Hunter. I promise I’ll take you to your woman in a few minutes. But you look like a deer in headlights with a lethal bent to ya, so I want you to at least have a baseline of what’s going on.”

She raises her eyebrow again, as if daring me to contradict her.

“Fine,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“Great!” She cracks the knuckles on her right hand with her thumb. “So surprise number one, your mother isn’t dead.”

“So that’s not a clone hanging out in your foyer then?”

Luna chuffs.

“No, Hunter. That’s Amelia Brigham in the flesh.”

I grind my teeth as the image of her blemished skin materializes in my consciousness. “Right,” I reply.

“Your next question, I suppose, is how the hell did she get here?” Luna speaks while analyzing her cuticles.

When I’m silent for a moment too long, she looks at me. I nod.

“Well, all of the details of what happened between then and now are for your mother to divulge. However, I can tell you that she came to be with us about five years after she ‘passed.’”

“Why then?” I ask.

Luna shrugs. “Another mystery, I suppose,” she says.

I highly doubt that Luna doesn’t know the answer to that question too.

I nod again, rubbing my hands on my thighs. It’s only been a few minutes since Luna led me to this room, and I’m getting antsier, not calmer, the longer we’re in here.

I stand, anxious to get this energy out of my body. I want to go to Winter. I need to go to August. I have to know what the fuck is going on.

“Surprise number two. Misha is your brother.” Luna sits up, leaning to put her elbows on her now-bent knees. “Well, your half-brother, to be accurate.”

The confession hits me in the chest, but so does massive confusion. I focus on the tick of the second hand on the massive clock on the far wall.

“Uh-huh,” is all I can make myself say.

“You’re probably wondering why and how that all happened too, right? Well, not how it happened. I’m sure you know how that works—”

“Why,” I bite out, “am I just now learning that I have a half-brother? The head of the Ukrainian mob, no less?”

“It’s a mindfuck, I know. I could kick Misha for not telling you earlier. He planned to, you know. As for the mafiya,” she waves her hand in the air dismissively, “That’s been running on its own for at least the last decade since he took it straight. He never wanted to be pakhan, but if he weren’t in charge…well, the alternative is intolerable.”

I run a hand across my mouth when she finishes, my brain whirring like an old, overworked computer. Misha’s reputation presents him as a deadly, unmoving mafiya leader, but now Luna is suggesting that his organized crime unit is something altogether different.

“I see,” I reply. “And the rest of it?”

Luna works her jaw to the side for a second before continuing. “He was unsure where you stood with everything after he saw you still planned to marry Blair Winthrope. Things were…unclear. He wanted to wait until you got back from Isla Cara and was going to tell you tonight…or last night? But—”

“But we were raided,” I finish for her.

“Exactly,” she confirms.

“All right, so Misha is my brother. How is that logistically possible? Seeing as he’s Ukrainian and my mother and I are not.”

The stories begin to spin in my head.

“When your mother was a child, she was promised to a Soviet nomenklatura as part of a silent pact between the United States and the USSR.”

“A pact between the US and the Soviet Union? They were adversaries.”

The look Luna gives me clearly telegraphs how idiotic she views my statement.

“Right,” she replies coolly. “Anyway, the Politburo was essentially like our Congress, but over in the Soviet states back then. The end of General Secretary Brezhnev’s term and the beginning of Andropov’s saw a lot of corruption. Like, a special amount of corruption. So no one knew what the Politburo was doing or who really was in charge.”

I nod my head to signal that I’m following her.

“Dimitri Hroshko, Misha’s father, was the de-facto leader of the Politburo. And he wanted Amelia Brigham.” She shrugs. “Amelia’s father, Lance, was so sure the USSR was going to take over the world, so he allied himself with the Soviets. Dimitri and Lance met in Vienna when Amelia was a child, and Dimitri was immediately infatuated. So in a deal with her father, Dimitri took her.”

I think about my grandfather’s insistence on having tunnels built in the walls of Amelia Manor, and the safe room that I recently updated following Winter’s disappearance. His fear that the USSR was going to take over the world tracks.

“How old was she when they met?” I say, feeling a rising sense of dread.

“She was nine,” Luna says simply.

I gape at her.

“Her parents kept her in the States until she came ‘of age.’ They were traditional like that, I guess,” she says.

“When was she considered ‘of age,’ then?” I ask.

“Fifteen.”

I expel a breath. “How was that even legal?”

“Well, she had her parents’ permission. Plus, who was she to go against the entirety of the USSR?” Luna shrugs, but the haunted look in her eyes doesn’t match her ambivalent pose.

“So then she had Misha and…what? Dropped him in the tundra and hopped back over to the States?”

Her chuckle is humorless. “Not quite. Dimitri immediately got Amelia pregnant, and she gave birth to Misha within a year of arriving in Kyiv. She was miserable to hear her tell it, but then along came your father.”

Wow.

“So my father just…took her too?”

Luna gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Why did he take her?”

She raises her eyebrow in response to my question.

“My father, why did he take my mom from Misha’s dad?”

Luna sighs. “I suspect because he loved her.”

The thought is appalling.

Luna stands up. “I just want you to know that this may be confusing as fuck right now, but this is the best part of everything that’s going on right now.”

This is the best part?

A knock sounds at the door, and in a second, Misha’s in the room, sucking up all the air.

“Come with me, Brigham. There’s much to discuss.” Misha sports a small tan band-aid where I cut him, and the sight makes me smile. With the quirk of an eyebrow, he turns and heads for the door without waiting for my response.

“Go where? I’m going back to my family.” I lean back in the chair, applying unspoken resistance against Misha’s command.

I need to find August. He needs me. And I need to get back to Winter. She needs me too.

He pauses in the doorway but looks over his shoulder at me. “Your woman is fine. Your son is being tended to. Don’t you want to know what’s happening before you face her? Don’t you want to give her more certainty rather than more questions?”

I want to punch him in his too-straight teeth. But instead, I stand without a word.

“Excellent,” he says in a flat tone. Then he’s out the door.

I take a step to follow him when Luna puts her hand on my forearm.

“Remember that this is bigger than you or me. This is about all of humanity.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“No pressure then,” I reply in a dry voice.

She smiles wider.

THREE

HUNTER

I’m in what Hollywood depicts as a “war room.”

Before we arrived here, a dark-skinned woman who could only be five feet tall stopped us. She carried a bundle of clothes in her arms, and she passed them to Misha with a strange sense of reverence. Dismissing her, he tossed the clothes at me and pointed to a closed door.

“You and your woman will sleep here. Get cleaned up. You have fifteen minutes,” he said.

I didn’t waste time checking out the room. I just took a quick but thorough shower, scrubbing long enough to get the caked blood off my hands.

When he knocked exactly fifteen minutes later, I met him at the door.

My mission is to figure out what the hell is going on, and then I will make the best decision for my family.

Control. Knowledge will allow me to regain control of…everything.

Dark paneling lines the walls and ceiling of the massive conference room—likely to soundproof the space—and there’s a long table that easily sits thirty people in the center of the room. On the far wall is a digital world map and several clocks showing the time in various parts of the world. On the other side of the room, a row of computers lines the wall, and Max sits at one of the stations.

Max too? Jesus.

Misha stands at the control center, where he speaks with a thin man who is probably in his fifties. I hover a few feet from the entrance for nearly a full minute while Luna beelines for Max.

Everyone wears all black.

Luna leaves the computer station and motions for me to sit at the massive table. Just as I lower myself into a seat, a hush falls over the room, and everyone turns in unison toward the entrance I just came through.

There stands my mother.

Where she was soft-spoken, wearing her heart on her sleeve, at the time of our confrontation an hour ago, now she’s aloof. Cold.

Her eyes scan the room, and several people sit up straighter...but just as many people avoid looking at her altogether.

Leo walks in and sits next to me.

“You okay, H?” he asks under his breath. I get a flash of other times when he’s asked me the same question. When I’ve been in over my head. Leo’s always been there to save me…but I feel like this time, that’s not an option.

I inhale slowly, trying to calm myself.

When Luna walks over and closes the heavy door, silence descends among the room’s occupants. Misha takes a seat at the head of the table, and Luna moves to sit to his left. My…Amelia takes a seat on his right.

Leo and I position ourselves on the opposite side of the table, facing the hundred-inch television situated near Misha and Luna.

“First things,” Misha says. “Leo, Hunter, I’m glad you’ve decided to join us. For years, we’ve been searching for an in with The Legion, and I know with you two here, we can end this.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Don’t be so quick to thank us. We haven’t decided anything yet. Not without more information.”

Max taps on his keyboard with a rapid cadence for a few beats before slamming his finger on a key and then spinning in his chair. Regardless of the mass murder at Amelia Manor, Max is still smiling.

I return my gaze to Misha.

“In my book, the first thing is this: Why did none of you intervene in Winter’s abduction?”

Misha and I are in a stare-off, and it isn’t until Luna shifts in her seat that Misha decides to speak.

“I thought we were past this, Hunter—”

“We’ll never be past this. I’ll never be past this,” I press. Heat radiates from my sternum as I stare Misha down. Silent. He and I are silent, as is the rest of the room.

Misha is the one to break the stand-off. “Winter’s abduction was a horrible byproduct of everything happening currently. But she also was a person of interest to us because of her parents. The Legion had her mother killed.”

He says this so dispassionately it takes me a moment to register what he’s just said in the midst of my rage.

“Winter’s parents were in a car accident,” I say.

“A car accident orchestrated by the players in The Legion who didn’t want her mother to become a senator. They’d tried to get her to fall in line, but she was an idealist. And she knew too much.” Misha shrugs again. “It was easier to get rid of her rather than hack the election systems. Plus, the ‘hanging chad’ thing from Florida during the 2000 presidential election made them antsy. In any event, that idealism got her killed.”

I hum in response, and the muscles on my forehead feel tense with how hard I’m frowning.

“What exactly is your role in all this?” This comes from Leo.

Misha grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m the one in charge here.”

Amelia tenses, and I spare her a glance at the slight movement of her body. When my eyes land on her, I catch her staring at me.

I don’t give in to the urge to stare back.

Snapping my eyes back to Misha, I say, “So you are the one who made the call that no one would intervene with Winter’s abduction.”

Silence falls upon the room as I bring the topic back to what matters the most to me.

After a moment of uncomfortable stillness, Misha releases a tired sigh. “I’m sorry for what Winter has gone through. I never want to see anyone get hurt. It’s unfortunate. However, the mission is more important than any one individual. To save everyone—everyone being the world—there will be sacrifices.”

I stare at him, and I know that if I could kill him with my glare, he’d be dead on the spot.

But when my mother looks down at the table, rubbing the glossy oak surface, I decide to close my eyes and turn away instead.

Misha leans on his armrest with one hand cradling his chin. Glancing at the tall man he spoke to earlier, the subordinate hands me and Leo a teched-out tablet.

“Let’s not waste any more time and get you up to speed,” Misha says. He shifts his gaze to Amelia, who squares her shoulders as she pushes away from the table. She walks to the screen on the wall opposite our chairs.

An organizational flowchart appears before us.

“As you now know, we are called The Resistance. We are the counter group to The Legion, which is a secret society that came about in the decades between the First and Second World Wars.”

“Clever name,” I say in reference to The Resistance’s title, putting my head on my fist as I lean on the armrest. Leo coughs and straightens in his seat.

“The Avengers was already taken, unfortunately,” Max pipes up. Everyone looks at him for a moment before returning to Amelia.

She continues.

“The Legion’s core mission is to unify the globe under one rule. They feel it to be a divine mission and that they are ordained by God.”

Amelia flips through the images of several recognizable figures, and I wrack my brain to place them, searching through my memories of world history.

“Their core tenet is that man was created in the image of God, and therefore, anyone who is or looks ‘other’ is an abomination. ‘The Undesirables’ aren’t human. At best, they’re seen as chattel.”

She flips through more pictures, and they become more current and recognizable.

“The Legion started with a few notable members—oligarchs from the East, former royalty who saw their kingdoms demolished, and, of course, American moguls who wanted globalization. They’ve always operated underground, but even in the shadows, their power grew. Their leader is called The Architect.”

She shows pictures of several public figures I recognize and a few royals from well-known monarchies.

“They’ve amplified their mission: to bring Earth under one central rule and rid the world of those they deem less-than. Which brings us to their work over the last forty years.”

She flips the screen to show more of the images that Misha revealed in his office hours ago.

I force myself to keep my gaze on the pictures.

“The Legion began to experiment with genetic manipulation right after World War II. There was a mass of labs run by the Nazis and other parties that just ‘disappeared.’ Except they didn’t. Those research facilities were taken over by Legion scientists. Their goal was to ensure they could maintain the birthrates of ‘pure-bloods’ in the face of what they viewed as a takeover by The Undesirables.”

She clicks to another slide. It’s clearly a clandestine view of a lab, taken at an odd angle and through material that might be a lab coat. The place looks deserted, and it’s apparent that the picture was taken well after the 1940s, but not in recent years.

“Since the end of the Cold War, however, they’ve been focused on bringing about the next phases.”

Her face takes on an even more grim cast.

“Keep The Desirables alive.” She clicks to show what looks like shelves of medicines, all labeled the same.

“Ensure genetic superiority.” A picture of a mass grave with innumerable bodies piled on top of one another.

“Eradicate The Undesirables.”

When she lands on the final slide, the air grows thick, and Leo and I both freeze. The picture is of the BwP logo embossed on the door of our vault…except the vault door is open.

Fuck.

“So The Legion,” Leo starts, his fingers drumming wildly on the tabletop, “they have our product, and they’re using it to…” Leo moves his hand in the air, searching for a word.

“From the best we can tell, they’re using the products your company has created to do a few things. They’re using your technology to create clones—super soldiers and genetically superior individuals of their choosing—so they can keep the people they want alive and disease-free, and use that same technology as a kill switch.”

“Well fuck me,” Max mutters from the corner. He doesn’t look put off by the information. He’s slack-jawed, sure, but the twinkle in his eye is unmistakable. He’s geeking out while we’re talking about mass genocide and New World Order.

“Okay so, why exactly do you need me?” I ask. “If they already have Panacea, then what are we going to do? Walk up to them—whoever ‘they’ are—and take it back?”

I join Leo in the finger-tapping.

“Obviously not, Hunter,” Misha drawls, and I roll my eyes over in his direction. He still maintains his bored expression as he leans in his chair, but Luna shifts closer to her husband. When she puts her hand on his shoulder and he reaches up to cover it with his own, I want to rub my forehead at the headache that’s forming. They’re the picture of domesticity…except they’re both wearing five guns apiece.

“They have the science. So what The Resistance needs now is a countermeasure,” Max adds.

“Which is why you needed to put Luna in the trial,” I say, piecing everything together. “Were you even sick?” My eyes narrow as I assess her.

What’s real? What’s fake?

She straightens in her seat and a strange look comes over her face.

“Yes, I was sick. Very sick. The cancer I had was aggressive and untreatable, according to our doctors and the ones we saw outside of the compound. But I didn’t have high hopes for them finding a cure because they couldn’t find one before.”

“Before?” Leo asks.

Luna nods. “Yes. When I was a teenager, I developed lung cancer. It was a rare thing and a genetic luck of the draw.” She inhales deeply, almost as if she were testing that her lungs still worked. “I was saved and cured, but it came at a great cost. It came from me being caught by The Legion and used as a live lab rat for their cure serum.”

Leo and I must stare at her dumbly, because when she pulls a switchblade from her pocket with an eye roll and cuts her forearm in one long stroke from elbow to wrist, we both jump in our seats.

“Wait a minute,” she says with a sigh. “Maybe two or three.”

The digital clock on the wall rolls over from one minute to the next, but I stare transfixed as Luna’s skin knits back together before my eyes.

“Holy,” I start to say.

“Shit,” Leo finishes.

Luna sighs. “The Legion had another push to pursue their research in the eighties and nineties because of the AIDS crisis. It was a new virus, and people were scared of it. So they needed live guinea pigs to test the first version of their biodefense system—a serum that facilitates rapid healing and acts as a prophylactic against any diseases.”

I stare for a few moments after she finishes talking.

“Okay, so let me make sure I’ve got it right. You had cancer as a teenager,” I say.

“Correct,” she confirms.

“And they—The Legion—just…took you?” I rub my top lip.

“Not quite. My mother had already died. I didn’t know my father. My aunt and uncle were my guardians, but they didn’t care about what happened to me. Especially once I got sick and started draining their time and money.”

Even though she looks tough on the outside now, a flash of softness returns to her gaze.

“When it was clear I was going to die, I was left to pass in a county hospital. Alone.” I track the movement when Misha rubs her wrist with his thumb.

“Got it,” Leo says when I don’t reply. “So they took you from the hospital and brought you to their lab.”

“Yes, I was on Isla Cara. That’s where I met Misha.” She looks at him. “He saved me.”

I blink against the immediate image of Isla Cara and all its horrors. Another memory—a dark underground room with a young blonde girl with dark tanned skin in the middle of a stage—comes up too.

I open my eyes to look at Luna. To really look at her.

She was there. I saw her.

“So, the serum…they gave you the serum?” I ask.

“Yes,” Luna says after clearing her throat. “I was apparently the first person to survive the testing. They kept me in a coma for three months. But in that time, they cured my cancer. The biggest question was how long the serum lasted.” She shrugs. “Turns out the answer is about five years. There’s a lot we don’t know about it, and when I left Isla Cara, we took a ton of serum. But we ran out. I’m a year overdue for my next dose, so I’ve been falling apart ever since.”

She gestures to the now-healed cut on her arm. “Something like this would have healed before the blade left my skin a few years ago.”

“I see,” I say. “So when you got sick again, and the cancer was aggressive….”

“I needed help to get another cure. Obviously, I wasn’t going to go back to The Legion to get it. Plus, they think I’m dead.” She shrugs.

“So Panacea did help you,” Leo says.

“Yes, it cured me.” She shrugs again.

“And now that technology is in the hands of this Knights Templar-slash-Illuminati gang?” This comes from Leo.

“Pretty much,” Misha pipes up.

“Uh huh,” Leo says.

I resist the urge to rub my temples. “Okay, so bring it back around to what the hell it is you want me to do,” I say.

Silence falls over the room.

“You were on Isla Cara the most out of any of us. You have to know where your father hides his deepest secrets on that island.”

Nausea blooms in my stomach.

“I was a kid when I was there, and he certainly didn’t tell me anything. Certainly not anything that resembles the shit you’re talking about.”

Misha turns his sharp gaze toward Leo as my friend resumes tapping his fingers on the table.

“Do you remember something, Polanco? You were on Isla Cara fairly often too,” Misha says. I don’t miss the twitch in Leo’s shoulder as Misha’s words land.

“Listen, you’re going to have to give us more direction than this. But even still, I doubt I have anything helpful,” I say.

Misha stares at me hard, his face impassive, for several seconds. When he speaks, his voice is calm.

“We know from our intel that Benjamin documented significant information about The Legion in a black journal. Our informant saw him writing in the journal shortly before they were killed, but they didn’t have it in their possession long enough to decipher the code except for two words: Elysium and Panacea.” This comes from Amelia.

That information lands in my stomach like lead.

“So that’s what you had me go on a wild goose chase all around Isla Cara to look for? Or do you think I actually have this book?” I say, thinking back to Misha’s accusations right before the raid. “If my father wrote anything down, I’ve never seen it. In general, whenever I was in his presence, he was too busy doing other shit.” Or other people.

“Fair enough,” Misha grinds out.

“The book wasn’t in the places you searched on Isla Cara. You only went to the vault and to his office. So there are two options here, really. It’s either hidden somewhere else or someone else took it,” Amelia says.

“Or it doesn’t exist anymore,” Leo replies.

“That could also be the case. But we should keep searching for it or for any other clues that might lead us to The Architect.”

The Architect, The Legion’s leader.

“Is that what you think is in the book?” I ask.

Amelia and Misha nod before the Ukrainian speaks. “There were at least a hundred pages of documentation, all written in code. Anagrams, we think. Elysium is what they are calling their new utopia. Panacea, as you can deduce is—”

“Is our technology and their means of access to this new utopia. Yeah, got it,” I grumble, cutting Misha off.

“Okay, so we need to find the book,” I say, and I try not to stress about the fact that I just said “we.” Why do I feel like I’m about to pick the wrong pill in The Matrix?

Misha smiles. “Yes, we do.”

“But before anything, what we really need is to find and eliminate Morris Winthrope,” I say. Misha, Luna, and Amelia go quiet.

“That’s the first order of business. We get rid of the person who just tried to abduct and kill my family. Let’s give him the same treatment he gave us.”

Rage fills me as I visualize Winter and August on the ground in my hangar.

No, that would be too good for the fucker.

“In fact,” I add, “why don’t you tell me how the fuck they got into Amelia Manor? Rio was head of security, I thought, and apparently he’s your guy too.”

A drumbeat increases in my left temple, making my eye throb.

Misha makes a short sound in his throat as he cracks his knuckles before answering my question. “We were made aware of Winthrope’s plan to make a move against you all. That’s why I wanted you to leave for Isla Cara earlier. I’d hoped you’d be able to provide me with something, anything valuable.”

His voice has an edge to it, and I don’t fucking appreciate it.

“We had our eye on Carlos Medina, and we knew that Rodrigo Lopez was a wild card.” He shifts in his chair—a small movement. “I was…overconfident in what we had set up at Amelia Manor. So when we received intel that you did have the journal, I got distracted and fell into the trap.”

I blink at the man. Who told him that? And why?

“Where did you hear that?” I reply.

Misha waves his hand in the air and mutters, “Unimportant.”

When I tilt my head to the side to assess him, he raises his eyebrow and shrugs.

“I don’t have the journal,” I say, feeling very tired.

“I see that now,” Misha replies. Not only is he taking all the responsibility for what just happened at Amelia Manor, he’s showing his cards. That they—he—fucked up.

I don’t have anything to say to that because the fact is, since he decided to take up the mantle of protecting my family, the failure does fall on him.

But it falls on me more.

I won’t let them get hurt again. I’ll give my life to ensure it.

“We will take care of the clean-up at Amelia Manor, get rid of the bodies,” he adds.

“Any of ours will be treated with respect,” I throw back at him, my voice low. A rasp.

So many fucking deaths.

“You have my word,” the pakhan says.

We’re all silent around the room until I break it.

“Fine. Morris Winthrope,” I say, changing the subject. “We get rid of him before anything else.”

Misha places his right hand flat on the table as if he were evaluating the surface, and then he taps his index finger on the woodgrain to a slow cadence.

“Let me ask you this, Hunter,” Luna says, leaning forward in her chair and steepling her hands beneath her chin. “Why do you think we haven’t gone after Morris Winthrope already?” Her flinty gaze seems a little unhinged, but I shrug anyway.

“Does it matter? It’s what we’re going to do now,” I reply, going for an unaffected tone.

“But it does fucking matter,” Luna grinds out. She drops her hands to the table, using her fingers to emphasize her next words. “Time, opportunity, and mass impact. We have one shot to do this, and failure is not an option. If we fail, we’re all fucked. So no, we’re not making a wave by offing someone as public and important to The Legion as Morris Winthrope. Not without having the rest of them, namely The Architect, in our grasp,” Luna says, hot emotion lacing each word.

“So you’re going to just let Morris Winthrope walk?” I spit each word at her.

Misha sighs. “No, Hunter. We will bring every Legion member down—including Winthrope. But we have to be smart about this. This is bigger than any one man.”

Every word he and Luna say serves to further enrage me, but I try to access some semblance of patience.

The reality is that if I plan on doing anything to keep my family safe, I need the people sitting at the table across from me.

“Okay, so again, what’s your plan for getting them, then?” I close my eyes as I speak, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Hunter,” Misha says with a sigh. “You are a pain in my ass, you know that?”

I look up and frown at him. “What, for asking questions? You want me to work with you. Not the other way around.”

“Well, Brigham, if it weren’t for me—for us—saving you and giving you our resources, you and your woman would be a blood stain on the ground, your son would be a lab experiment, and your sister would be getting gang raped by Winthrope’s colleagues.”

I stand up so quickly that the chair tips over. Leo gets up as soon as I burst from the seat and places a hand on my chest.

“Easy, H,” he mumbles.

I can’t breathe through my fury. Taking in all the meditation tools Winter’s taught me, I breathe in to the count of three and exhale to the same cadence.

“Fuck off, Hroshko,” I grind out.

Good. I didn’t launch myself over the table to strangle him.

Out of my periphery, I note that Max sets my chair upright, and I grab it to sit back down.

But as soon as I land in the seat, my phone rings.

Unknown number

“Who the hell is that?” Leo asks, leaning over to glance at my phone screen. Misha moves to hover over my shoulder, but because I hate the fact that he lords over me, I stand to match his height.

“I think I know,” Misha mutters, and he gives a long glance to Luna. “Answer it.”

I press the button to pick up the call. I don’t greet the person on the other end, but I don’t have to. As soon as the call connects, Morris Winthrope’s voice echoes over the speakerphone.

“Hunter Brigham, you’ve surprised me,” he says. His tone is eerie, mechanical.

Evil.

“Winthrope, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Morris pauses a beat. “Blair knew what she was getting into when she went to Amelia Manor. But, you know, it was personal to her,” he says.

It must have been personal. Personal because of Winter.

“She wanted to play, so she was the one who dragged your mistake out. She knew that your whore wouldn’t be able to resist saving him.”

And fuck him for being right. As soon as Winter found that August was gone, she put herself in total danger to save him. She’s protective of August because she loves him like her own.

And while every part of me needed Winter to stay in the safe room, I understand why she didn’t.

Yet another thing to apologize to her for.

“I figured I’d give you some time. Let you see what’s at stake. I thought finding your father would help you see the bigger picture.”

The bigger picture. Those words echo in my memory.

Winthrope releases a dark chuckle.

“You’re as hard-headed as he’d warned me you’d be.” He exhales audibly. “That rebellious streak might get you killed if you’re not careful.”

I stare at the phone, still not uttering a word. He knows I’m hearing everything he’s saying. And I know he assumes that I’ll follow whatever order he gives me.

Just like I always followed my father’s orders—until I ran away. Until I met Winter.

“You have twenty-four hours to release Ella Brigham to me.” The tenor of his voice shifts and the menace in it is unmistakable.

But in the silence, I harness all the rage within me. Rage at this current situation. Rage at my mother. My father. All the fucked-up shit that’s happened to me.

And I harness the love I have for my sister. For my family that includes her, August, Leo, and Winter. Hell, even Veronica and Summer, even though Veronica seems more than happy to see me roasting on a spit by the balls right now.

The fact is, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my family.

“Fuck you and fuck your demands, Winthrope,” I say, my voice calm.

Misha closes his eyes against my declaration. My mother’s face lights up, her cheeks turning rosy.

Winthrope doesn’t respond. Instead, the line goes dead.

Leo shifts in his seat, opening his mouth to say something, but Luna holds a hand out, silencing him. Leo’s face turns grave.

“Well,” Max says. “That was comforting.”

Returning to his seat, Misha says, “We’re going to give them your sister.”

The pressure behind my eyes grows as one second bleeds into the next.

Because what the fuck is he even saying right now?

I look at Amelia, acknowledging her in full for the first time in this conversation.

“You want to give Ella to these people?” My voice is low.

Her face hardens, and I get a flash of the defiance she showed my father as she faced her “death” on that damn veranda on Isla Cara. She swings her head toward Misha.

“Absolutely not,” she grinds out.

“Think about it. We’ve been running around with our heads up our assholes for the better part of two years trying to find The Architect. Now we’ve got an opportunity to place a high-value plant in The Legion’s midst. We know they won’t hurt her—she means too much to them.”

I want to strangle him.

“She’s not a ‘plant,’ she’s a human. My sister. Yours too, if all this is to be believed,” I say.

Misha’s eyebrow goes up. “And why is our being related unbelievable?”

My face hardens and my…Amelia shifts in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

“Besides the fact that they want and need her alive and whole, we can make sure that we have fail safes in place to extract her as soon as possible. We need her to draw them out. Winthrope is desperate to get her, and if he could do so without contacting you, he would have already done it, Brigham,” Misha says.

“Mishko, I’ve just got your sister and brother back. There’s no way I’m letting them go again.”

I turn away from her defense of Ella and me, focusing all my energy on the man at the head of the table. Because the fact that my mother has a nickname—a term of endearment for this man, her eldest son—makes me want to hurl.

While Misha’s statements make my blood boil, I don’t attack him. I don’t jump across the table.

I hold his gaze in silence for several uncomfortable seconds. Max fidgets in his chair, popping his knee up and down for the first half of our stare-off before resorting to a full 360-degree spin.

When I decide to speak, I command my body to remain casual and keep my words slow and low.

Friendly.

“If you think,” I say to the room, plucking lint off my pant leg, “that I’m going to allow you to use my sister for anything, you have lost your goddamn mind.”

“Hunter, as you can see—” Luna begins.

“There’s no fucking way you’re taking Ella,” Leo grinds out.

Luna’s eyes swing to Leo. “We’ll make sure she stays safe.”

Her eyes get a little glittery as she makes her case. “This is the closest we’ve gotten to them—to The Architect. If we can figure out where The Architect is, we’ll be able to end this once and for all. Taking out The Architect takes out The Legion. Morris Winthrope included.”

Silence descends in the room again. After a few seconds, Luna runs her fingers through her hair and Amelia stands, her back straight.

“No,” Amelia commands, and all of us look at my mother in the wake of her statement.

A vice clenches my heart, and it’s from a blend of confusion and anger toward this whole fucked situation.

Toward her.

“The only way you will do anything to or with Ella is if I’m lying dead in a pool of blood,” I say in a measured cadence.

And with that, I rise from the expensive office chair and exit the room.

In that moment, I am everything Benjamin Brigham taught me to be.

And I’ll be a bastard from the pits of Hell if it means that no one will take another fucking thing from me.

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 somewhere 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. Two 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.

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, signing as she speaks. 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 sharp hyperawareness 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. But when she smiles again, my paranoia increases.

Breathe, Winter.

I close my eyes to prevent myself from drowning in an ocean 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 walks away from me, heading to a wall of medical supplies.

“He’ll be here in just a moment,” the toothy nurse says. She flicks her eyes above my head, and when I follow her gaze, my vitals appear on the most futuristic 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 thought that Hunter and August are in trouble—hurt or dead—and I’m next snaps into my brain.

Just as suddenly as the thought comes on, the surge of adrenaline 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 sheets 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 from 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 huffs.

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 stressing 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, the image of the man I shot 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 her gaze 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 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 palm 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 grows, but I force myself to absorb her words.

“Everything is okay 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. “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 Versed?” 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 scrape, 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 I 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 to calm myself, but I feel my pulse racing in my chest.

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 at all.

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 cry harder, even though I don’t want to.

“I need Hunter,” I whisper through my tears. “Please.”

Dr. Whitney exhales 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 beside 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 exit.

“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.

The room falls silent after my new IV is placed. As the other nurses busy themselves, I wait for what I know will come next.

Three.

Two.

One.

“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 all the way 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 feels coated with sand. “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.”

The shocking accusation causes me to sputter as I formulate a response. “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 Hunter’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 the other side, 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 agitated 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 bedroom again and me stonewalling him to punish him for his high-handed ways.

We were both wrong: Him for making me a prisoner in our home, 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 tell 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 take care of 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 rock gently from side to side while I 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 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 other nurses file out after them, flipping the switch to turn off the under-cabinet lights before departing. The sound of the IV delivering another bolus of fluids and meds 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. Kitty moves to the foot of the bed.

“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 wraps his palm around mine. And doesn’t answer my question.

“What happened while you were gone?” I ask, sighing 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 the 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.”

Bile 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 that 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 know Rio. Or, I guess, like I thought I knew Rio. “August must have been so scared.”

Hunter’s 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.

The sound he makes 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 tears fall.

Taking a steadying breath, I say, “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 question, my voice sharp. 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 to face my overwhelmingly frustrating boyfriend, ready to haul myself around the complex to find our—his son.

“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 question. “How could I not?”

More silence.

“What you mean to say is, ‘Thank you, Winter.’” His eyes lock on mine, and I lift my chin in defiance.

“Thank you?” he grates out.

“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 utters, his voice hoarse.

“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 gasp when he throws the metal instrument tray into the wall.

It falls to the ground with a frightening crash. Kitty barks, 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 croaks. 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 and pretending it was never there in the first place.

“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, the unspoken words swimming in the space between our bodies.

“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.

It’s 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, finally stepping closer to me. “Yes. 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.

“Hunter,” 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.

FIVE

HUNTER

Mom always loved the sunrise. On those brief visits when I’d stay with her at Amelia Manor, she’d make sure to take me down to that hidden lake and sit with me on that stupid log overlooking the water.

It was the same place where I took Winter all those months ago when she was so fragile.

Fragile…because of me.

I crush the rose bloom in my palm. I intended to help myself to Misha’s garden and bring a bouquet to Winter—just like our first date. His garden holds several species of plants, but where Amelia Manor features gentle architecture that moves around the natural structure of the green space, Misha’s layout is uniform with military precision. Rows on rows of roses, lilacs, and peonies stretch from the courtyard down to the other end of the encampment.

Still, this space feels alive. It’s as if I’m walking into another dimension.

Leaving Winter to rest in the medical bay felt like the right thing to do for the first few hours. But as dawn morphed into daytime and I was no closer to figuring out how to get out of this mess while keeping everyone safe, my feelings of inadequacy tripled.

I’m doing what Winter begged me not to: I’ve shut her out. I’ve told her to sit down and heal, which, on paper, sounds like a loving, supportive thing to say.

But when looking through the lens of our relationship and what Winter needs, I realize that it’s just another power play.

Control. Be in control.

But how can I when literally every single thing in my life is out of my hands?

I gather a dozen roses in my bare palms and turn to make my way back into the house when I run across Rio. He’s propped up on one of the seats near the entrance, and while he doesn’t look that great, he seems better than one could expect for surviving a gunshot.

From what the report told me, he suffered a pretty nasty hit to the collarbone. Not that the injury itself was terrible, but he’d lost a lot of blood.

So the fact that he’s sitting here, albeit looking like he’s gone several rounds with Floyd Mayweather, gives me pause.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him. I’m cautious. I haven’t had a chance to ask him any questions, like how the hell he got involved in all this, how long he’s been spying on me.

I haven’t had the chance to determine if I can really trust him.

Rio grunts as he sits up straighter. He wears a black button-down shirt with several of the top buttons open and long basketball pants with snaps down the sides.

“I figured you’d have questions,” he says in his gruff, direct tone.

I raise my eyebrow in response. Taking a step toward the tree across from his seat, I lean against it and say, “Who sent you to talk to me?” My voice is flat.

He lifts one corner of his mouth. “Do you really want to know?”

Honestly, no. Because if it’s Misha who sent him, then that will piss me off, especially since he spent way too much time trying to convince me to give my sister over to The Legion.

But if it’s Amelia who sent him, that just might piss me off more. Because if she thinks she can pretend to care about me by sending someone to help me wade through all the shit that’s been set in my lap, well….

Fuck her.

“Actually, it was Luna,” Rio gives me.

“Ah,” I say. “Well, she’s right. I do have questions. My first one is: Will you answer any questions I have truthfully?”

I stare at him hard, and he quirks his mouth again.

“Hunter, I understand why you might not be in the most trusting spirit, but believe me, I—more than anyone—want you to know what’s going on,” he says.

“Why?” I throw back at him.

He looks away for a second and stares at the ground as if he’s collecting his words.

“Well first, it’s because I’ve seen you over the past year. I’ve seen you. And I know that the things Misha and Amelia were concerned about aren’t actually real. You’re not like that. You’re not like him.”

The air seizes in my chest at the mention of my mother, and he doesn’t have to clarify that “him” means my father.

“How are you here?” I say.

He lifts his eyebrow. “Meaning?” he asks.

“I mean, you just suffered a near-fatal gunshot wound. How are you ambulating around the garden right now?”

He chuckles. “Ah, that,” he replies. “Besides the fact that Veronica acted quickly to save me, I was in a trial.”

At my look of confusion, he sighs. Leaning forward but grunting at the movement, he says, “All the shit Misha and Luna and Amelia told you earlier is true. I am one of The Legion’s experiments too. Like Luna.”

“So you got the serum?” I ask.

“No,” he says with a dark laugh. “I came after that’d fallen out of favor. I was in the first round of gene therapy.”

With Panacea?

“When?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, you’re not responsible for making me a freak,” he says. “I went into the military at eighteen.” He rubs a hand over his stubble. “I was so fucking hype to wear the uniform, you know? I was the first in my family to leave Bayridge Heights. In the military, I was more than the half-Dominican, half-Black kid with no father around. My work meant something. I was in for three years and coming up for reenlistment when I was approached by my CO for an ‘opportunity.’ So I signed up. Went on an assignment and came out like this.”

Rio shrugs.

“So you have super healing like Luna?”

He shakes his head. “Not quite. I can be killed quite easily, actually. That is, if I allow myself to be killed. I’ll heal if given the time and space, but it takes me a quarter of the time to heal compared to a regular person, rather than minutes for Luna. At least, Luna a few years ago. If someone were to slice Luna’s neck, she’d bleed and probably pass out, but she’d be back in minutes. If someone slit my throat, if I weren’t on supportive care for at least a few hours, I’d die like anyone else.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very useful benefit,” I reply.

Rio shrugs again.

“Our fast healing was a side effect.”

“What was their main goal, then?”

“Mind control.” His face shuts down as soon as the words are out of his mouth.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. A butterfly lands on the wrought-iron bench next to him, and he stares at the monarch.

“How did you end up here?” I ask him.

He blows out a breath and I watch as the tension leaves his body. “That’s a really long story,” he says.

“Enlighten me,” I throw back.

He grins again. “The short answer is: Misha.”

He doesn’t add more, and I feel myself beginning to shut down at the mention of my…the pakhan’s name.

“Why should I trust you, Rio? Why should I trust anyone here?”

He nods as I speak, and his face turns so serious it takes me back a bit. “Do you really want to face the alternative?”

The alternative being that we’re out here alone and with a target on our backs.

And in that moment, I realize that no, I don’t. I won’t, for my family.

“I’m sorry, Hunter.” Rio’s words surprise me.

“For what, exactly?”

“For not preventing the raid. For not protecting Winter.” His face looks pained—but not necessarily from his rapidly healing wound. “Believe it or not, I care.”

Lies. I put my guard up, standing up straight and preparing to walk away from Rio and this conversation. “Why?”

“Because you matter to Amelia,” he says simply.

I exhale, forcing myself to keep my frustration from spilling out onto Rio.

“I’m going to trust you, Rio.”

He smiles.

When he stands, moving much easier than his earlier movements, I prepare to leave the garden.

“Misha is rough around the edges, but he’s as good of a man that can exist,” Rio says.

“What does that even mean?” Not far away, the crunch of the pea gravel on the path distracts me.

“It means that all men have some evil in them. Some more than others. I’ve gotten very good at figuring out the people behind their masks.”

I catch a glimpse of long, dark hair. Ella. I return my focus back to Rio.

“And what do you see behind my mask?”

Rio smiles, a genuine one this time, and he unbuttons his shirt. In a quick jerk, he rips the bandage from his shoulder.

Instead of the raw wound that should be present beneath his collarbone, the skin is smooth and unblemished.

This can’t be real.

When Rio re-buttons his shirt, he says, “You’re someone who has been profoundly hurt, but you’re trying like hell to be good.”

And with that sage wisdom, Rio returns to the house.

He’s right. After all the shit I’ve done and all the shit I’ve been through…I didn’t used to care about what I did and who I did it with.

But once I became fully responsible for August, things changed. And then Winter came into my life, and things changed even more.

I run my finger along one of the dozen roses in my hands, pausing to take in their aroma.

Then, the smell of marijuana smoke blends with the floral notes.

Turning toward the scent, I take the steps necessary to reach Ella. It takes me ten minutes to find where she’s run off to. She sits on the short step of a cedar gazebo with her knees pulled to her chest. She holds a joint in one hand, watching me with a hint of wariness as I approach.

“Sharing is caring, Ella.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that she’s alone, but I am surprised to find her sitting under a gazebo in the middle of Misha’s garden, smoking a joint.

A thin rivulet of smoke comes from the end of Ella’s blunt, and she raises an eyebrow as she inhales. The cherry at the end of the spliff glows bright.

“I don’t want to test your sobriety, H,” she says after blowing out a lungful of smoke.

“If there’s ever a time to indulge, it’s now, don’t you think?” I place the roses on the bench near my hip.

I haven’t smoked in quite a while, definitely not since August became my full focus. And while my sobriety coach might shake their head at my indulgence, the fact is we all almost died less than twenty-four hours ago, and taking the edge off is warranted.

Ella hums. “Touché.” She hands me the J, and I don’t hesitate to bring it to my lips and inhale deeply.

“Where did you get this?” I ask, holding in the smoke.

When I exhale, she says, “Max.” Then she shrugs.

Ah. Of course.

“Hm,” I say, taking another hit before passing it back to her. It’s been more than a year since I last smoked, and the buzz starts to flow in my blood. I feel the wash of relaxation ride down my face before hitting the roadblock of my overly tense neck muscles.

“We need to come up with a plan,” I say, leaning against the gazebo post marking the entrance. Ella takes one hit and then another before passing the joint back to me.

“Wait, you want me to help you?” Her eyes sparkle, and when she turns to me, she looks like a kid again.

She is a kid. Barely an adult.

“Yeah,” I say. “I do. You know how this world works. Where we can go.”

“You want to run?” Ella stops the press of her words by grabbing the blunt from me and drawing hard on the smoke.

After holding the air in her lungs, she exhales as if releasing the thought. She hands it back.

“I have some ideas. Ideas that will keep us safe,” I say.

I think.

Another hit, one I take my time holding in. I exhale through my mouth and nostrils. As the smoke floats up into the sky, I stare as it dissipates.

“Do tell,” Ella says. “Don’t keep me in suspense.” She’s edgy, and I take a moment to really look at her.

“So. The big elephant in the room. Oh, elephants, I guess. Mom is alive and well. Misha the Mafiya Boss is our half brother,” I say, changing the subject.

Ella rocks back to balance her weight in a crunch for a moment before moving straight again.

“Yeah, that’s a mindfuck,” she draws out.

To say the fucking least. I pass her the blunt.

“I…” she begins, but when I look at her, she snaps her mouth shut.

“What’s up, Ellie?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath. “The biggest question I have is ‘how?’ How could she stay away for this long—nearly twenty years—and not try to come to us? I mean, I’m happy she’s alive. I think. But I was a baby, barely two when she died. I can’t imagine how…” She takes a hit and passes it back to me without meeting my gaze.

“The how doesn’t matter, Ella. All that matters is what’s happening right now. Feel what you feel about it,” I say. I sense Winter’s effect on me as I talk about emotions.

“And what do you feel, H?” Her eyes are big as she stares up at me like I might have all the answers.

I don’t. I wish I did.

“I feel that we’re in a weird place right now. It’s difficult to know what’s real and what’s fake. I feel paranoid, but I’m trying not to be…but then another part of me feels very strongly that my paranoia is protection. For me. For us.”

I scratch the side of my nose, uncomfortable with the rising stress that nullifies the effects of the pot.

“What matters at this exact moment is that our family is safe,” I say.

“And does that include Mom? Or Misha too, I guess.”

I shake my head, my response immediate. “Not at all. At least, not for me.”

Ella nods slowly and stares at her feet. “And if I want it to include them?” she asks.

My throat tightens. “I don’t trust them, Ellie.”

I won’t live if anything happens to anyone else in my family either way. I won’t survive it.

There’s another passing of the joint.

“Do we really have the luxury not to trust them?” she asks in a smaller voice.

I know what’s at stake here. We’re really facing wholesale extermination if The Legion succeeds. When I left the war room, I took the provided tablet with me and sat on the bed in the foreign room. I read how The Engineers lead The Legion, controlling The Directors who do their bidding and still operate across the globe.

This shit runs deep and wide; it’s a cancer that will take over the world without a doubt if given the right fuel.

BwP’s technology is that fuel.

“The people who raided Amelia Manor weren’t looking for August. They were looking for you,” I say. That part of the information was hazy—their motivations behind wanting Ella. But I have my suspicions.

Her eyebrows go up and her hand shakes as she rushes to bring the smoke to her mouth.

“They wanted…me? Why?” She pats her pockets, likely looking for a sugar fix to help her stabilize.

“I don’t know. But what I do know is that to end this and get us back to some sense of normalcy, I have to do something.”

Because fuck if I’ll let them use Ella.

Ella stares at me, a curious look in her gaze. “What aren’t you telling me, Hunter Brigham?”

But before I can respond with a lie, Leo’s voice comes from the vicinity of my left shoulder.

“Mind if I join you?” Leo says. When I turn toward him, I notice his gaze on Ella’s hand and the joint she holds between her delicate fingertips.

“Might as well,” Ella mutters. She points the smoke in Leo’s direction. “Want some?”

Leo gives her a disapproving look.

Ella shrugs. “Suit yourself.” She takes another hit.

I suck in the smoke deep when Ella hands it over to me.

“And what will you do with Winter and August? Hide them away and play the martyr? Or are you planning on us all living in hiding forever? If I recall correctly, running hasn’t done you much good in the long term,” Ella says, her tone grave.

With that statement, all my anxiety comes rushing back to the surface. She’s right. I’ve kept away from her and August because of my fear of putting a target on their backs.

And I was right.

Now, I have August and Ella and Winter…and we’re bringing another life into the mix.

But that was your plan, right?

I shrug. I want to seem casual, aloof, but the action is more to shake off the guilt.

“Hunter, you can’t go off on a suicide mission. Let’s think of anything else,” Ella says.

Leo’s head swings toward me. “What, H?”

I take another hit and pass it back to Ella.

I inhale slowly, letting the morning air soak into my lungs. I shrug.

He grunts in response.

I focus on the sounds of crickets in the distance.

“So, BwP,” Leo says, changing the subject. “We have to do something about Panacea.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Fuck if I know,” he says, running an agitated hand through his hair.

“BwP doesn’t matter right now. Especially if these fuckers are about to pull an Enders Game,” I reply.

Leo takes up space on the pillar opposite mine, but it’s Ella who says, “What matters the most right now is figuring out a way to get out of this that doesn’t include anyone being put in direct danger. I don’t want you to die, H. Believe it or not, I’m rather partial to having you around.” She tries to deliver the words as a joke, but her chin trembles shortly before tears start running down her cheeks.

“Shit, sorry,” Ella says. “I shouldn’t be crying right now.” She wipes her eyes with her wrists, and my heart clenches.

“Ellie,” I say, my voice soft. I open my arms, and she hops up to run into them. “It’s okay to cry.”

She lets out a choked chuckle, then says, “Yeah, you’re one to talk.”

I run my knuckles back and forth on the top of her head like I did when we were kids.

“Hey!” she says, laughing.

“That’s better,” I add. “No one is going to die.”

Please. Please, God.

“You’re really not thinking of running, are you?” The look in her eyes shows she’s on the brink of emotional devastation.

I sigh, clapping a hand on each of her shoulders. “I’ll figure out another way. For now, go do something to boost your serotonin.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Veronica said she found a massive bag of Extreme Sour Patch Kids in the pantry, soooooo see ya later.”

She begins to walk away but stops short. Pivoting on her heel, she crushes me in another hug.

“I love you, H.” And then she’s gone.

Leo and I rest in silence for a moment, breathing the air as the marijuana smoke dissipates.

“We have to destroy Panacea.” Leo’s words couldn’t have stunned me more, not because I don’t know it’s the inevitable end for our key technology, but because he actually said them.

“Are you sure?” My throat burns.

He nods slowly, his gaze far off. “Even with them having it, we can’t let anyone else have it either,” he says.

I drop my head to the pillar. “I know.”

More silence.

“Listen, H. You have a family now. You have August and Winter to think about.”

Yes. Winter and August and Ella and Veronica and fuck, even Kitty.

And another life is growing every day in Winter. An uneasy feeling swells within my chest as I realize that in the craziness of everything, I never did get around to telling Leo about the pregnancy. Winter doesn’t want too many people to know for the next few weeks, but Leo is my best friend, and he should know.

Winter would understand; she’s told Veronica, and I’ve told Ella.

I tilt my head in Leo’s direction.

I don’t know why I haven’t confided in him.

Maybe it’s because you know he’ll ask hard questions that you don’t want to answer.

“Winter’s pregnant,” I blurt out, and if circumstances were different, I’d choke with laughter at the look of shocked confusion spreading across his face.

“Did you…plan that?” he asks, his words careful.

Did we plan this?

A distant part of my brain realizes that while we may not have exactly planned to create a new life…I certainly did.

And why is that, Hunter?

Veronica’s accusations ring in my ears, so I shrug in response to Leo’s question.

“Well, this makes my point even more, H.”

“What the fuck do you expect me to do, Leo? I’m not going to let them use Ella. She’s gone through enough.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t fucking know, Hunter. All of this is so incredibly fucked. I just…I don’t want anything to happen to anyone.”

I let out a breath.

“Oh. I didn’t expect to see anyone else here.” Leo and I both turn to watch my mother as she approaches us. The sun reflects off her dark, wavy hair.

I turn away and stare hard at the side of Leo’s face.

“Amelia,” he says, stepping down from the gazebo until he’s a foot away from her.

“How? I…” He’s flustered, and for a man who uses so few words, it’d be comical if this situation weren’t so enraging.

“Leo, it’s so good to see you again. You’re all grown up now!” She lets out the delicate laugh that I’ve heard in my dreams for the last two decades, and the sound of it is like sandpaper over my deepest wounds.

“Yeah, growth is what happens in the span of twenty years, Mother.” My tone is biting, and when she looks down at the pavers beneath her feet, kicking a piece of gravel, I feel a slight jolt of remorse.

I’m likely not being fair to her. I haven’t heard her out. Maybe she had reasons…reasons for leaving us behind.

Reasons for leaving me behind.

But do her reasons really fucking matter?

“H, c’mon, man,” Leo says. “Your mother is alive. That’s a miracle. I’d give anything to have my mother back from the grave.”

He keeps his words light, but I hear the grief behind them. As the statement lands, I feel guilt hit me from another angle.

“No,” I grind out. I turn to look her in the eye. “She made a choice. She chose to stay away.”

The three of us stand in awkward silence.

“Hunter, I know you’re angry,” she says. “But can you give me a chance to explain? There’s so much you need to know—so much you should know.”

My eyebrows drop over my hard gaze. “More than there being a genocidal secret society who wishes to use my sister—your daughter—as part of some fucked societal cleansing? Let’s not forget that they wanted me to fuck Blair to produce some kind of genetic jackpot.”

She releases a humorless chuckle. “Yes, there’s more to explain than that.”

“Well, in your explanation, will you tell me why you abandoned us to a fucking psychopath? Will you explain why you left me to suffer?”

“Son,” she says, her voice choked.

“You don’t get to call me that. Don’t call me that, ever.” My voice is a shout, and nearby birds sing and flap their wings at the echo of my rage.

Leo steps closer to my mom, placing an arm around her shoulder.

I have a flash of August in our kitchen in Amelia Manor when he said the same words to me.

“H, you’re being really unfair.” Leo pulls my mom closer to him, and she sniffles but squares her shoulders.

“No, Leo, he’s right to be livid. He really is. And I’m sorry, so—Hunter. I’m so, so sorry.”

I stare at her hard, but I don’t see her. All I see are the people who hurt me, who tortured me at the command and blessing of Benjamin Brigham. I see her dying and the devastation her death caused. I see how I ran away from all the things that terrified me and hurt me, and I see her here…standing tall…having lived a life without those terrors.

While I was stuck in Hell.

I swipe the forgotten roses off the bench, crushing them a bit in the process. One rose hangs at a nearly ninety-degree angle, pointing downward and signaling its soon-approaching death.

“I wish you would have stayed dead,” I say. Taking in Leo’s disapproving stare and my mother’s teary face, I walk away from both of them.

Sure, she wants to explain. But it will be on my terms when I allow it.

Control. I’m in control of this.

Even in control of silencing the dead.

SIX

WINTER

Eventually, another nurse came into my room to wake me and remove my IV. She tried to make small talk with me, but I was so out of it I didn’t have much to say.

And I wasn’t out of it because of meds. I was out of it because my heart was in the active process of breaking.

Another person, also dressed in black and sporting guns, ushered me to the wing where Hunter and I were to stay. Ella has a room down the hall, as do August, Veronica, and Leo. I wanted to smile at the small dog bed in the corner of the room, which Kitty took no time jumping into and passing right back out. But the fact that the room smelled like Hunter, but he was nowhere to be found, caused another wave of tears to fall.

When I saw the bouquet of roses, Knock Outs, just like the ones he got me on our day date, the tears turned into sobs. I pushed the crystal vase they adorned to a far corner of the room.

A sad, scary truth that I’ve had to face in the last several hours is this: Hunter Brigham might never let me all the way in, and I’m not sure I can live with that.

Or that I should live with that.

Veronica’s question rings in my ear. Should I trust Hunter?

My heart knows that Hunter would never hurt me. He’d never intentionally put me in harm’s way. But the reality is that his life is dangerous. He has to see that. And because danger surrounds him, it’s imperative that he is transparent with me.

Except he’s doing the exact opposite.

You know what you have to do. You have to be honest, Winter.

It’s nighttime—dinner time—and my stomach cramps so violently from hunger that it amplifies my nausea. Still, I seek out August, because if nothing else, I need to see how he’s doing.

When I reach August’s room, I listen outside his door for a moment, trying to gauge if there’s any movement on the other side. When I turn the handle and peek in, there’s a lump on the bed under a single sheet.

August.

Movement in the corner of the room makes me jump, but the woman who rises from the chair puts her finger against her lips and motions for me to exit with her.

She wears black hospital scrubs that don’t hide the full sleeves of tribal tattoos. In the hallway lighting, the first thing I notice besides her dark waist-length hair is the cultural tattoo on her face. The vertical lines on her chin and ornamental markings above her eyebrows are the most beautiful art I’ve seen.

She’s stunning.

“You must be Winter,” she says. “I’m Halle. I was a nurse before I came here.”

I clear my throat and stick my hand out to shake hers.

“How is he?” I ask.

She releases a puff of air, but a smile accompanies it.

“Physically, he’ll be fine. He was given nasal Versed, which sedated him, but luckily, it’s short-acting.”

I nod. “And not physically? Where is he at emotionally right now?”

She grimaces. “He’s had a rough time transitioning here. Alison has been with him for much of the day. She was a social worker in her past life.”

Past life. Is my life as I know it a past life now?

“I’m staying with him through the night. The doctor also gave him something to help him sleep, so he should rest through the night,” she says.

“Thank you for watching over him,” I reply. When she opens the door to return to her post, I stretch to get another glimpse of August.

I forget sometimes that he’s just a kid. Yes, he’s a teenager, and he’s got a lot of opinions about a lot of things.

But the truth is, August still needs people. Parents.

I’m in that role now. A stepparent. Sort of.

Halle shuts the door.

I make a mental note to check on August in the morning, no matter what. He comes first.

It takes a few minutes and several turns, but I eventually walk into the second kitchen—the assistant told me there are three—and help myself to the refrigerator.

Neatly labeled matching containers greet me as I revel in the cool blast coming through the open door. My wound doesn’t hurt quite as much now that I’ve rested and have a pain pill on board, but it reminds me it’s there whenever I move my arm.

“Oh, sorry.”

I turn from the open fridge and face the soft feminine voice. Amelia Brigham stands at the narrow entrance to the kitchen.

“Are you all staying on this wing? I’ll move to the other one if you want me to,” she says. She folds and unfolds her arms across her chest, and I notice she tilts her body so that her scarred side is out of my line of vision.

“Yes, we’re staying here, but, um, you don’t have to leave,” I say, struggling to find my words.

This is Hunter’s mother.

His mother. Returned from the dead. Hunter has to be all tied up over this—in fact, I know he is.

I can’t imagine how I’d feel if my parents suddenly waltzed into the room.

But then, actually, I do. I’d be shocked but then overjoyed. Grateful. I’d want to spend as much time with them as humanly possible.

I’d realize the gift in front of me.

Instead, Hunter is angry. So, so angry.

And I don’t know how to reach him, despite all my training.

Despite loving him.

“Please,” I say, pulling out two containers without looking at the contents. “Please stay. I’d love to spend time with you.”

The shocked look that flits across her face almost breaks my heart. Hunter has so soundly rejected her in this short span of time, and that has to hurt.

“Thank you, Winter,” she says. I realize I didn’t tell her my name, nor was I formally introduced.

“I’m Hunter’s, um—” I straighten my top to give myself time to figure out how to describe myself. “I’m Hunter’s girlfriend.”

She smiles. It’s a sad look, given the slight sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Hmm…you’re more than that to him, I suspect,” she says.

I look down, heat rising to my face. “I love him,” I say.

“I can see that.” I glance in her direction, and despite the nerves coursing through me, I smile back.

“Am I safe to assume you know everything about me? You know, given the nature of the company you keep,” I ask as I track Amelia’s movements to sit on one of the luxury barstools.

Assessing the containers on the island counter in front of me, I check the labels for the reheating instructions.

Pasta a la Vodka and Italian Wedding Soup.

“Do you have a preference?” I ask her, even though she hasn’t responded to my earlier question.

Presenting the options, she says, “I’ll have the pasta.” I pre-heat the oven and remove the plastic tops from the heat-safe base.

As I pull out a pot from the third cabinet I open, she decides to speak.

“You’re having my second grandchild.”

I look at her over my shoulder and try to gauge her response to that information. But my eyebrows snap down when I realize I can’t really tell what she’s thinking. And it’s not because of her scars. Her expression is flat, giving nothing away.

I hum in response. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about me,” I say, tension causing my back muscles to tighten.

I turn back to the pot and dump the soup in, then I throw her pasta dish into the oven, even though it’s not quite done pre-heating.

With the burner on low, I face her.

“I know that…” She drops her head into her hands and takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Winter.”

There’s so much depth to the emotion in her words that I want to rush over and comfort her. But then she stuns me when she says, “I knew your mother. You look so much like her.”

Pain radiates in my constricted throat, so I raise my hand to my neck. “You knew her?”

Amelia nods. “Such a smart woman. She really wanted to change the world.” She looks down at the countertop, winding her fingers together. “But she was only one person.”

Just when I’m about to say something, anything, to break the tense silence following her declaration, she says, “I’m really sorry for everything you’ve gone through.”

She lifts her gaze to mine, and it’s perplexing how her face cracks and emotion shines through.

She feels deeply, but she puts it all behind a wall.

Did that start before Benjamin Brigham wrecked her life?

“Thank you,” I reply.

We both fall into silence again.

“I’d hoped that you would have gotten my note. Misha and I disagreed vehemently about whether to intervene or not, but….”

My eyebrows crease. “Note?”

She lifts the side of her mouth—her best approximation at a grin. Her eyes are sad, though.

“I’d slipped a note in your mailbox before Christmas. I’d hoped you’d see it and bring it to Hunter. Maybe get more security on you. But then you two broke up and I saw that things were moving forward with him and Blair, and—”

“Wait,” I cut in, “You…a note?” I think back to that haze of time around the holidays last year. Then, like a beacon in my memory, I recall the envelope that was so out of place when sifting through my mail.

But Veronica’s questions about my relationship with Hunter distracted me, and then the man himself showed up.

And then we made love.

And we broke up.

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” I say, releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth. “I didn’t open it. I got sidetracked.”

Tension blooms at the base of my neck, causing my shoulders to bunch.

“Yeah,” Amelia says, because what else is there to say?

“Thank you for trying,” I add.

She hums before tapping her fingers on the white marble countertop, signaling a change in topic.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” she says.

“How long is a while?”

“Once you moved into D.C.”

Two years?

“Why? I only met Hunter a year ago.”

She smiles. “Like I said, I knew your mother.”

“I see,” I say. “And how long have you been keeping an eye on Hunter and Ella?”

That was the wrong thing to say because her face shuts down again. Feeling awkward, I rise and turn toward the stove. Pulling open the drawers, I don’t speak again until I locate a wooden spoon.

“Do you know who will tell me what the hell is going on around here? Your son isn’t being very forthcoming,” I say, my back to her.

But when she still doesn’t respond, I turn around to find Hunter at the entrance. Amelia’s posture is rigid, and I know that she knows he’s there.

“Hey, H,” I say in a cautious voice. “Do you want something to eat?”

Awk-ward.

He doesn’t reply to me. Instead, he continues staring at his mother and says, “Why are you everywhere I fucking go?” The menace in his statement makes me want to cry.

“Hunter James Brigham!” I yell, shocked by his attitude.

But I shouldn’t be.

Amelia gathers herself, exhibiting poise so gracefully that it’s clear why she was a beauty queen.

“Thanks for warming up the food for me, Winter. But I’m going to go back to my room. I was just looking for…I don’t know,” she says.

Spinning on her heel, she practically runs out of the kitchen.

I open my mouth to call after her when Hunter interrupts. “Don’t.”

I blink once, twice, three times in rapid succession before saying, “Hunter, don’t you think—”

“Don’t.” The force of his anger behind the single word causes me to take a large step back. Anger quickly follows my sense of unease.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but snap it closed again. Turning my back to him, I say, “I warmed soup for myself, and there’s food in the oven. Your mom was supposed to eat it, but you can have it if you want.”

Another frozen pause.

“Do you want me to make you a—” I squeak when Hunter pushes me aside, opens the oven, and grabs the bubbling dish barehanded. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the entire thing into the under-counter trashcan.

“Okay, caveman, what the actual fuck!” I spin away from him and rush to turn the taps on cool. “Jesus, you can’t do shit like that! The oven is set to 400 degrees!” Lunging for him, I grab him by the wrist and drag him to the sink. Testing the temperature with my fingertips, I shove his hand under the water.

Hunter doesn’t respond. Instead, he stares at his hand as it turns an angry red.

“Stay here,” I command.

I’m angry, but I try to access my empathy.

Returning to the stove, I turn off the oven and the burner with my soup, transferring the pot to a cool eye.

The soup slows from the gentle boil, and I use the time I watch the pot to calm my racing heart.

Center yourself, Winter. Control. You have control of yourself…even if you don’t have control of anything else.

I turn back to the man who drives me crazy in so many ways. The water still runs as Hunter stares at the stream. Silent.

He’s different. I haven’t seen this side of him. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him hurt. But this? This is a completely different emotion, and I struggle to make sense of it.

“Hunter, what do you need?” I whisper the words, closing my eyes. I want to feel him. I want to breathe him in.

Are you safe, Winter? Are you safe with him?

Hunter’s long exhale forces me to open my eyes. He grabs a towel from the drawer next to the sink and wets it. Turning to me after shutting off the water, he keeps his head bowed and presses the rag to his injury. But when I capture the devastated look on his face, I struggle to stay rooted in the spot.

“Hunter, please say something. Anything.”

We need to talk, communicate.

So I give him the floor.

Each second feels like a lifetime while I wait for him to speak. His distress is plain on his face, but I don’t rush him—I don’t stifle his processing. Between finding out I’m pregnant to the car chase to everything that’s happened around the raid, the last seventy-two hours have been a lot.

They’ve been life-changing for him.

“Sunbeam,” he says. His voice is raw, pained.

Devastated.

“Can I please hold you?” He lifts his eyes to mine after he says the words, and I let out a choked sob as I rush to him.

“You never have to ask that, Hunter,” I say as soon as my face presses into his chest.

“Baby, I almost lost you. I’m sorry. I should be able to push that aside because ‘almost’ isn’t real. But I was so close to losing you and August, and things are…things are fucked, Sunbeam.”

I press my mouth to the space beneath his collarbone.

“Hunter, tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.”

I place my hand on his cheek, forcing his face to nearly touch mine.

“We are a team, Hunter Brigham. We are in this together.”

Hunter shudders and presses his forehead to mine. I close my eyes and his minty breath fans across my lips.

“I don’t deserve you, Winter Leigh Vaughan,” he whispers.

“No, H,” I reply. “We deserve each other. Because our happiness is our birthright, and we’ve been denied it for way too long.”

He kisses me, and it’s the sweetest, most tender action I’ve experienced in a while.

Because in his kiss, he vows so much. He vows to love me. He vows to cherish me.

He vows to be mine.

Mine. All mine.

“There’s so much we need to talk about, and I’m not even sure where to begin,” I murmur, finding words to speak. I pull away from him, and he gives me a chagrined look.

And it’s true: I don’t know where to begin. There’s the fact that his mother has returned from the dead.

There’s this talk of The Legion and The Resistance and who is actually on our side and who wants to see us dead.

There’s the reality that things were not good between us when all this happened.

“First, let me feed you,” he says. He guides me to the stool and kisses the top of my head when I’m seated. Then he takes time to find the dishes and spoons and ladles soup into the bowl.

“Here you are, baby,” he whispers close to my ear as he places the hot dish in front of me.

He stares at me hard, and I realize he’s waiting for me to actually eat, so I lift the spoon to my mouth and take a delicate taste.

After I take three sips, I put my spoon down.

“Okay, I’ll choose the topic of discussion. There are three things I want to talk to you about. First, Rio and Jared. Do you know how they are?”

Hunter cracks his neck from side to side.

“I saw Rio. He’s fine.” He looks past me for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “I heard Jared was in the medical bay still, but he’s going to be all right.”

“Thank God,” I say, releasing the tension in my spine. Even though I literally held Rio at gunpoint, I really like him. I don’t want him to die. Same for Jared.

“Jared needed surgery, but they were able to get to him in time to save his leg.” Hunter makes a strange face.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Falling silent, I stare at the Italian Wedding Soup and get vaguely nauseous the more I think about last night.

There was so much fucking blood. Blood everywhere.

Rallying myself, I say, “Okay, so my second question is—”

“Take at least three more bites of your food. Then I’ll answer your next question,” he says.

I lean on my open palm, elbow on the table, and quirk my eyebrow.

“Oh, really?” I say lazily.

He simply nods at the soup and folds his arms across his chest, widening his stance.

“Fine,” I grumble, quickly shoveling one, two, three spoonfuls into my mouth. “Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when you finish the bowl,” he says, lowering his voice to that sexy growl that always manages to make me wet.

Down, girl.

“Okay, my second question is…can we go home?” I bring my thumb to my mouth, ready to bite the nail. I lower my hand.

Hunter quirks his mouth to the side, thinking with his arms still crossed. Inhaling deeply, he says, “I don’t think so, Sunbeam.”

I try to keep my tears at bay. “Like, ever?” My voice is thin, strangled.

He rubs the back of my neck, pressing into the tense muscles on my good side.

“I don’t know about forever. But for the time being, we need to stay locked down. At least until we figure out what our next moves are.”

And who is “we?”

When a tear plops on my lap, I sniffle and wipe my face with the back of my hand.

“What did they do with Rex?” I ask, my voice hoarse. I think the image of the bodyguard’s head half blown off will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Hunter rubs the back of his neck before saying, “Misha will have him cremated.”

We’re both silent for a long moment. I look back at my food; my appetite has completely vanished.

“Rex didn’t have much family, but I’ll make sure they are taken care of. He knew the risks of the job and that he could die at any moment. I’m sure his loved ones knew too. Either way, they’ll have his remains and the money that’s promised to go to them in this situation.”

Hunter seems so detached from his words, as if he isn’t speaking about the death of a person who was close to our family.

I bite my lip and nod. “That sounds good, H,” I reply.

Hunter leans on the counter, pressing his hands together as he leans forward on his elbows. He keeps his body still as he looks at me directly.

“Okay, so,” I take another deep breath. “Third question. What are we doing next?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I don’t let go of the question.

“Sunbeam, how do I put this,” he begins.

I frown. “You ‘put this’ in whatever context equates to the full truth. It’s quite simple, Hunter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitches, and he straightens before taking a step. He settles a foot away from me with his hip leaning against the island, his arms crossed.

“Winter, this is dangerous,” he says.

“You think I don’t know that?” I point to my bandaged shoulder.

His face hardens.

“Winter, I need for you to sit this out. We’re safe here in Misha’s compound. Hell, the place used to be a fucking military base. I’ll figure it out from here.”

Both of my eyebrows are damn near in my hairline.

“Oh, really?” I deadpan.

He doesn’t add anything further, but when I scoff, he moves to grab a cup from the cupboard. A few moments later, a tall glass of ice water materializes next to my now-cold soup.

I push the bowl and glass away.

“Winter,” he grits through his tight jaw. He pulls my seat back, spinning me to face him in one smooth movement. When he leans over me with one palm flat on the counter and the other grasping my good shoulder, he gets so close that I can count the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

“I’m trying here, Winter. I really am. But you keep pushing and pushing, and why can’t you just be content to rest? To heal? To grow our child?”

Anger causes my shoulders to go up, which pisses me off because the action hurts.

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to sit back while the men go off to war? Yeah, that works,” I bite out.

“No, Sunbeam, you’re supposed to let me take care of you.”

I snap. “Can you take care of me?”

The words are hard, harsh, and when I utter them, Hunter looks stricken. I wish I could swallow them back. But then…do I really have this question in my mind?

Can he take care of me? Can he keep me safe?

I cast my eyes downward, staring at his bare feet. When I look back up to him, his face morphs. And he grins.

“Hmm, let’s see, Sunbeam,” he says, his voice so low that I feel it in my clit.

“See what?” I whisper. Our mouths are inches from each other’s.

His grin turns into a smile.

SEVEN

HUNTER

Ilearned long ago that the one person who can bring me to the edge of sanity and keep me teetered there is Winter Leigh Vaughan.

I’ve grown as a human over the course of our relationship. I don’t want to keep her out of the loop. But I’m still struggling with the unknown, and if I bring her into this more, how much more danger will that put her in? We’re in this shit now, and the thing that’s fucking with me the most is that I can’t guarantee her safety. No matter how fucking much I want to.

So when Winter challenges me with those six shitty words, I want to shatter right here. Because in the way she most needs, I’m unsure.

But there’s one thing I am sure about.

Can you take care of me?

“Yeah, baby. I’ll take care of you.” I run my nose up the side of her neck, and I’m mesmerized by the movement of her throat as she swallows.

“Stop distracting me. You’re shutting me out,” she says, her breaths coming quicker.

“No. I’m taking the opportunity to remind both of us that we’re alive.” I nip at her earlobe, and a visible tremor runs through her body.

“Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” she asks. I pinpoint the moment when she gives herself a stern talking-to, divorcing her body from the lust that’s so palpable between us.

“Okay, Sunbeam. Keep asking me questions and I’ll answer them,” I say, following the words with a kiss to her collarbone. Her breathy sigh straddles the edge of turning into a moan.

“What is The Legion, specifically?” She grasps my jaw with one hand, pulling me around to face her. Her eyes flit to my lips, and I bite my bottom one.

She silences a squeak.

“The tl;dr answer is that The Legion is a group of elitist fucks who have a plan to perpetrate a mass genocide to create their version of utopia.”

Her head jerks back a fraction, and I run my finger along her collarbone. It’s a feather-light touch.

“Okay,” she says lightly. “Who makes up The Legion?”

I trace my hand from her collarbone to the back of her neck, squeezing the tense muscles more gently than I usually would because of her injury.

“A bunch of people do. There are people who are connected to this organization all throughout the world. Some are higher up than others.”

“You’ve only answered part of my question—oh, God!” She groans when I ghost my lips down her chest and between her breasts, crouching so that I’m level with the right spot.

I smile against her flesh. “Be more specific, then,” I whisper.

Her hand plunges into my hair, gripping the strands at the roots. “What if August walks in? Or anybody, for that matter?” she whispers, a slight edge of tension weaving through her voice.

I nod and pull away, taking a moment to analyze the control panel on the wall near the entrance before pressing a button I’m sure will close off the room. Turning my back to the whirring mechanics of the sliding opaque pocket doors, I stalk back to Winter, returning to my position.

“Now, where were we?” I murmur, planting my face back into her chest.

She laughs, and it’s a light sound. “August? Have you seen him?”

I breathe deeply. I’ve seen him, but he was so sedated that all he could do was sleep.

“Yes,” I say, working my way up to the sweet spot where her neck and shoulder meet. I sigh against her. “He’ll need help working through this.”

I feel Winter’s head move in a nod.

“And we’ll be there for him,” she says, resolved.

I kiss her skin.

“Your father. Blair. Do these people have anything to do with The Legion?” After a long moment of silence, she sighs and pulls my head back so that I look up at her.

“Yes. In fact, my father and Morris Winthrope are sort of in charge. Well, were sort of in charge,” I say. I keep my eyes open and trained on her face. Because if I close them, if I blink, I’ll see the melted remains of my father again. “The ultimate head of The Legion is a figure called The Architect. No one knows who that person is, but the idea is that if The Resistance can get rid of that person, they can end The Legion for good.”

“Who is in charge of The Resistance?”

“Misha is,” I tell her.

“What do they need from you?”

“I don’t know,” I say. What I don’t say is, “And that scares the fuck out of me.”

“What they’re really after is information. Locations. Things that I might have known or seen in my time with my father. Knowledge that might lead Misha and the team to the very top of The Legion so they can cut them off at the neck. They think I might know where that information is.”

I don’t know. Well, I don’t think I know.

“Well, tell them what you know so that we can get this all done and go back home,” she says, her voice turning pleading.

“It’s not that simple, baby.”

She pushes me away and I have to catch myself before I fall.

I straighten in one smooth movement.

“It’s never that simple for you, is it, Hunter? You know what, I’ll get the answers for myself.” With that, she rises and picks up her bowl, heading for the sink. I press behind her when she pours the rest of her uneaten soup down the drain and turns on the faucet.

Putting my hand over her womb, over our child, I press her back into my body. Her head drops to her chest as the water flows down the pipes.

“I’m answering your questions,” I whisper in her ear.

She shivers.

“But it seems you still want to fight.”

She shakes her head, lifting it to stare straight ahead. “No, I don’t want to fight you, Hunter. I want to live in peace. To be happy. Safe.”

“And to the best of my ability, while you are here, you are those things.”

She drops her head back against my shoulder.

“Hunter, I…” When her voice breaks and a choked sob exits her lips, I spin her around and crash her mouth into mine.

She wraps her arms around my torso, but I pull back at her pained, sharp intake of air.

“Easy, Sunbeam,” I say, putting her injured arm back to her side.

“I want to feel you, H.” She brings her lips to mine.

I chuckle.

“Nah, because you’re unsure if I can take care of you, right?”

She pulls back and blinks at me, her mouth gaping open and closed as she struggles to find her words.

“But let me remind you, baby,” I whisper, leaning close to her. “How many have I made bleed for you?”

I pull back as she trembles in response, but her gaze doesn’t waver from mine.

“How many did I make beg for mercy for harming you?”

“Hunter,” she says, her voice whisper soft.

“Have I not promised you safety? Comfort?” I kiss the side of her mouth. “Revenge?”

She nods. “Yes, you have.”

“So what makes you think that I wouldn’t give my last breath to make sure you’re taken care of?”

One. Two. Three.

Winter jumps and wraps her arm around my neck, bringing me into a fierce kiss. I bite at her lip as her mouth attacks mine, and I spin to sit her on the island counter.

“Don’t you remember you’re precious to me?” I grit out, moving to unbutton her loose linen shirt.

“H, please make it better,” she groans. When she’s bared to me, I pull her sensitive nipple into my mouth.

“Hunter!” she gasps. I’m mesmerized by the flush running down her chest, turning her skin into a hypnotizing rose gold.

“What are we to each other?” I demand, pulling her straight up by the back of her neck. To gentle the movement, I trace lazy circles around her nipple with my tongue.

“We’re lovers,” she pants. I kiss between her breasts, moving my finger down to the waistband of her stretchy leggings.

“What else?” I say, my voice low, rumbling.

“We’re friends,” she says, her words choked as I slide my palm down to cup her mound. Her sex is hot, drenching my fingers.

“What else, Sunbeam?” I circle her clit in slow movements, and her hips rise up from the counter.

“We’re—we’re soulmates,” she says. Her voice breaks, and I cover her mouth with mine to swallow her scream as my finger plunges in and out of her hot channel, and the heel of my hand presses firm against her button.

“God!” she nearly shouts on an exhale.

“So you do remember now?”

She nods her head with vigor.

I grab the back of her head, restricting her movements.

Control yourself.

“Good fucking girl,” I whisper. She clenches on my fingers and hisses when her injured arm jerks on reflex.

Breaking away, I say, “Don’t tense up, Winter. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“H-how?” she stutters.

“Let me get you there, baby. You deserve it because you remembered who you belong to.”

At the words, she goes boneless; her spine and neck release tension and she would have cracked her head on the marble if I hadn’t kept her upright with my arm around her back.

“See, I’ve got you, baby. Let go,” I say. I’m so, so hard that the rough denim of my jeans abrades my cock, even with the protection of my boxers between my skin and the fabric.

But watching her break apart, watching her trust me and let go….

“Come,” I command. “Come for me, baby.”

And she does.

Instead of clenching her body to chase her release, she lets me control her climax. All tension in her body centers on her pulsating cunt around my fingers.

“That’s it. Such a good girl for me, Winter,” I rasp, and I bite my lip so hard I draw blood to prevent myself from exploding right alongside her.

“Hunter, what are you doing to me?” she mumbles as I allow her to rest back on the counter. With a firm circle to the roof of her pussy, I feel something loosen in my chest when another gentle wave crashes over her.

“Baby, I’m doing what I plan to do for the rest of my life.” I lean down and kiss her right over her navel. “I’m loving you with everything I have.”

“THERE’S MORE you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?” Winter’s words are low in the darkness, and I pull her closer into my body when she whispers them.

The moonlight makes all the shadows in our bedroom a hazy gray-blue as it blends with the dimmed light of the forgotten television.

Winter craved comfort after she broke in my arms in Misha’s kitchen, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t give her. There’s no part of me she doesn’t already have.

So when she curled into me and cried as she sat on the hard marble, all her pain and terror and sadness spilling out of her as she wept, I did one of the only things I could do. I carried her to bed and cuddled with her as we watched a movie.

Yes. Hunter Brigham. Cuddling.

Even though we’re both covered from head to toe—Winter in pajamas, me in joggers and a T-shirt—I try not to make a big deal out of it.

The fact that this is the first time we’ve shared a bed in more than two days isn’t lost on me. Before the raid, things were tense. Winter had kicked me out of our room.

I don’t blame her. I can freely admit now that I was an ass to her.

Mean Girls blended into Legally Blonde before she dozed off. Somewhere around the time when Elle Woods went off to Harvard Law, I’d given her another dose of her pain pill. And even though she went to sleep, I stayed awake. Now the television brand logo bounces around the dim screen.

I pull her close as I contemplate her words.

“What else aren’t you telling me, Hunter? You’re troubled, that’s why you’re still awake.”

She’s right. I wanted to fall into a deep sleep alongside her because if I need anything besides Winter alive and whole next to me, I need sleep.

I kiss her forehead in response before sitting up against the headboard.

“Okay, Sunbeam. We’re a team, right?”

She sits up to face me, her back to the TV. “Yes, of course. That’s why I’m so desperate for you to let me in. Let me help, Hunter.” She moves to sit on her folded legs.

“Hunter, do you remember what you vowed to me in our gazebo? We’d made love that morning, and everything was so perfect.”

She sniffs as tears begin to clog her throat. I do remember that moment.

“You promised that we’d both get revenge and that we’d take the people who hurt me down. You promised that we’d do it together. I know you’re planning something. Something with Misha. Because I know you, Hunter Brigham, and I know you won’t let what they did yesterday go without retribution.”

She raises her good hand and places it on my cheek.

“You love me and August too much to let something like that go,” she says, her voice soft.

I turn my face to kiss her palm. She’s so, so right.

“But when you set me aside and don’t let me be an equal member in your planning, it’s not only heavy-handed, it’s hurtful.”

Pain hits me in the chest where her words land.

“I love you, Hunter Brigham,” she rasps, her tone heavy.

Control.

“I’m sorry, Sunbeam.” I say the words as I stare directly into her eyes. “I’m sorry for this. I’m sorry for before the raid. I’m just…I’m sorry.”

But would I have done things any differently?

The position of her body against the screen causes her face to lay in shadows, but I don’t miss it when she bites her lip. I reach over, pulling it from between her teeth and caressing her cheek.

“Stop distracting me, baby. We have work to do.” I feel the contraction of her facial muscles against my palm when she smiles.

Readying myself, I say, “I got a call from Morris Winthrope while you were getting medical help.”

She puts a palm up to stop me before jumping out of the bed. “Wait, I need to take notes.”

She hops around the room, pulling on drawer handles until she finds a pad of paper and a pen, taking a detour to turn on the desk lamp in the far corner to give us more light.

“You know I’m an external processor,” she says, settling over the comforter with the notepad in her lap. “I’ll ask a kajillion questions and prevent you from getting through what you want to tell me if I don’t write them down.”

She pulls the soft throw blanket from beneath her hip and places it over her feet. “Okay, go,” she says.

It takes me a moment to catch my breath from my amusement and awe, because even in the middle of this incredible shitstorm, she manages to make me smile.

She lifts her eyebrow in expectation before spinning her hand in front of her, signaling for me to get on with it.

“I heard from Morris Winthrope. It was a very short call, but I was in the room with Leo, Misha, Luna, and the rest of them when the call came through.”

“Was Amelia there?” she adds with her gaze focused on her writing.

I grunt. “Yes,” I clip out.

She noticeably bristles, pausing as she writes, but after a moment, she returns to her note-taking.

“The critical thing is he wants Ella, and he wants her by,” I turn my head to read the digital clock across the room, “a little under two hours from now.”

Winter’s eyebrows go up toward her hairline. “Well, obviously, he can get fucked,” she says.

“That’s what I said,” I reply. “Misha, however, was of a different opinion.”

Her eyebrows slam down. “Come again?” Darkness coats her voice.

“Basically, he wants to send Ella over as bait but then pull her out before she ever changes hands. He swore up and down that he could keep her safe, but I don’t trust it.”

“Understandable, H,” she says. “What does Ella have to say about it?”

I pause, and the silence is damning.

“You have spoken with Ella about this, right? Seeing as it pertains to her.”

I try to go for a meditative, deep breath, but it comes out in a rush instead.

“Hunter James Brigham, this is what I’m talking about!” She throws her pen and paper on the bed and stands.

“You cannot unilaterally make decisions for other people.” She enunciates each word as if I were a child.

“I don’t need to consult Ella because it’s a stupid idea,” I say.

Winter scoffs. “Yes, however, don’t you think Ella should make that decision for Ella? As a full-grown adult, I think she has enough brainpower to determine if something is for her or not.”

I sit up more on the bed.

“It’s a moot point, Sunbeam.”

She throws up one arm, clearly angry. “Is it really?”

I release another short breath. “You want to brainstorm, yes? How about we talk about how to get out of this mess because I see only one way out that gives us the best chance of survival.”

“Which is?” she asks.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and she takes a step back to give me space.

“We go underground.”

She blinks at me for several moments before humming in response. I prepare myself for her arguments, standing to steel myself against them.

“It would be easy for us all to get new identities. We can start over. I think we get a Cessna—one from someone we’re not very connected to. Then we can fly to Mexico before setting up a decoy and going the opposite way. We can stop in Paris for a while, then go over to London and Japan. You said you wanted to go to Tokyo, right?”

She remains silent while I speak, and an emotion that feels a lot like terror wells up in my chest as I keep talking. “We could do Indonesia and then Fiji. Have you been to Fiji, baby? It’s beautiful. Then Australia, New Zealand, we can go where they shot The Hobbit—”

“Stop, Hunter.” Her words are soft, but they stop my monologue because of the gravity in them.

I stand to cradle her face. “I want us far away from this, Sunbeam. I know that you want to fight, and I love that about you, baby. You’re my warrior, and I love the fuck out of you for it.”

She rubs her cheek against my palm.

“But I’m so sorry, Sunbeam. Because the thought of something happening to our family makes me want to die on the spot.”

She kisses my hand in response. “Hunter, I think you know as well as I do that running won’t work.” She gazes directly into my eyes, into my soul.

“It will work, Winter—”

“No, it won’t, Hunter. And what’s more is, we shouldn’t run. We need to face this.”

I step away from her, dropping my arm. I try to keep control of my body.

“What are you saying, Winter? That we should just all be martyrs to the cause?” I run a hand through my hair, pushing it away from my face and channeling my agitation.

She sighs, but it’s patient. “No, I’m not saying that. I very much want to live.”

“Then what the hell are you thinking?” My voice rises to a near shout, and her lips press into a firm line before releasing.

“I know that running will only get us so far. I know that there’s no way we can live—really live—if we’re looking over our shoulders. We are trapped in this now, Hunter. We were trapped even before the raid happened. You were trapped as soon as you got off that plane and took responsibility for August, and I was trapped when I laid eyes on you.”

Her words…her words make me want to throw myself from a tall building because while I’ve always known that I’ve been on borrowed time and my father and his influence will always be there in the background, the fact that she knows that being with me means death and destruction makes me want to rip my heart from my chest.

“Sunbeam,” I start, but no other words come out.

“Hunter, I wouldn’t change any of it. I wouldn’t trade any of it if it meant that I could have you and August. If it meant that I could have our family. And so…I want to live. I want to live fully. And the only way to do so is to face this head-on, fight, and win.”

She brings herself close to me, molding her body into my chest. The contact is the thing I need most desperately right now.

“The only way we’ll do that is if we do it together. And not just me and you, but all of us.”

Misha and Luna. Leo and Ella. Veronica and Summer.

And Amelia too?

I draw in a shuddering breath and kiss the top of her head.

“Okay,” I say.

Her shoulders relax. “Okay,” she echoes.

After a few long minutes in each other’s arms, she looks up at me, blinking sleepily.

“What are you thinking, H?” she asks.

“I’m thinking that even though this is one of the worst days of my life, I’m still the luckiest bastard breathing.”

Her eyes focus on mine.

“What makes you say that?” she whispers.

“Because you’re here. You’re alive. We’re all alive, even though we shouldn’t be.”

I lean down to give her a hard kiss on the lips. It’s possessive and demanding, and I pour all my fears and hopes and dreams into the press of our mouths together.

“I am so fucking grateful, Sunbeam,” I whisper against her lips.

She shudders a breath. “Why do I feel there’s a ‘but’ in there?” she asks, whispering with her face pressed to mine.

“There isn’t a ‘but.’ Just an ‘and.’ And I’m terrified my luck will run out. And I can’t face that.”

She closes her eyes, and I feel the fan of her eyelashes against mine.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to do our best to keep the streak going and leave the rest to fate,” she tells me.

“Yeah,” I say.

With a final kiss to her head, I usher her beneath the covers, and she wastes no time curling onto her good side.

“Let’s talk more later, baby. But everything is going to work out for us. I’m putting it out into the Universe, so you know it’ll happen,” she says. “I’m a powerful manifestor if you didn’t know.” She releases a sleepy chuckle that turns into a yawn.

“I have no doubts in you, Sunbeam,” I say, kissing her on the lips as she slips into unconsciousness. Everything within me wants to slide under the blankets with her, but I know I don’t have that luxury. I leave the room, headed for the garden to work through my memories in the darkness. I might know something.

Maybe.

Winter’s words spin between my ears, and the more I focus on them, the more I want to believe them. The more I want to believe they’re right.

Winthrope gave me twenty-four hours to hand over Ella.

I pull out my phone, glancing at the time. There’s under an hour left on his countdown.

“Finally, I get you alone.”

I bite back a groan and roll my eyes to the heavens as Misha Hroshko’s voice stops me in the hallway. I’m a few feet from the door that leads to the garden and the peace I so desperately want to access.

The garden reminds me of Amelia Manor. Even though I try to divorce my thoughts of my home from my mother, I struggle to do so.

“Misha,” I bite out. Turning to him, I say, “What do you want?”

Misha’s dressed casually in dark gray joggers and a loose cotton T-shirt. His wavy brunette hair looks mussed, and no one could miss the hickey on his neck.

Jesus Christ.

“I want to actually have a conversation with you,” he says, his voice tight. When I raise my eyebrow and just stare at him, he cracks his neck from side to side before taking a short breath.

“Luna…suggested that perhaps I’ve been a little too heavy-handed with my approach toward you.” He shrugs, placing his hands in his pockets. “So I figured we could simply talk. There’s much to discuss, and I’m sure you have many questions.”

I hate that he’s right—I do have so many fucking questions, but the more questions I ask, the more confusing everything gets.

“All right,” I mutter, “let’s talk.”

Misha doesn’t respond to my statement. He turns on his heel and heads in the direction of the kitchen. The kitchen I just defiled with my…Winter.

I smile, even though there’s a part of me that struggles to file away the fact that I am also confused as fuck about Winter. Well, not about Winter. I’m all in on my feelings about Winter and the future we’re going to have together. That is, if we stay alive long enough to even have a semblance of a future. But more, I’m confused about where we go from here.

Misha makes an immediate move for the refrigerator, and after half a minute of rummaging around, he turns around with two white plates covered in Saran Wrap. On the small plates are individual slices of chocolate-on-chocolate cake.

“The chef knows that this is my favorite,” Misha says, not looking at me.

I silence the words that demand to be spoken: That chocolate cake is my favorite too.

I’m turning into a goddamn sap, and I fucking hate it.

“Fine,” I say, my response not making any sense. He pulls out two sterling silver forks and slides a plate and silverware across the counter to me.

He doesn’t wait for me before he slides onto a stool and starts eating.

I sit on the opposite seat, and when I lift the fork to my mouth, I’m almost angry at how good this cake tastes.

“You wanted to talk, so talk,” I grumble around another bite of cake.

Misha puts his fork down, and a quick glance at his plate shows that it’s empty. Wordlessly, he goes to the bar on the opposite side of the kitchen and keeps his back to me as he prepares coffee. I’d expect a man like Misha to have a state-of-the-art coffee maker, but he surprises me when he pulls a can of Folgers from the cabinet and starts a cheap brew.

“Coffee at night?” I say, unable to resist my desire to be an ass to him.

Misha tilts his body so I can see his face, his eyebrow quirked. “I have a long night ahead.”

I grunt in response.

After a few minutes, Misha turns around with two mugs of coffee. Without speaking, he slides one of the cups in front of me.

While he pours creamer into his mug, he says, “I know you haven’t known about me, but I have known about you for quite some time.”

The words aren’t comforting.

“Luna told me about your father and Amelia,” I say. Eyeing the creamer, I pour a dollop into my mug.

My head hurts.

“What do you call her?” I ask.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Who?”

“The woman who birthed you,” I say, my jaw clenching.

He takes another sip of his coffee. “Why don’t you ask what you really want to know,” he offers back.

I feel the muscles tense in my face.

“Was it just us she hated, or was she a mother to you?” The words that come out aren’t the ones I’d planned on saying. I wanted to know more about how he and Amelia work together. I wanted to know when she reconnected with him and why.

But instead, I stare at him, showing my scars. Many of them, but not nearly all of them.

“She never hated you or Ella, Hunter,” Misha says.

“Right,” I reply. “You haven’t answered my question.”

Misha sighs and puts his mug on the counter. “She left me with my father when I was eight. I was uncertain of many things at that time. My father was Mafiya, as I’m sure you know.”

I nod, my hand firmly on the handle of my coffee cup.

“I was told that my mother went away. I was a little older when my father confessed that he’d traded her for access to a pipeline in the Balkans.” Misha shrugs, and even though the movement is casual, his discomfort is plain on his face.

“She went to your father. When I got older, I followed my father all over—to America, all over Europe, China—and Benjamin Brigham was always somewhere around.”

At the mention, a flash of a memory crops up of a dark, hazy club with round tables scattered throughout. A gambling hall. Father was there, laughing and surrounded by women. He didn’t even try to shield himself from me as a woman went down on him.

Twelve. Twelve. That was the first time he gave me a woman. There, in a dark corner, I lost my virginity.

I shake my head to get out of the memory.

“When I turned eighteen, I celebrated at the top of the Parus Centre in Kyiv, and after I was toasted to, I murdered my father. That same day, I became the Pakhan of the Ukrainian Mafiya.”

Misha killing his father doesn’t surprise me. He seems like the type of person who would do such a thing, but then, am I one to talk? There’s so much blood on my hands that it’s a wonder anyone can see my flesh.

“When I was made into the pakhan, she contacted me. It was by chance. We were both in London, staying at the same hotel. She saw me at one of the events Benjamin brought her to. She said when she saw me, she knew it was me. She had been told I was dead too.”

“I’m glad you had a pleasant family reunion,” I snap. Why am I getting so angry? Misha isn’t doing anything wrong—at least, not right now.

I take another sip of my coffee, and as the caffeine buzzes through my body, I admit that I am jealous of Misha Hroshko, at least in this regard.

I’m angry and jealous that he got time with our mother when I did not. I’m angry that she sought him out but left me in the dark for decades.

I don’t notice that I’ve clapped my mug back onto the island until the warm liquid spills over the back of my hand.

“She wanted my help to get out. To get all of you out. Ella was barely a toddler, and she’d discovered some shit that scared her to death.”

“What did she find?” I ask. I’m not sure I really want to know.

Misha pauses as if weighing his words. “They were stealing people and using them as test subjects. So many of the people they stole died. Luna, as you know, was one of them, except she survived.”

Misha taps his finger on the handle of his coffee cup.

I try to pick up the mug, but my hands shake too badly.

“This is fucked,” I say.

“That’s the least fucked part about it,” Misha says. “The Architect, for whatever reason, really values your bloodline.” The way he says this, he almost sounds amused, but then there’s an edge of something else.

“What the actual fuck,” I say, sitting back in the chair, stunned.

“Indeed,” Misha says.

“I don’t know who The Architect is,” I offer.

Misha takes another sip of his coffee.

“That’s the thing. We don’t know either. There are clues and theories because we’re not the only people talking about The Legion. There are all kinds of inroads on the dark web. That’s actually how Max came to be with us.”

Hm. Makes sense.

“Amelia wanted to stop Benjamin and Morris and all those other fuckers who played on Isla Cara. She wanted to save Ella from all of it—as well as all the other innocent people who were trapped in The Legion’s web.”

“And me?” I ask, the words bursting from my lips. “Did she want to save me?”

Misha’s gaze turns sad. “I think she wanted to save you most of all. She wanted to save you from becoming like your father.”

We both go quiet, but when he shifts to look at his watch, I track his attitude change. Where he was empathetic…human even, moments ago, now the Pakhan of the Ukrainian Mafiya is back.

“Hunter, a lot of people are going to die if we don’t stop them. The best way for us to do that at this point is to use Ella to draw them out.”

That phrase. Use Ella. Is that very much different from how others wanted to use her existence from the very start of her life? Even before she took her first breath?

“No.” The word is sharp and final as it bursts from my lips.

Misha sighs. “Hunter, if you can’t get out of the way, I will go around you.”

The look on his face is unreadable but dark. The promise that whatever “going around me” means won’t be pleasant.

“If we don’t go to Winthrope, Winthrope will come to us,” I say.

Misha chuckles, but it’s humorless. “You think that logic holds up? You’ve been around these people your whole life, and yet you know nothing about how they operate.”

I don’t know, and that’s by choice. I don’t want to know them or their ways. Why would I?

“If you push him, he will act, Hunter. And the result will be more bloody than either one of us could tolerate,” he says.

“My number one priority is my family and keeping them safe.”

Misha blinks at me for a long beat.

“Understood,” he says and looks at his watch again. “I just hope you can live with the blood on your hands because time is up.”

EIGHT

WINTER

The press of lips to my cheek causes me to stir. Cracking an eye open, I breathe out slowly when Hunter pushes my hair out of my face and back under my bonnet.

“I’m going to meet up with Leo for a bit to talk about logistics,” he says quietly, pressing minty kisses along the side of my face.

I press my mouth into my pillow and say, “Why so early?”

His amused huff causes me to press more into the pillow. Pushing him back, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed to pad to the bathroom. I’m up now, and as is usual these days, I have to pee.

As I pass into the bathroom, I glance at the clock and realize we’ve only gotten a handful of hours of sleep.

“Five a.m. is a despicable time to wake someone, Hunter. Just in case you weren’t aware.” His warm chuckle is his response.

I make quick work of emptying my bladder and commit to brushing my teeth before Hunter leaves.

“I’ll be back in time for lunch,” he says. “Go back to bed.”

I put my arms around his neck, grateful that my injury is only a minor scrape. The bullet did take a sizeable chunk out of my flesh, but there wasn’t any damage to the muscle, tendons, or ligaments.

Still, I know I’m lucky to be alive.

“Why don’t you come back to bed with me?” I tell him, pressing a kiss to his lips. Feeling bold, I run my free hand down to cup him over his slacks. He groans and deepens the kiss, and it takes no time for him to turn to steel in my palm.

“I’m not so fragile, Hunter,” I whisper against his lips and rub my needy breasts against his chest.

“Winter,” he growls. “A few more days, at least.”

“A few more days until what exactly, H?” I say, pulling away but making quick work of sliding my fingers beneath the waistband of his pants.

I get three solid strokes of his cock in when he grabs my wrist, bringing my hand to his lips to kiss the back of it.

“The next time I get you naked, Sunbeam, I’m coming inside you so deep that you’ll be feeling me for days,” he says. His words are clear, low, and go straight to my hot button.

“Mmhmm,” I tease. “You could do that now, you know.”

He hums. “Not yet, baby.”

I would be embarrassed by the whine that comes out of me in any other context, but when he says his next words, I almost strip my clothes off and impale myself on his dick.

“Winter, you need to be ready for me the next time I take you. Because there’s no way you won’t be screaming my name as I fuck you for hours. There’s no way you won’t be delirious from coming so hard and so often because I promise you, Sunbeam, I won’t let you up for air.” When his hands land on my hips, he sighs and gives me a chaste kiss.

“Why won’t you do it now, H?” My voice is a near moan, and I’m so wet and so there it wouldn’t take long at all for him to make good on his promises.

“Because I promised you that we’d figure out how to win, and I need to do that right now, and you need more sleep,” he says. Amusement starts to edge out the lust in his tone.

“We can’t have a quickie to hold us over?” I try to reach for his cock again, and he stops me with a light laugh. I grunt and restrain myself from stomping my foot.

“I wish I could, baby,” he murmurs. I poke my bottom lip out in a frown, and Hunter chuckles, putting his forehead to mine.

“Lunch. I promise,” he says. “I love you with all of me, Winter Leigh Vaughan.”

And if that doesn’t make me melt all over. “I love you too, Hunter James Brigham.”

He kisses me behind my ear. “I can’t wait for the day when I call you my wife,” he whispers.

I shiver.

“Later, baby. I expect you to sleep at least until noon.”

I nod and let him go.

Because there’s nothing else for me to do at the ass-crack of dawn, I climb back into bed and stare at the ceiling. When Kitty shakes out his fur and jumps on the bed, I run my fingers over his back for a few minutes.

Quiet is something I’ve been avoiding lately, I realize.

Before the raid, things were tenuous between Hunter and me, going back and forth between soul-bindingly excellent to hell between the two of us.

And I really don’t want to think about that, because if I think about it, I’ll have to admit that so much about our relationship is unhealthy.

We still haven’t addressed so much between us. We haven’t resolved so much between us. Like the fact that he locked me away—again. Or that he hasn’t shared much at all about his business and what that means for our future.

He hasn’t opened up to me about his dad dying, even though that was fortunate for everyone.

He hasn’t spoken to me once about how he feels about his mother coming back.

I can’t help but think that Hunter is holding back because:

1. He doesn’t think I can handle his truth. Or,

2. He doesn’t trust me to handle his truth.

So yeah, I avoid the quiet.

But Hunter and I had a breakthrough last night. I can feel it. He’s so scared that he’s going to lose me, and while it’d be easy to say that he shouldn’t worry, the reality is…he should.

We all should be scared.

But I meant what I said last night. Living in hiding isn’t living at all.

I would know.

I spent so many years fearing the very real and imagined danger of Adam Collins. I was so terrified that it changed my brain chemistry. That fear of death forced me to lock myself away.

I did lock myself away. For years.

And while this situation isn’t that situation at all, one truth connects both of them: If we spend our days running from death, we’ll die bit by bit every day until there’s nothing left of us.

And when that happens, what’s the point?

When a knock on my door comes an hour after Hunter leaves, I’m apprehensive and curious about who could be on the other side.

“Bitch, I know you ain’t sleep. Open the goddamn door.” The words make me laugh because they’re so incredibly Veronica.

“Hold on,” I call out, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Kitty beats me to it, pawing at the wood with excitement.

I barely have the door open before Veronica barrels in with Summer in tow, slamming it closed quickly.

“Damn, girl. You ran in here like you’re running from the Boogeyman,” I say, laughing.

Veronica doesn’t respond to my joke. Instead, she marches into the bathroom, and seconds later, I’m greeted by the sound of the shower.

“Rons?” I step into the bathroom. When I’m at the doorjamb, I say, “You know I’m always happy to share whatever I have, but—eep!”

I let out a short squeak when Veronica wrenches my arm, pulling me into the bathroom before slamming the door shut.

“What the hell, Veronica?” I nearly shout, and Veronica immediately claps her free hand over my mouth.

“Shh!” she snaps. As she bounces Summer in the crook of her arm, even the baby gives me a fierce side-eye.

“Why are you shushing me, and why are we standing in my bathroom?” I mumble from behind her hand.

“Keep your voice down, Winter. I have news and am uncertain about several people surrounding us right now.”

I raise both eyebrows in surprise.

“Keep your voice low,” she says, and the look she gives me edges out all amusement. I nod my assent.

“I talked to the Ukrainian,” she says.

“He has a name, you know. It’s Misha,” I add. She waves her hand in the air, dismissing my statement.

“I also talked to Rio,” she says.

“Rio?” I question. Not that she can’t or shouldn’t talk to Rio. But why?

“I don’t know if you’re aware of the magnitude of shit you’ve gotten us into, Winter.” Her voice has a bite to it, and by the set of her jaw, I know that Veronica is more than angry. She’s scared.

“Hunter and I spoke last night,” I say, glancing down at a silent Summer as steam starts to swirl around us. I reach into the shower and turn the taps on cold. “Hunter knows it’s dangerous, but once The Architect and Morris Winthrope are out of the picture, we’ll be able to go on with our lives.”

Veronica blinks at me. “Oh, my sweet summer child.”

“What?” I say, stepping back.

“The shit these Legion people are up to is more than just this one person. People come and go. This shit…this is America,” she says.

“Don’t start quoting rap lyrics at me, Veronica,” I say with an eye roll.

“So you really think that you knock off the future president of the United States and then you can go back to your apartment on U Street? You know, seeing as the safe house you’ve been living in was bombed.”

I rub the skin between my eyes. “Veronica….”

“Winter,” she snaps. “You know what I saw when I met up with Rio?”

I raise an eyebrow.

“He was completely fine.”

I blink at her again, and Summer coos before smacking her lips.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she takes a step closer, dropping her voice, “he was up and walking around. He didn’t even have a wound. He was completely fine.”

The words she says don’t compute in my brain. “I—”

“Winter, I need you to listen. Open your eyes. You know how this world works.” She grabs my uninjured shoulder, squeezing it. “Do you think that this is about one person? This Legion shit...this is an uprising, a cabal. How do you stop a wave in the ocean?”

She tries to burn me with her gaze. “You aren’t dumb, Winter. You are two sneezes away from having your doctorate. And you know that if you look around the sparkle of Hunter and all he can give you, you’ll see that there’s some freaky shit happening.”

Her grip on my shoulder tightens.

“Winter, you and I are collateral damage. We don’t matter here, and these people will not hesitate to put us in the line of fire if it means that they get what they need,” she says.

I shake my head, denying her words.

“Hunter wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me. To us. He brought you to Amelia Manor, remember? He helped take care of you when James ditched you.”

Veronica’s face hardens, and I realize how it sounds once the words are out of my mouth.

“Rons, I didn’t mean it like that,” I sputter, and she waves away my weak apology.

“Winter!” She groans in frustration. “I think we should leave. Really.”

I growl back. “I told you. I’m not leaving Hunter!”

She lifts her eyes to the ceiling, her mouth moving as if praying for guidance.

I understand that she’s frustrated. I really do. But the fact is, I’m not leaving Hunter.

End of discussion.

And why not, Winter?

“Okay, Winter,” she says, her eyes slipping closed. “I won’t bring it up again.” When she finishes speaking, her gaze settles on my face.

“Just…” She brings Summer’s face close to hers and kisses her forehead. “Just keep your eyes and ears open, Winter. And don’t forget that you have to look out for yourself, okay? I don’t want anything to happen to any of us.”

I know she only means her, Summer, and me. I grab her hand, squeezing it tight.

“I believe in Hunter. I really do, Veronica.”

The look she gives me is sad. “I really hope it works out,” she says cryptically.

I bite my lip.

Veronica moves around the bathroom, turning off the water and giving me a tight smile.

“I love you, Winter. Just…remember that I’m always on your side. Okay?”

Veronica’s words could stab me with how pointed they are, and I know there’s so much in what she’s not saying.

I follow her out of the bathroom, and she heads for the door.

“I’ll see you later, right?” I ask.

With her hand on the knob, she tilts toward me and says, “Of course, Win.”

And with that, she leaves the room.

I stand in the middle of the floor for too many minutes as I let confusion bleed into anxiety.

Veronica has always been outspoken, but I’ve rarely stood against her. Whatever she wanted or needed or said was true, I just let her have it.

But when it comes to this, whether I should trust Hunter or whether I’m safe here or not, I just feel confused.

Uncertain.

I don’t know what’s real or not. What’s wrong or not.

I bring my hand to my chest as my vision begins to swim.

Even after killing two people, being shot, saving August, and surviving the massive confusion after seeing ghosts rise from the dead…now is when my psyche decides to say, Nope! You’re done.

Can’t one panic attack per seventy-two-hour period be enough?

I try to draw in slow, deep breaths as I grapple for the edge of the bed. Plopping down, I begin my mantra.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

Kitty settles into my side without me having to signal him, and I plunge one hand into his fur while placing the other on my abdomen and breathing into my palm. I wish I could speak with Genevieve, but things are too risky to involve my therapist, no matter how much I need her.

I’ll have to use the tools I’ve gained over the last decade and hold myself together.

As of this moment, everything is okay.

Breathe in.

I am safe right now.

Breathe out.

I cannot control tomorrow, but I can live in today.

Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out.

When I release the tension from my spine and flop back on the bed, Kitty hops on my chest, licking my cheek.

It would be so incredibly easy to fall into old patterns, but I want to try not to.

I want to try…for me. For Hunter. For our family.

That thought prompts another: I need to find August.

With a stretch and a yawn, Kitty hops from the bed and sits patiently at the door, anticipating my need to leave. With a huff, I get out of bed and pull my chunky braids into a high bun. Slipping on some Chucks and leggings, I go to the tall dresser and pull a plaid shirt over my camisole. With one final look at my appearance, I escort Kitty out the door.

I decide to hit the courtyard first. Kitty has a designated spot to do his business, which was easy to find again, even in the daytime. But when I was shown the way yesterday evening, I couldn’t appreciate the beauty of this new space.

I let Kitty take the lead and bound off around the bushes. Honeysuckle, lilac, and jasmine adorn the space, with tons of greenery surrounding the cobblestone pathways. Kitty lets out a yip and begins to chase after a bunny rabbit, and I suppress a laugh at his discontent when it bounces off faster than he can keep up.

This feels peaceful—so peaceful that I’m able to ignore the fact that I’m sitting in an open space that’s surrounded by four sides of concrete, bomb-resistant walls.

I am calm. I am peace.

I close my eyes and inhale the scents of the plants around me.

I am safe. I am safe. I am safe.

I cross my hands over my chest to seal the affirmation.

When the French doors I just exited open again, Kitty leaps over to greet the newcomer even though I’m slower to turn.

But when a body launches into mine, I let out a quick shout.

“Winter! My God, I thought I’d never see you again!” Ella’s voice causes my racing heart to slow, but when she squeezes me tighter, I can’t help the yelp that comes out of me.

“Oh, God! I’m sorry. You’re hurt!” Two seconds pass as she watches me grimace, but then she breaks down into tears.

“I’m sorry, Winter! I’m just so glad you’re alive!” She reaches her arms out to hug me again, and I stick out my palm to stop her as I stand.

She sniffs, putting her hands over her mouth, but when I lift my arm to embrace her, she wails into my shoulder.

I’m just so damn glad she isn’t catatonic still. I pull back to look at her. It’s...curious how she’s flowed through different extreme mental states—flat and dissociative on the couch in the media room to weepy yet...amped up?

I pull her back into my body and pat her back. Grief. People deal with shock and trauma in many ways, and each person should be given the space and respect to grieve.

This is Ella’s expression of grief. Right?

“Ella, how are you feeling? Have you….”

What? Settled in—as if this were a hotel stay and not us seeking refuge from a known international criminal.

“I’ve…come to terms with what has happened. I mean, it’s so much, Winter. But when you face down death like that... Shit, what the fuck am I talking about? You’re the one who actually faced down literal death. I can’t believe that cunt shot you!”

A chortle sounds from the doorway, and suddenly, I’m the one with the urge to run.

Except I want to run toward the voice.

“Aunt Ella, you know you are not supposed to say ‘cunt.’ It is in bad taste,” August says.

Ella rolls her eyes. “Just because you use the word in the context of a quote doesn’t mean you can use it. I’m an adult. You’re a kid. Got it?” Ella tries to look serious, but she breaks character when she pulls a bag of Sugar Babies from the pocket of her shorts.

August looks better than I thought he would, all things considered. While the shadows beneath his eyes show the stress of the last two days, he moves as he always has.

Except he hasn’t acknowledged me in the slightest.

“August,” I say with a low rasp. He rocks from side to side, the amused countenance on his face suddenly gone, big emotions visibly moving through his limbs.

“Is it all right if I hug you?” I fling my arms out wide to embrace him and barely choke down the involuntary hiss I let out at the dull pain the action causes. Kitty jumps up on my leg, whimpering but still trying his hardest to focus on the interaction.

“Off-duty,” I tell Kitty, and he drops to sit, still not leaving me.

“You are okay?” he asks me, and I nod.

“Yes, August. It’s just a little scratch.”

He takes a big step forward but stops short of touching me, rocking from side to side with even more energy.

“There was so much blood on your shirt and on my shirt. How can you be okay?” August says.

He grunts and begins to shake his hands as he paces in a large circle around the perimeter of the courtyard—one of his prominent stims for when he’s particularly distressed.

August. August first.

“It’s okay, August. I’m really okay. Can I look at you? Are you hurt anywhere?” I take unhurried steps over to him, lifting my good arm to signal that I want to get into his personal space.

He groans and starts to jump as he channels the tension in his body.

I’ve been so worried about August, and in the chaos of the last day, I’ve struggled to stay calm until I could get back to him. Checking on him while he slept helped soothe my wrecked nervous system, but still…it’s not the same as seeing him conscious and in the flesh.

August moves closer to me but takes a big step back, lifting his tablet in his hand to tap at the screen. One tear, then another, tracks down his cheeks, but it seems like he’s ignoring the fact that he’s crying.

“I thought that you were dead.” He clutches the tablet to his chest and makes another circuit. I don’t wait for him to stop before speaking again.

“I’m just fine, August. I promise. I can’t imagine how scary this whole situation has been for you,” I say.

He sniffles and vocalizes, but his tears don’t stop.

“I thought I was watching you die,” he says. It hits me then: August had to watch his mother die, helpless to save her or get help. And now he’s had to relive that fear again with me.

“Oh, August,” I say, joining him with my tears. “Could I—do you feel comfortable with me hugging you? Because I’d really like to hold you, Augs, even if just for a second.” I don’t raise my arms out in expectation. I want him to be in control of any embrace he decides to give me.

“I will not hurt you?” he asks, finally standing in one spot, even though his muscles tremble as he clutches the iPad to his chest.

I shake my head. “No. Not at all, kid.”

So I exhale hard when he launches himself into my chest. I wrap my uninjured limb around him as he sobs.

I whisper unintelligible things to him—words of comfort and words from my heart. But there is one phrase I repeat over and over.

“I love you, August. You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me.” I rock back and forth with him, giving him the energy I’m sure he needs to feel grounded in this moment.

His ear presses to my chest, and I can’t help but think he’s listening to my heartbeat. I allow August to decide when we should end the embrace, and he hugs me for a solid five minutes.

When we separate, he begins to type with deliberate keystrokes, “I love you too, Winter.” Then he asks, “Is the fetus okay?”

I roll my lips inward because the way he refers to his new brother or sister makes me want to giggle. But he’s so serious, I wouldn’t offend him with my laughter.

“Right as rain,” I say. He straightens and gives me a confused look.

“What does that mean? Those words do not make any sense.”

I shake my head and bite my lip. “Sorry, Augs. The baby is well.”

With a serious nod, he pulls away and goes to the stone table and bench at the center of the courtyard. When Kitty bounces over to him and hops up into the position he takes when I’m in a panic attack, I feel contentment.

Even though we’re all displaced, we have resources to cope.

I turn back to Ella. When I realize she’s smiling, more information molly-wops my consciousness.

“Have you spoken with Hunter?” I hedge. She shrugs.

“Yeah, I saw him last night. I probably shouldn’t tell you…or maybe I should.” She pulls me further away from the bench and closer to the French doors. When we’re out of earshot, she leans in closer, glancing at August from the corner of her eye before returning to me. “I offered him a little bud last night. He was just so damn tense, you know? Not that it really worked at mellowing him out.”

I hum. Hunter has struggled with addiction in the past. He’s told me that he only drinks alcohol on occasion, but he hasn’t used any drugs in years.

I’m pro-cannabis, but I’m a little concerned about him dipping his toe into substances again.

“To me, it’s not that big of a deal. But I didn’t want to keep things from you,” Ella adds.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say, my voice low. “How are you feeling about things?”

“I mean,” she says, shrugging, “how is one supposed to feel after finding out that their dead mother is actually alive and living with your secret sibling? Not to mention having their house raided and being forced to hide in a bunker?”

She pulls more candy out of the bag.

“But I’m alive, so,” she finishes and shrugs again.

“That’s a very practical stance to take, Ella,” I reply, watching her closely. She blinks at me.

I’m analyzing her to determine her mental state when Misha walks in with none other than Amelia Brigham at his side.

Misha takes up all the space, and Ella blinks at him as she tilts her head up to assess the Ukrainian.

“Hey. I didn’t get to say so before, and I don’t want to be rude. Thank you for the safe harbor. ’Preciate ya. Bro? Should I call you that?” Ella says while chewing on more caramel candy.

Misha’s face takes on what I can only interpret as an amused expression, and he chooses not to respond to Ella’s battery of questions. I shift my gaze to the woman next to him, and everything freezes within me.

“Hey,” Ella says to her mother, her voice small. “I’m uh, I’m sorry I jumped on you last night. I shouldn’t have.”

Amelia inhales sharply. “All I’ve wanted for twenty years is to hold you, Ellie,” she replies.

Ella falls silent as she looks at her mother, her eyes moving as if she’s analyzing Amelia’s face. “I look just like you.”

Amelia gives Ella a strange, unreadable look. Then, as if sensing our eyes on her, she raises her eyebrow and snorts. “I look like a monster now,” she says, waving a dismissive hand.

“Nonsense,” I rasp, but no one acknowledges my statement.

We stand around in an awkward silence, and my skin itches where the tape from the bandage meets my flesh.

“Would you, um…” Ella kicks a pebble with the toe of her shoe. “Would you like to maybe do lunch today or something?” She looks up at Amelia, and it’s like the sun comes out when Amelia smiles.

“You can come too, Misha,” Ella adds as an aside, almost as if she just remembered the pakhan’s standing right there. Misha lifts his hands and shakes his head.

“I’ll leave you ladies to enjoy your private time,” he says, more diplomatic than I’d ever thought him capable of being.

“I’d love that, Ella,” Amelia whispers.

Ella returns Amelia’s smile. Shifting to face the courtyard, Ella calls out, “Hey, August, I’m going to get breakfast. Wanna come?”

August looks up from his tablet despite the sound of explosions coming from the tiny speakers.

“Do you have Eggos?” August asks, directing the question at Misha when he holds up his tablet and faces it in the man’s direction.

“We have everything, I am sure,” Misha replies.

It occurs to me that we haven’t brought August up-to-date with the latest developments: That his grandmother is alive, and he also has an uncle.

“Winter, can I keep Kitty for a while?” August makes the same gesture of tilting the tablet so I can view the words, but his eyes don’t leave Kitty, who lies next to him, pressing against his thigh.

“Of course, August,” I say with a smile. I debate pulling August aside to tell him the news, but I’m unsure how he’ll take it.

Plus, I really should consult Hunter about what to do. I would be out of place otherwise.

I rub the back of my neck, pressing my fingers into the tense muscles. There’s so much I’m gonna have to figure out when it comes to this.

This meaning, becoming a parental figure in August’s life. Because that’s where this is headed.

Right?

Without another word, August jumps up and exits the courtyard. With a final shrug, Ella follows and Kitty trots behind.

When it’s just Misha, Amelia, and me in the space, I’m the first one to clear my throat to break the silence.

“So, Misha. Wanna tell me what the hell is going on?” I ask, meeting his gaze directly and tilting my head to let Misha know that I’m serious about this topic of conversation.

“Whatever do you mean?” Misha asks in a bored voice.

Feeling brave, I roll my eyes. “You all dropped a bomb on us last night,” I say, looking at Amelia and Misha. “But I know there’s more to the story. I can tell.”

“You can tell?” Amelia asks, and I straighten my spine.

“Yes. I know Hunter,” I say.

Misha makes a sound, and I feel heat rise to my cheeks at the disbelieving tone.

“Hey, if you have anything to say about Hunter, it will be good things,” I reply, my voice harder than I’m used to.

Misha shrugs. “He’s a bit of an ass, but anyone can tell that he cares deeply about you. Remember, I was there when you went missing.”

At his words, a flash of the horrors I experienced at the hands of Adam Collins covers my field of vision, and I put a trembling hand to my chest.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Yes, about that. How much did you have to do with it?”

Misha’s face falls a fraction.

“I’m so sorry for what you went through, Winter. I didn’t know that they would do that to you, and I’m sorry that we didn’t intervene.” His words are earnest, but I feel that he’s saying them to save face.

“Right,” I say, the word clipped. “And why didn’t you intervene?” I want to fold my arms over my chest, but contorting that way feels uncomfortable even imagining it, so I settle for putting one hand on my hip.

I alter my stance so I don’t come off too aggressive.

Misha opens his mouth again, but Amelia interjects. “You’re right. We should have done something, and we could have done something. I knew Hunter was with you and that you were important to him, but I didn’t know how important you were. Are. When I saw that he was still doing his father’s bidding, I didn’t know if I should trust him or not. I didn’t know….”

She runs her fingers through her hair, and it’s a practiced movement that I’ve seen Hunter make often.

“Outside of your doctor’s office that day…I sent someone to put that sketch in your bag. I hoped that if you saw it, you’d ask Hunter about it, and he’d either scare you away or he’d bring you closer. That would let us know who he belonged to.”

“How did you know I’d be there? Wait,” I say, putting my hand out. “Duh, Rio. And others, I’m assuming. Did you know we’d be shot at? Those were people from The Legion, I assume.”

I was able to piece together that some of the people milling around Amelia Manor for the last year are plants from The Resistance. But now that I’m facing the Ukrainian and his mother, I realize that even with all we shared last night, there’s still more that Hunter’s keeping from me.

Amelia nods. “I’ve been watching you for a while. I knew Dr. Greene was a good person, but I panicked when…the medical assistant was compromised by The Legion. Once I was told you were pregnant and I saw the MA, I knew they were closing in on you. I needed to do something. I didn’t know they’d chase you down, though, and I should have.”

I catch it when Misha flinches out of the corner of my eye. I raise my eyebrow at him, questioning.

“Problem?” I ask.

Misha shrugs.

Okay, then….

I inhale and exhale, counting my breaths and tapping my finger on my thigh. It’s colder now, the thick clouds covering the sun, and I shiver as a bird flaps away from one tree to another.

“I want you to understand why it took me so long to reveal myself,” Amelia says. She wrings her hands, and her chin trembles as she looks at me. She straightens her spine, though, and I’m so curious about how she’s navigating life. She’s soft and vulnerable, and yet she’s also hardened and reserved. Scarred emotionally from the fuckery that is life.

She is a dichotomy.

“As you can tell, I got burned. It was bad. So bad. I was left on the hard tile of the veranda floor all night. I was in and out of consciousness. They drugged Hunter…” She chokes on her words, and I gasp.

Misha remains stoic next to Amelia, and his silence irritates me. People think that Hunter is unfeeling when, in fact, Hunter feels deeply. He feels too much sometimes.

But Misha? I’m losing faith that there’s anything beneath the man of steel.

I think about his interactions with Luna.

Maybe he does have a heart…just not one for his mother or brother.

“The sun was high in the sky when I came to, and it felt like I was roasting alive. The night before promised rain, but somehow, the storm bypassed the island entirely. Benjamin came, but he only talked to Hunter. I ceased to matter—to exist. He had some of his men drag me off the veranda and onto a boat. When we were a half mile from the shore, they threw me in.”

She swallows, closing her eyes.

“The salt water stung so badly that I fought to stay conscious. I figured if I could get to the cove on the far end of the island, I could rest and then steal one of the emergency boats that Benjamin kept in case he ever got raided. I didn’t go to Amelia Manor ever—the only time I was there was when I was traded by Misha’s father.”

She cuts off her statement, and her delicate throat bobs as she swallows. “The cove was seven hundred yards away, and I’m a good swimmer, but I was too weak. Right when I decided to give up and let the sea take me, two sets of hands pulled me from the water.”

Amelia’s gaze is unfocused, far away, and I know that she’s back on that island and in that ocean. “I woke up on a dock in Puerto Rico. When I opened my eyes, someone covered me in a blanket and put me in the back of a truck. The next time I woke, I was in a hospital. I was just so grateful to be back on American soil.”

I put my hand on her forearm, and she flinches when my palm makes contact with her burn scars.

“I am so sorry that happened to you, Amelia,” I say. The moment is fragile, and it feels like anything louder than a whisper would break it. Staring at my hand on her arm, she moves her other and places it on top of mine.

“Going back into that Hell…I’d do it for Hunter and Ella. I wanted them to get out, but I was terrified to try again because taking Benjamin down then felt like my one shot. My only shot. I don’t think Hunter betrayed me that night. I wanted him to tell his father what he knew. He needed to, to save himself. I wanted him to live, so I went into hiding. I prayed that my children would be okay and that one day, karma would return with a vengeance on Benjamin Brigham.

“But then I learned of his killings. Of how many people Hunter killed. They called him The Huntsman, did you know that?”

I feel ill. I shake my head no.

“Hunter’s father and his friends called him that. I—we—had connections on the inside. It was over a decade ago, but that first time I heard that he killed someone, I wasn’t sure who Hunter was anymore.”

My stomach clenches, so I force my hand from where it’s cemented to my hip and place it over my abdomen.

Breathe, Winter.

I know Hunter has killed people. In fact, he’s killed people for me. But the fact that he’s been unaliving people for years? He did that…why?

“Why did he kill them?” My voice doesn’t sound like my own.

“You’ll have to ask him that,” Misha grinds out.

Amelia shifts, her movements telegraphing discomfort. “So you see why I had to be sure about him? Because if I brought him in…it would have jeopardized everything here if he wasn’t who I hoped. We are the last hope for humanity. There’s nowhere else to turn. The FBI, the CIA…the whole Department of Justice are in their pockets. So, no matter how much I wanted all my children with me, I had to wait. I couldn’t.”

I think Amelia knows that if she started crying right now, I would snap. Instead, she tilts her chin up to look at the cardinals. The clouds move, and a shaft of light breaks through the trees.

“Hunter and Ella are my children, and I love them.” She straightens as she speaks, then takes a deep breath. “And so is Misha. But I don’t love any one of them more than the other.”

Taking them in, they’re clearly very different-looking people. Amelia looks like her bones break easily. Misha looks like he breaks bones by hand. But as I look at them more closely, I see the similarities. The angle of their eyes, which are only a few shades off from being identical, is the biggest clue—but Misha’s irises are so close to Hunter and Ella’s.

“How did you end up here?” I ask them both. Misha pulls a phone from his pocket and frowns, cutting us out.

I’m very unsure if I like Misha Hroshko.

“I’ll give you the short version,” Amelia begins, taking a step closer to me when Misha becomes engrossed in his device. “When I was nine, I was sold to a man named Dimitri Hroshko. When I was fifteen, I was sent to live with him as his bride.”

I stare at her for nearly a minute, so when a fly buzzes past my ear, it prompts me to snap my mouth shut.

“I beg your pardon?” I squeak.

“You heard me correctly,” she says. She rubs her thighs, and I take notice of her outfit. This time, it’s a light linen rather than the uniform black I’ve become accustomed to seeing her in.

My jaw drops again. “Wow, Amelia….”

She waves off my empathy. “Many things happened in my life, one of them being that I birthed Misha when I was sixteen. But then I met Benjamin Brigham, and he saved me from a terrible situation. I thought he was saving both of us.” She straightens. “I didn’t know at the time that I was jumping into Hell with him.”

I bring my hand to my throat, and the blood from my carotid pulses beneath my fingertips.

“Okay,” I say. “I still have so many questions.”

Amelia blinks at me patiently, but it’s Misha who speaks.

“We need to eradicate The Legion. I agree with Hunter that Morris Winthrope is a key figure to get rid of, but we need to get rid of him and those who would follow in his footsteps.”

The words make sense, but I still stare at him hard. “Mmkay, go on.”

“That said, Winthrope has his sights set on Ella, and if there’s one thing I know about the man, it’s that he doesn’t sleep on his threats. But with The Architect still around, it will be just a matter of time before someone else takes Winthrope’s place. We need to figure out who The Architect is and break The Legion apart from the top down,” he continues.

A headache blooms behind my brow bone.

“All these years, and you don’t know everything about your enemy?”

Amelia lifts her arms at her side, her posture saying, What can you do?

“Thanks to Hunter, we’re sitting ducks waiting for Winthrope to strike again. But be clear, he will not stop until Ella is in his possession.” This again comes from Misha.

I battle back the urge to curse him out at the shade he throws toward Hunter. “Why does Winthrope want Ella so badly?”

The question should be simple to answer, but Misha and Amelia share a strange look instead.

“Um!” I say, raising my voice and breaking the moment between the two of them. A bird flaps away from a nearby tree. “Anyone want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

My gaze drills into both of them, and I don’t back down when they look uncomfortably at me.

Misha mutters something under his breath, probably in Ukrainian, and turns to close the French doors, sealing us in the outdoor sanctuary.

“Winter, I believe we can trust you. Is this assumption correct?” Misha asks when he turns back to me. His voice is low, serious. That general sense of subtext that usually laces his speech is absent. He’s asking me a direct question.

One that requires an answer.

“Yes, I can be trusted,” I say.

“Misha, are you sure?” Amelia says in the same low tone Misha uses.

“It’s going to come out sooner or later, and she’ll be able to manage him when he blows up.”

“Who is ‘he?’” I chime in, breaking their conversation.

Amelia stares at me hard, and it’s almost like she ages right in front of my eyes.

“Hunter will need your help to process this quickly. Because the sooner he gets on board, the better, but we know this will be a hurdle.”

I resist a growl. “Okay, well stop talking in circles and tell me what’s going on!”

I expect them to say something outlandish.

But the absolute last thing I expect comes out of Amelia’s mouth.

“Ella was born to be a breeder for The Legion. They want her because she’s quite literally the key to their next generations.”

NINE

HUNTER

“Hunter, are you even listening?”

Leo and I have been working for hours now. The sun set not too long ago, and at some point, one of Misha’s staff stuck their head in the room, left, and returned with stone-fired pizza for us.

Leo throws what must be half a ream of paper in my direction, and it skids across the oak table of the war room.

Misha’s team, including Jared and Max, briefed us this morning about how and when The Legion compromised our secure data site. Despite all the safeguards we had in place, they practically waltzed in and took what they wanted.

Because they can.

But even facing all that information and the knowledge that my company is pretty much toast, I struggle to listen to Leo as he drones on about the fall of BwP.

So, for the last twelve hours, Leo and I have been figuring out where to go and how to move forward from here.

Even as the foundation of my last decade crumbles around me, all I can think about is August and Winter and my tiny new family.

“Yes, I’m paying attention,” I say, my voice gruff from staying silent for much of our meeting. Leo and I dove down a data rabbit hole about two hours ago, tracking down discrepancies.

But now he’s decided to talk to me. How long he’s been trying to get me out of my daze is a mystery, though.

“Sorry, I was thinking about something with August,” I offer him as an excuse. Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to prioritize things in order of importance.

I ran into Ella and August while walking here with Leo. August looked well, as did Ella, but I didn’t get any words out before August launched himself into my arms.

I held him for a long minute before whispering just for him to hear, “Are you okay?”

Thinking it a dumb, dumb question to ask—because of course he isn’t okay—I nearly choked with relief when he slowly nodded his head as he lay his face against my chest.

“The chef has loads and loads of Eggos and Cheese-Itz for you,” I stage-whisper. That caused him to jump back, and as if we hadn’t shared the tender moment, he rushed down the hallway, Ella following behind him with a soft smile.

I can’t believe how much time I wasted staying out of August’s life in some misguided attempt to keep him safe. I’d justified staying away—I knew that if my father caught on to just how much he meant to me, he’d destroy him. I let fear be a driver in my decisions.

But now, my father is dead, and even from the grave, he’s managed to taint August’s life.

I’d kill Benjamin Brigham again if I could for so many reasons, but especially for how he’s harmed my son.

What matters most right now is my family. There are several other things ahead of BwP, which is at the bottom of my list.

“Earth to Hunter,” Leo barks. “Do you even fucking care what’s going on?”

Leo runs an agitated hand through his hair. He wears a five o’clock shadow, and the dark circles beneath his eyes suggest that he’s not slept well.

If at all.

I look down at the reports Leo has collected. This would have taken time to create.

“Of course I care,” I say. I try to keep the look of guilt off my face. “The situation doesn’t give me warm fuzzies, but what do we do? They have our goddamn technology.”

Leo sighs, putting his face in his hand. “Okay, since you clearly haven’t been listening to me, let me give you the CliffsNotes version.”

I grimace.

“With Panacea not passing the FDA and now being in the hands of these fuckers, you do realize we can’t move forward, right? Not that it’s even possible to move forward, given that we’re hiding in the Ukrainian’s safe house.”

His words hit me in the gut. BwP means more to Leo than it does to me. It always has. So the fact that he’s saying this is the end….

“So you’re really giving up on it?” I try to keep all judgment out of my voice.

“No, everyone else has given up on us. We can expect some lawsuits from investors to roll down sometime in the next few months.”

I make a rough sound in my chest, and Leo rubs his eyes.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” I ask him, making a show of flipping through the pages. I pick up the Mont Blanc pen just to give my hands something else to do.

“Could you sleep?” Leo shakes his head, continuing before I can respond. “No, I did not. There’s too much to do.”

I grunt in response.

Rubbing my top lip with my thumbnail, I commit to focusing on Leo for the next half hour. Then I’ll go to Winter. She’ll know what to do with August.

She always does.

So why can’t I trust her to share the burden of the rest of it?

When the door claps open and Misha, Max, and…Amelia walk in, I raise an eyebrow as I stare at them but don’t move otherwise.

“Problem?” Leo asks, his voice gruff.

Max moves to the screen where Amelia presented information about The Legion yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

It feels like forever ago.

“What’s going on?” Leo says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Luna walks in a moment later.

“Has the press conference started?” she says as she grabs a chair. She falls into the seat at the head of the table and kicks her legs up to rest on the top of it. She crosses them at the ankle.

Max fumbles with the control, and the screen lights up. My jaw goes slack when two people appear on the screen.

“Deep fake, right?” Leo asks, not turning to look at Max, who practically bounced to his favorite spot at the wall of computers behind us.

“Yeah…” Max replies. The way he answers causes me to spin in my chair to assess him. He doesn’t look giddy. Instead, he tilts his head and stares at the screen.

I frown but spin back to face the table and speak up.

“Are we sure Blair is dead?”

“As a doornail,” Luna drawls. “In fact, her body is in our morgue right now.”

I blink. “Here?”

My brain spasms at the knowledge that they have a morgue on site.

Luna rolls her neck to look at me over her shoulder. “Bless your heart,” she says, the saccharine words falling from her lips.

I give her a closed-mouth grin that I’m sure telegraphs my thought, which is, fuck you.

Morris Winthrope looks commanding and serious in his blue suit and complementary blue and gold tie. Standing behind a sleek glass podium, it’s no mistake that the backdrop behind him mirrors that of the official seal of the Oval Office.

With his hair slicked back, he looks presidential.

“Hell if that ain’t some optics,” Max says, his voice full of awe. But I bet it’s not from Winthrope’s presence on the screen.

It’s because Blair stands to the left of her father, just one step behind—and because the label at the bottom of the screen shows that this is a live feed.

“There’s technology that can do that?” I say to Max.

“There’s technology to do everything,” he throws back. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, hands hanging down and with rapt attention on the screen.

“Quiet,” Misha commands, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes just because I hate him.

And I do. I hate Misha Hroshko.

Returning my gaze back to Morris Winthrope and the Blair look-a-like, I quiet myself to listen to the man’s speech.

“Our country is under attack, and the everyday American is the victim. Policies which have been enacted under the guise of social progress only serve to do one thing—to rid the world of our American identity,” Winthrope says, and I feel vaguely nauseous when Blair nods in somber agreement on the screen.

“There are several truths that are immutable at this moment in history. One, that we are called to take drastic steps to ensure the safety and sovereignty of our great nation, and two, the American populace is tired of fighting for this exact right.”

Blair gives a delicate, silent clap as the crowd cheers. The camera pans to the audience, and there must be at least two thousand people filling the stadium.

“We must be mad, literally mad, as a nation to permit this great erasure to continue. And as I look to the future of the greatest nation on the planet, I’m filled with foreboding. Because we are on a path of clear destruction—destruction of the American identity.”

The crowd goes positively feral as I listen to Winthrope spew his nationalist rhetoric.

“It is time for all Americans who see the bigger picture to unify our nation and march into the future. And it is with this goal in mind—the goal of reversing the damning course of destruction our country is on—that I proudly announce my candidacy for president of the United States.”

Winthrope steps back from the podium, his practiced smile plastered to his face. He takes Blair’s hand, and I lean forward to watch their movements as they wave to the crowd and trek toward the exit.

As the camera zooms out, the words “Picture a Better America” flash on the screen behind them.

The commentator’s voice comes back on. He only gets three words out before Misha turns off the screen.

We’re all silent for several tense seconds.

I’m the first to clear my throat.

“Well, we knew that was coming,” I say.

Misha gives Amelia and Luna an unreadable look.

“What am I missing?” I ask, my voice dropping low.

Luna releases a deep breath while Amelia crosses her arms over her chest and looks out the open door.

“That was a complete declaration of war against us,” Luna says.

“And a signal that they’re ready for the next step,” Misha adds. “A call to arms for all the Engineers, Designers, and Legion hopefuls.” He runs his hand through his hair, and for the first time, he looks agitated.

“How was that a declaration of war?” I grind out, casting my gaze around the room.

Misha blows out a breath, but Luna is the one who speaks.

“Well, the first bright, shining symbol was the campaign slogan,” she says. “‘Picture a Better America’ is very close to the statement that all Engineers echo from The Architect: They ‘see’ the bigger picture.”

I shake my head, still not drawing all the connections.

“Nonetheless, his announcing a run for the presidency isn’t news to anyone, but we have intel that’s confident that the announcement is the signal to the rest of the Engineers and the low-level Designers that the time has come to activate Elysium.” This all comes from Misha. He doesn’t look at anyone as he speaks. Instead, he stands with his palms flat on the tabletop as his eyes scan the swirling patterns in the wood.

“So, should we go underground to avoid their plague? How much time do we have? Or should we just all say our last goodbyes?” I say, my tone derisive. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but fuck if everything just feels fucking hopeless.

“Not necessarily,” Misha says, lifting his head. “But it does mean that you need to get out of the fucking way and let us end this. It’s time to stop playing around, Hunter.”

A chill descends upon the room.

“I can appreciate the gravity of the situation. But you need to come up with alternative ideas that don’t include sending my sister into a den of psychopaths.”

Misha makes a rough sound in his chest. “Our sister,” he grinds out.

I bark a laugh. “Our? Since fucking when? You don’t even know Ella. If you did, you wouldn’t feel so comfortable going along with this asinine plan.”

“Fuck!” The word bursts from Max’s lips, and he whirls around to face his computer, pulling Misha and me out of our stare off. “I just thought of something. Shit!”

Max continues to tap away at the computer, and when lines of code pop on the screen, we all move to stare over his shoulder. He lifts his hip and empties his pocket. Loose change, a toothpick, and what looks like a used cotton swab spill out on the table next to his keyboard, but he rummages through the mess until he finds a thumb drive.

“Erasure, erasure…Goddamn it, they’re clever,” Max says, his face going from serious to laughing, then back to serious in the span of a few seconds.

“Start talking in complete sentences, Max,” Leo says, staring hard at the man.

“Okay, so boom,” he says. “A year ago, I made a copy of all the Project Panacea data as a safeguard against attacks. We were getting throttled by some anonymous team, and if they ever cracked in, I set things up to self-destruct, but I wanted to make sure I had a backup.”

Leo and I share a look. “Okay,” we say at the same time.

“But what was fucking stupid of me was that I didn’t plan on a physical data breach,” he adds. He lets out a frustrated growl, but his fingers continue to fly over the screen.

“Shortly before you came back to D.C., there was this blip in the tracking. I didn’t think much of it because when the team investigated it, it looked like nothing. But I think…” He stops talking mid-sentence as lines of code roll on the screen.

When a pressed “Fuck,” bursts from his mouth, Leo and I share a look.

“Look here,” Max says, and we lean closer as Max pulls up two windows side by side, code scrolling like we’re in the movie Tron.

“What the fuck am I looking at, Max? In plain English.” This comes from Leo.

“The codes are different. What you’re looking at is a big ole ‘control-x’ from our tech that they pasted somewhere else. So basically, this is proof that they’ve had the technology all along. The vault thing…that didn’t actually do anything because they’ve been working on this for the last year. That was just a calling card from The Legion.”

Leo lets out a choked sound and pulls out his phone. Scrolling through the screen, his lips move as he counts under his breath.

“Fifteen,” Leo says, his voice incredulous. His eyes meet mine. “There are fifteen voluntary terminations across the R&D team.”

“And how large is your R&D team?” Luna asks.

“Thirty-two employees,” Leo adds.

Fuck. The implications spider through my brain. “When were they hired? Fired? Who are their—”

“There’s no time for this, Hunter.” Misha’s voice grates on my nerves.

“No one asked you, Hroshko,” I grind out.

Luna lowers her legs lazily and stands next to her husband.

Amelia still remains silent.

“Basically, they’ve had a year-long head start,” Leo concludes.

I drop my head back, my thoughts spiraling. My first duty: Protect my family.

“Hunter.” Amelia’s soft voice cracks through my breakdown.

I don’t acknowledge her. Instead, I still my body, practically holding my breath.

“Hunter, we can’t reverse course at this point. We need to cut them off at the head. We need to find The Architect.” This comes from Misha.

The Architect. The Architect.

The name echoes in the deep recesses of my brain, and suppressed memories batter at my consciousness.

“You all have been running in circles trying to find The Architect. Meanwhile, Morris Winthrope is a direct threat to my family. He is the one we need to be focused on,” I say while staring at the wall.

Amelia responds, “Yes, that’s true. But the reality is that if The Architect is still around, then there’s nothing to stop the next Morris Winthrope or Benjamin Brigham. And we don’t know who The Architect is or where they are, but we do know that if the top falls, so will the rest.”

Misha begins to speak. “The tracking technology you used for Winter. We can implant that same tracker in Ella. A second one, for redundancy, plus our guy on the inside. If we give her to them, they will take her to The Architect. We’ll be able to take out both issues with one cut. We can end this.”

The room spins.

“No,” I grind out. “Find another way.”

If it were just me that they wanted to use, I’d consider it. But they want me to hand over Ella, and fuck if I will do that.

“Hunter, you’re being unreasonable. We’ll make it as safe for her as possible,” Misha says.

“You can’t guarantee shit!” I burst from my chair and spin to face Misha. “You may have fuck all to lose, but if you want my sister, you’re going to have to kill me.”

Misha takes a step toward me and my right hand twitches, eager to reach for my knife. “I don’t mind killing you, Brigham,” Misha spits. We’re chest to chest, and when Misha’s face cracks into a mocking smile, I ball my fist and smash it into his nose.

Misha takes a step back but is generally unaffected. He laughs, wiping blood away from his upper lip. “That was your one shot,” he says.

Still. Fucking. Grinning.

Leo huffs, and from the corner of my eye, I track as he leans against the wall farthest from us, arms crossed.

Rage at Misha blurs my vision, and I charge at him. I know he’s going to give back as much violence as I give him, but I don’t give a fuck.

I want someone to hurt.

I want someone to bleed.

“Hunter!” Amelia rushes to put herself between us, and Misha pushes her behind him. I grapple with him, and I have an advantage because the dress shoes he wears with his slacks cause his feet to become unstable on the slick floors.

“Stay back,” he says to Amelia. “This is between Hunter and me.” On the last word, he punches me in the stomach, and the air leaves my lungs.

His wife shifts, moving closer to us.

“Luna, sit this one out,” Misha says, not even winded.

I follow up with another punch. It’s a dirty one—right to his throat.

Misha makes a choked sound as he goes to the ground, grabbing his neck. I swing over him to sit on his chest, pinning his arms beneath my knees. My knife is out and pressed just under his right eye.

“I hate you,” I spit.

“The feeling is mutual, mudak,” he hisses back.

“Stop! Both of you!” Amelia says, pulling at my arm, which wields the dagger.

Misha releases a deep growl when her strong jerk causes me to inadvertently slice at his cheek.

“All right, enough of this,” Luna says with a sigh. The sound of her racking the chamber causes me to pause long enough that Misha gets his arms unpinned and wraps them around my neck.

“Let me handle this, moya lyubov,” Misha rasps, but Luna presses the barrel of her gun to the back of my head.

Static edges into my field of vision as Misha squeezes harder. But even still, I’m not quite sure he’s trying to kill me.

“No! There’s no time for this shit. Get it together, both of y’all!” Luna yells, and Misha delivers a sucker punch to my left eye that causes my head to snap back and for me to fall off him.

Luna helps Misha stand, putting her tiny hand on his cheek beneath the cut. He squeezes her wrist affectionately.

“Yeah,” I say, my throat dry. I get up, cracking my jaw from side to side to assess the damage. “Fuck all of you.”

“Even me?” Max pipes up. I ignore him.

The muscle above my right cheek twitches, and I’m so, so close to vomiting up the Margherita pizza Leo and I consumed earlier this evening.

“Hunter,” Amelia grates out.

“You can go fuck yourself, Amelia. It’s not like you gave a fuck about me or Ella, so don’t pretend you do now,” I bellow.

“Hunter, I tried to get back to you. I tried.” Amelia’s voice is like a knife in my skull. The sound of it causes a searing sort of agony to spiral in my brain.

“But I was terrified of your father. I knew if I ever came back, he’d make sure you all—”

“Terrified? You were terrified?” My voice is so low—so, so low—and I feel rather than see Leo move closer to me.

“Hunter, I know he terrorized you, but I was trying to keep you alive,” she adds, openly weeping.

“You don’t know fucking shit!” I stalk toward her, but she doesn’t cower. She faces my rage, willing to accept all my hatred.

I try to breathe, but it feels like I’m drowning.

“Why should I ever trust a liar?” I say, the words and my voice raw. “What kind of mother abandons her children? But it wasn’t everyone—it looks like you and Hroshko are okay, right?”

Misha clicks his tongue. “You’re one to talk, Brigham. Didn’t you leave your kid behind?”

The room tilts and Leo’s face comes into focus in front of me.

“H, let’s walk it off,” he says. When he puts his hand on my shoulder, I shrug it off.

“Fuck off, Leonardo.” I get in his face, our chests bumping against each other.

He inhales, visibly trying to calm himself. “I’m not your enemy, nor am I the one you’re mad at.” His face hardens, and I step away from him to stand by the window. A cardinal jumps from branch to branch in the pine tree.

“Hunter, I never wanted to hurt you. I just needed a plan—an army—to get you and Ella out. Everything was so unclear. I didn’t know what the right move was, so I wanted to be sure. There’s so much….”

Control. Control. Control, control, contr—

“You think he merely terrorized me? Let me tell you what happened while you were gone, Mother.” I spit the title at her, turning to face the room again with the window to my back.

“Do you want to know all the depraved things he made me do? All the sick shit he allowed people to do to me?”

Amelia closes her eyes against my truths.

“No, open your fucking eyes and look at me!”

She snaps her eyes open.

“Do you want to know how many times I fucked and killed and drank and shot up to keep him happy? To protect Ella? To do your fucking job?”

She scans my face, and then it morphs.

“Oh, Hunter.” She covers her mouth. “No….”

No pity. No, she only gets to feel my fury.

“I just want to know why,” I ask, and my voice cracks, which makes me livid. “Why didn’t you come back for us? For me?”

The seconds tick-tick-tick on, and the word bursts from my lips, “Why!”

She jumps, but she doesn’t look afraid. Pity radiates from her in violent waves.

No, no, no pity.

Taking in the scene, I make the decision I’ve been fighting against, ignoring.

If I can’t beat them and joining them is untenable, then I have only one option.

We have to run.

I turn to storm out of the room when Ella runs smack into me.

“I can hear you fighting from the hallway!” She’s breathless, as if she ran all the way from wherever she was into the room.

“Sorry, Ellie,” I say gruffly. I grab her upper arm, ready to escort both of us somewhere else. Anywhere else.

We need to run.

Forget what I told Winter. We can’t stay here, because if Misha has his way, Ella would be thrown into the hands of The Legion and I can’t risk it. I can’t lose anyone.

I won’t risk it.

“Ella, a word, please,” Misha says. His tone is congenial and bright, and he’d seem gracious if he didn’t have a streak of blood trailing from his nose to his ear.

Ella raises her eyebrow at me as I continue pulling her toward the exit.

“H?” she asks, clearly confused.

Amelia inhales and exhales slowly, loudly, and I allow Ella to pull her arm from my grasp.

“We need your help, Ella,” Misha continues. He walks over to her, and when he’s less than a foot away, he grabs her elbow and guides her to sit at the table.

Ella’s eyes stay transfixed on his face, and I find myself mute, unable to say anything at all.

“There’s a long backstory, but perhaps you have heard that you were also a target for the abductors at the raid at Amelia Manor. Were you aware?” Misha leans against the table, caging Ella in on one side with his casual pose.

“Yeah,” Ella says, and she begins to chew her lip.

Leo shifts across the room, and the stormy look on his face must mirror mine.

“The people who attacked are part of an organization called The Legion. There are a few reasons why they want you, but that’s actually a good thing. Because these people are dangerous, and they must be stopped. Not just for you and your family’s safety, but for the safety of all humankind.”

Ella’s eyes widen as she follows Misha’s words.

“I want you to know that we will keep you safe if you help us. Okay?”

“Um, okay.” Ella nods, her eyes still wide.

“Here’s what I—we—propose.” Misha sticks his hands out to gesture to the entire room. “We want to give you to them, just for a little bit. Because we know when they have you, they will take you to their leader, who is a person called The Architect. Are you following me?”

Ella’s eyebrows furrow. “Yes, but…these people are dangerous. Terrorists, right?”

Misha nods. “Yes, they are dangerous, but we will place trackers on your person so that we can retrieve you when you are with The Architect. Once you’re inside, we’ll be in range to tackle any technological defenses they may have. Max can mask the signal and keep an eye on you at all times. We have someone on the inside who will keep you safe. Then we’ll come in with an army bigger than the one I sent to rescue you all at Amelia Manor,” he says. The last few words are a bit sharper and pointed in my direction. A dig at me.

“Why do they want me?” Ella asks.

It’s a perfectly reasonable question that I want the answer to. My face tightens with foreboding.

Misha sends a look to our mother.

Our mother.

With a deep breath, Misha starts to speak, but Amelia butts in.

“You are important to them, Ellie. That’s why we’re confident they won’t harm you. They need you alive and…intact.”

Ella’s brows furrow.

“Okay, but why am I important?” she presses. Amelia drops onto her haunches and grabs Ella’s hands.

“Your father…my father…they were part of The Legion. They are—they were evil, Ellie. I’ve been caught up in this world for so long. I knew I wanted to, needed to get out when you were born. The day I took you home, I was told that you would be handed over to The Legion by your twenty-third birthday. I…” Amelia bows her head, but I track the movement as her hands flex against Ella’s.

I’m frozen. Rooted. Helpless to stop this trainwreck in front of me.

“They forced me to conceive you so that you may be one of the chosen to birth their next generations once Elysium was enacted.” Amelia’s lips tremble as she delivers the clear words, and it’s like a marching band decided to take up residence between my ears.

I’d suspected something similar, drawing conclusions from the information I received when I first arrived…but this?

I want to vomit.

Ella stares at Amelia as if she were an alien, and after a few heartbeats, removes her hands.

“I see,” Ella says, her voice sounding far off. She looks thoroughly overwhelmed by this information—as much as I am.

“What the actual goddamn fuck?” I shout, seething. No one except Leo acknowledges my outburst.

The feeling of icy anxiety beneath my skin demands that I move, run, get far away from all of this shit with Ella and the rest of my family.

I try to breathe in, but it feels like chains wind around my chest, pulling tighter, tighter….

“They won’t hurt you because they need you, Ella. Your blood—your DNA is too precious to them. But if you face this for a little while, prayerfully not even a full day, then we can end all of this for good. You’ll be free.” Luna delivers the words with more passion than I’ve heard her use toward any of us thus far.

“And if you don’t, which…is your choice,” Misha begins. “You will have to live in hiding forever. They will hunt you until they catch you, Ella.”

Ella’s face goes blank, and she goes very still. Impossibly still.

Amelia still crouches in front of her. “You do not have to do this, Ella,” she says, her voice fierce.

“If you agree, you’ll help us get rid of some serious evil in the world. I want to give you time to decide, but we can’t delay any longer. We need to act now. So what do you say?” Misha says and waits patiently.

I hold my breath, and with a glance toward Leo, it looks like he’s doing the same.

I find my voice. “You don’t have to do this, Ellie. In fact, I don’t want you to—”

“I’ll do it,” she says in a soft voice, and my heart drops to the floor.

Misha grins. “What was that, little one?”

Ella looks at Misha, and I realize that she’s likely a little in awe of him, but then, I can imagine he represents a lot to her. And to us. He’s the strong, un-fuck-with-able older brother who guarantees her protection in the face of insane danger without batting an eye.

So of course she wants to do whatever he says.

“Yes, I’ll do it. What do I need to do?” Ella’s energized words cause me to start pacing.

Wrong. This is wrong.

“Ella, no,” I shout, and the snap of sound causes her to jump.

Amelia falls into a chair, placing her head in her hands. After a beat, she looks up to Ella. “Are you sure, Ellie? You really don’t have to,” Amelia murmurs.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she says, straightening her spine. “I can do this.”

“Fuck,” Leo swears, the words a sharp rasp. When I glance at him, his eyes zero in on Ella, but the look he gives her refuses to compute in my brain. Before I can make anything more of it, he storms out the door.

“Ella,” I say, my heart cracking through my bones. “Please don’t do this.” My voice is practically a whisper.

When she stands to walk to me and places her hand on my forearm, I realize that I’m shaking.

“It’s going to be okay,” she says with a bright smile. Naive. She’s so fucking naive.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about what these people are capable of, Ella! Your whole life you’ve been sheltered. You’ve been protected from our father and the depraved shit he does to people. If I know anything at all, I know this: They will eat you alive.”

Maybe even literally.

The image of a group of blood-covered men consuming a woman causes me to turn from Ella and suppress a gag.

Her hand lands on my back. “H, you’ve got to let go,” Ella says, and she uses the tone she gives August when he’s having a meltdown.

Slow, measured, careful.

I shake my head because images of Ella being utterly destroyed flash through my brain.

I’m going to lose another person I love.

Putting a hand to my chest, I turn back to my sister.

“You’re dead set on this?”

Her face turns serious. “Yes, Hunter. I am,” she says.

I nod at her confirmation.

“We need you too, Hunter. You know much more than you think, and out of all of us, you’ve been on Isla Cara the most,” Misha says.

He’s right.

Out of the group in front of me, I’m the only one who has spent months at a time on the island.

Months filled with nothing but pain and haziness and mental anguish.

“You’re expecting too much from me,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my ears.

Then, with a look at the rest of the room’s occupants, I release a short sigh that does nothing to ease the tension in my sternum.

Looking at Ella, I say with a smile I don’t mean at all, “Well. Have fun.”

Ella looks like I’ve slapped her when I walk out the door.

TEN

HUNTER

The heat of the sun presses against my eyelids as I wake up on a pile of pillows. I’m under the awning that covers a fourth of the veranda from edge to edge. It seems the storm that promised to wash the land bypassed us all together. The sea is calm for once, and Isla Cara seems like the most peaceful place on the planet.

It’s a lie.

The cloudless sky and silent surf seem mismatched when compared with what happened last night.

I woke up because of a noise: A gasping suck of air. Pained. I find the source and turn away to throw up on the pillows.

On the marble bar top, my mother lay with her arms hanging over the sides. Her eyes are closed, but the gnarled, raw flesh seeps and drips onto the floor beneath her. Blood streams from so many cuts on her body.

A man stands close to her.

“Clean this shit up, Hunter.” Father’s voice comes from behind me, and I scramble to sit up, tearing my eyes away from Mom. He kicks the furniture I’m on, and I pull a beach towel from the basket provided for guests to wipe at the mess of my vomit.

“What are you going to do with Mom?” I say with eyes downcast. When he’s silent for too long, I risk glancing at him.

Father is still, a peaceful smile on his lips. Then with snake-like quickness, he grabs me by the throat, pulling me up and over the back of the lounge sofa until my face is inches from his.

He breathes in. And out. And the seconds tick on.

Then he says, “Don’t ever mention her again.” His words are a low vow.

I nod a fraction as I choke.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Hunter.”

Movement comes from the side near the entrance of the house. Standing in the doorway is a man I hoped to never see.

It’s one of Father’s most vile friends, Alistair, and two other men surround him. Father squeezes my throat harder, and sparks of light flash from the sides of my vision.

“You’ll remember that I own you, Hunter,” Father says. Tighter. Tighter. I fear I might pass out. I look toward Mom, willing her to open her eyes. To look at me and to save me like she vowed.

To save me like she vowed when she found out the true extent of my father’s hatred of me.

With one last punishing squeeze, he releases me, and I collapse back on the cushions, drawing in air as if on the brink of death.

And I am. I am always on the brink of death when Benjamin Brigham is around.

He leans over me, blocking out everything except his eyes and his demonic gaze.

“This will serve as your punishment and your reminder.”

He stands over me for one more moment as the three men move beside him.

I know. I know, I know, I know what will happen.

Not again, not again. I can’t do this again. This can’t happen again.

So I allow myself to show the weakness he so detests. I allow tears to fall.

“Please,” I beg. “Don’t let them hurt me.”

He smiles, and it takes on a sick edge. He flushes, and his eyes sparkle.

“Keep begging, Hunter. Beg while they destroy you.”

Then he steps back, and both of my arms are bound as I’m flipped to my stomach, zip ties locking my wrists together behind my back.

“Please!” I shout into the pillows.

Father laughs, and it’s loud, ringing—clanging—in my ears.

One man grabs my left leg. Another grabs my right.

“Pl-ease!” I cry as my tattered shirt is ripped off me. All of the cuts and bruises on my body pulse and ache and sear. “Please, God. Help!”

With that, he laughs louder.

“Hunter, don’t you know?” he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut as my hands flex against the hard plastic, grasping for anything, as someone rips my shorts from my body.

Once I’m naked and trembling, he leans over me to whisper into my ear.

“I am your god.”

“Hunter, wake up!”

Cold and pain shock me from my nightmare as I come to consciousness on the floor.

A drop of icy water drips from my nose, and I suck in air in deep bellows as I get my mind and body to accept that I’m conscious.

Winter stands on the other side of our bed with an empty glass in her hand, trembling.

It was just a dream.

“Let’s breathe,” Winter says, still not moving from her spot. “In for three, out for three.”

She does the count first, and I do it as she commands. I count to three as I inhale, holding the air in my lungs for another three before releasing the stream for another three beats.

“Hunter, are you fully awake now?” Winter’s voice is low, even though a wobbly undercurrent laces it.

I draw my eyes from her face to her hand and back to her face.

There’s so much in her gaze, but there are also things I don’t want to see.

Pity. Understanding.

“Fuck, did I hurt you, Sunbeam?”

I run my hand down the side of my face, refusing to look at her again.

“No, H. I’m okay.” She grabs my hand, passing it across her cheek and down both of her arms. When we reach her wrist, I circle my fingers around it. “See?”

I look at her, and Winter shrugs in the pale ambient lighting. She really does look like an angel.

I am ruining her.

I clear my throat and close my eyes against the painful thought.

“Yes, I’m awake,” I say. “And I’m okay.” Another lie. Another fucking lie.

It’s been weeks since my blowup in the war room, and my temperament has been insufferable, even to Winter. I know it, even though she’s never said so outright. I think the parts of her that will make an excellent clinical psychologist recognize that I need space, not smothering.

Even though I never want her to see me as weak, I know she sees my pain.

“Mmhmm,” she says in an even tone. After a beat, she says, “That must have been some nightmare, H. You were screaming.” I feel her move, and the closer she gets, the tighter I screw my eyes shut.

She puts her hand on my jaw and tilts my face up, not letting me avoid her gaze, so I slide my eyes open. Even though she tries, she can’t hide the concern in her expression.

With gentle movements, she gingerly lowers herself to the ground across from me.

The silence between us urges me to command that she say something. Anything. But also, I want her to say nothing at all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Is this a session, Winter? Should I pull out my Amex?” My voice is harsh, and I watch as her lips tighten.

Get a grip.

Inhaling, I say, “I’m sorry, Sunbeam.”

We’re silent for a few seconds, but then she says, “I forgive you.” Then she nudges my thigh when I shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “This time.”

I grab her hand and kiss the back of it.

After a moment, she sighs and says, “I’m ready to talk to you.”

I look up, quirking an eyebrow.

“About our fight back home, before you left to meet Misha,” she clarifies.

I bite the inside of my cheek before saying, “I wasn’t aware we were fighting.”

She gives me a droll look. “Yeah, okay.” She pulls her hand away.

We’ve been laying low for three weeks. I fully expected Morris Winthrope to try to break into Misha’s compound as soon as the time was up on his demand, but things have been eerily quiet.

He didn’t show up with a tank to take us down like Misha did to his people who invaded Amelia Manor. There weren’t any drone bombings.

Not even a blip on the radar.

So as the days have rolled on, I’ve felt the ticktock of the countdown to our doom getting louder and louder.

The quieter my surroundings get, the more it feels like I’m losing control.

Control.

“Hunter,” she begins, “I know you’re hyper-concerned about my safety. I get it—especially given everything that’s happened over the last several weeks. Or, I guess, the last several months. The year?” She straightens her back.

“But you cannot ever lock me away ever again. You cannot shut me out. You have to let me be a partner in things that impact not just you but me too. The rest of our….”

She waves her hands in the air before lifting them in a hopeless shrug.

“I think the word you’re searching for is ‘family,’ Sunbeam.” I lean forward, cupping her cheek. “And I’m sorry that I upset you.”

But I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it again if given the chance.

“You’ve got to let go of control, baby. You’re only hurting yourself by trying to orchestrate the direction of life,” Winter says.

She puts a palm on each side of my neck. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in my decade-plus of therapy and classes, it’s this: You can’t control the future. There’s no such thing as a guaranteed outcome. You just have to do the next thing that feels right and keep moving forward.”

Her words cause my chest to tighten, and my breaths start to feel short.

She looks at me, and she shows everything in her gaze.

“Why does that scare you, Hunter?”

I have to change the subject.

“I’m not sure what to do about Amelia,” I say.

She sits up straighter and tilts her head to the side. I can tell the moment she decides to let me back away from the present topic.

“Do you want my help to think through it?” she asks, using her therapist voice.

I grin. “Sure, Doctor Vaughan.” Soon to be Doctor Brigham if I have my way.

The idea of Paris flashes through my mind. In my fantasies, we’d get married beneath the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin and honeymoon for a month in Paris. We’d do touristy things during the day, have romantic candle-lit dinners at night, and make love whenever we wanted to.

I want to give her that and so much more.

Winter smiles at me. “Can you name the emotions you feel right now about your mother? Not necessarily about her actions, but about her being here, alive.”

She waits patiently and brings her legs around to sit with them folded in front of her.

I allow myself to really think about that question. How do I feel about my mother being alive?

I’m angry. I’m hurt.

And beneath the anger and hurt, I’m…grateful.

She’s lied to me, hidden herself away from me, and allowed me to stay trapped in that world with my father. And even knowing all that—having all that happen—I’m stunned that she’s still here.

“I’m amazed that she survived. I’m in awe of her resilience to make it through the things that were supposed to kill her. And I’m jealous. And angry,” I say.

And guilty.

Maybe that’s really it. The guilt I feel that, in the end, I was the one who betrayed all her secrets…the feeling is sharp. It’s a knife stuck in my gut, and it gets jostled with every breath I take.

“Those are all understandable feelings, Hunter,” Winter says calmly. “So, acknowledging that, what do you want your relationship with her to look like?”

That question startles me. Relationship? With my mother?

The fact that I haven’t considered that I could have any type of relationship with her hasn’t crossed my mind. I’m unsure why. Maybe part of me can’t believe that she’s actually alive and here.

Maybe part of me is afraid that despite the miracle of her presence here…she’ll leave me again, whether she wants to or not.

Maybe part of me feels the pressure of this shit with The Legion blowing up in a catastrophic way.

Like everything always does. My hand jerks in Winter’s grasp. I take in her face in the dim light and try not to panic.

This. I won’t let anything destroy this.

“I haven’t thought about it,” I eventually say.

Winter’s grin is slow to appear, but it comes nonetheless.

“That’s okay, Hunter,” she says, kissing my cheek. I inhale her soft rose scent, grateful to whoever managed to bring so many of our things over from Amelia Manor.

“Maybe that question is one that you can spend some time contemplating,” she finishes.

I clear my throat. “Sure, Sunbeam. I’ll do that.”

She goes to kiss my cheek again, and I turn my head to capture her lips.

Our embrace is sweet, slow, and full of…everything.

Everything I’ve never dared to allow myself to have and want, I have it here. It’s in my hands.

I run my palms over her sides, and she hums into my mouth, pulling back a fraction to look at me.

It’s like she’s staring into the depths of my soul. I know she would understand. The logical part of me—the part that knows that Winter loves me as I love her, beyond reason—knows that I could tell her anything.

There’s so much she doesn’t know about me. And the reality is the thought of her seeing the darkest, ugliest parts of my past makes me want to die.

You are not a good person, Hunter Brigham, she said to me once.

She wasn’t wrong. Not at all.

“I really don’t want to push you, Hunter,” she says in a soft voice. “But I’m not the only one who has been hurt. You have been too.”

I resist the urge to jump as she analyzes me. I take a long blink to avoid her gaze.

“Eh, my stuff will heal,” I reply.

“I’m not talking about physical pain, H. I’m talking about you—your heart and your soul. Your reactions in your dreams sound very…familiar.” Her voice drops on the last word, and I can’t look her in the eye.

So, instead, I stare at the silky skin on the back of her hand and rub my thumb over it in a slow cadence.

“What you told me that—that night I was taken…” She clears her throat. “That was just the tip of the iceberg. There was more that happened, more you haven’t told me. Right?”

Icy fingers of panic skitter down my spine, morphing into the feeling of unwanted hands on my body. I look down at my palms to make sure they aren’t covered in blood.

I swallow past the thickness in my throat.

“I am here for you, Hunter. I’m here to listen.” She brings my hand to her mouth now, returning the caress. “I’m not here to therapize you,” she whispers with her lips pressed to my flesh. Then she brings my hand to her chest and places it right over her heart.

“I’m here for you because I love you, and I want to be your safe space too.”

At that, I look up at her face.

She looks open to me and so filled with love that I almost choke on it.

“You can tell me anything. Some things…I know they’re hard to say. I know it. But you can’t keep me on the outside of you.” She moves our hands down to cover her stomach. “We’re part of each other now.”

She’s well into her second trimester now. Her stomach has become a little more prominent over the last few weeks, and the sight of her round with my child does all kinds of things to my brain.

One thought is regret—I never saw these stages with August. Another thought is joy—radiant joy that I can try again.

But the loudest thought is fear. All-consuming, trembling fear.

And I know that fear, if given the opportunity, will make me weak. Distracted. Vulnerable.

If I were to allow myself to give in to the fear, that would mean death for all of us.

So I push it down and shut all the thoughts out.

I open my mouth to speak—to spill forward the horrible tragedies that my father allowed, that he dictated.

I open my mouth to tell her that our pasts are not so different.

But when I force my lips to form the words, nothing comes out. She goes back to rubbing my hand after placing it on her lap.

“Maybe another day?” she asks.

I clear my throat. “Another day,” I say.

When she begins to pull away, I stop her and place her hand on my chest.

I place her hand where my heart beats for her.

Her smile is near blinding as she settles into me.

I will keep her safe, even if I die doing it.

WHEN I WAKE up again four hours later, I let Winter sleep and find August. I’m ashamed that I haven’t spent more time with him. I think about him every day, but when we connect, it’s…awkward.

It’s not August’s fault at all—it’s like I’ve forgotten how to interact with people since I vomited all my emotions in front of everyone in the war room. Winter, Ella, and I sat him down to explain who Misha and Amelia are to him, and he took the information well.

At least, I think so.

But when Ella and Winter left the room and it was just August and I, we sat in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes before he loped off to play his video games with Kitty tap-tap-tapping next to him.

I realize now that a big part of me is afraid to be around him. I’m such a fucking mess that I don’t want my darkness to rub off on him.

I don’t want any of this to touch him.

So as a result, it’s been too many days since August and I spoke face-to-face.

Get it together.

As I head toward August’s game room, the thought crosses my mind to find Ella—to see if I can talk some sense into her. We’ve broached the topic of her involvement with this shit a few times over the past near month, but those conversations always end with her storming off and me wanting to hit something.

But Winter is right. She’s a grown woman.

She can make her own decisions, even if they are painful for me to tolerate.

In the back of my mind, I can admit I’m being irrational about this. I’m able to feel what’s at stake here and how much there is to lose.

But the abstract thought of The Legion fracturing our civilization doesn’t compare to the very real danger of losing my sister.

But again, Ella can make her own decisions.

So, my decision is to step back. Misha and Amelia and Ella can figure all this out on their own.

I’ll just get in the way.

A knot fists in my chest.

I make my way into the kitchen and stop short when I see Veronica and Rio standing close to each other. It’s an innocent scene, but the way they look at each other…I recognize that look.

Veronica jumps away from Rio, putting her hand on the small stroller that holds Summer. Rio doesn’t move at all—he just continues to look at Veronica.

“Hunter,” Veronica says with a cool tone. She’s still cold toward me about all that’s happened, and for good reason.

All the questions and accusations she lobbied against me when we first arrived were very warranted, so she has every right and reason to be angry.

“Good morning, Veronica. Rio,” I say. At his name, the man breaks out of his trance and adjusts his stance, turning toward me.

He tips his chin down in greeting.

I reach for an apple from the bowl on the counter and make my way to the pantry to grab an unopened box of Cheese-Itz for August.

“Busy morning?” Rio asks, his words addressed to me.

I grunt. “Not at all, actually.”

Not anymore, seeing as Ella has taken things into her own hands. My heart rate spikes, making my chest tight.

Veronica mumbles something beneath her breath and kicks the bottom of the stroller, heading toward the exit.

“Veronica, wait,” I say, not at all sure what I’m about to say. Wait for…what?

Apologize, asshat.

“I’m sorry that I’ve brought you into this situation. Nothing about this is ideal, but I’m glad that you’re here—safe with us.”

The snort she releases is so loud that I’m concerned she’s harmed her nasal passages.

“You’re sorry? Yeah, okay,” she says, turning back to wheel the stroller through the entryway.

I don’t know what to say about any of this. I just know that if Veronica’s unhappy, that will make Winter unhappy. Since Veronica is unhappy with me, it’s even more important that I make shit right.

“I’ll do better by Winter, I promise,” I say. “I know things have been blowing up ever since we started seeing each other, but I swear to you, she’s my everything.”

I’m still facing her back, so I see it clearly when her shoulders rise, tensing. Slowly, she turns her head so that I stare at the side of her face.

“She’s your everything, huh?” she seethes.

I feel Rio shift from his position near the sink.

“For some reason, Winter thinks that you’ve hung the moon and the stars. She’s blinded by you. But you know what I see? I see a really bad fucking decision.”

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. As she inhales, she raises her hand from her waist to her chest and then lowers it back down when she exhales, clearly trying to gain control of herself.

“You’ve been a very big help to me, Hunter. I’m grateful that you allowed me to stay at Amelia Manor and that you provided protection while I was pregnant and alone. But you are a toxic figure in my best friend’s life, and I really resent that you have your claws into her.”

I feel like I’m vibrating from the inside out. I don’t respond to her declaration because…she’s right. I am a poison to Winter.

“I love her,” I choke out.

She takes a beat. “And that’s very unfortunate.”

I don’t say anything else because there’s nothing else to say.

She turns back to the exit.

“Think about what I said, mariposa,” Rio says, and Veronica nearly trips over the wheels.

She doesn’t glance back; she just keeps moving, pushing the stroller as if fire were licking at her heels.

I raise my eyebrow at Rio. We’re not close enough that I feel comfortable asking him anything about his personal life. But at the same time, Veronica is practically Winter’s sister, and anything that has the potential to hurt Veronica will hurt Winter.

Maybe focus on repairing your relationship with Veronica first.

I contemplate what to say to Rio next when his phone rings, breaking the moment.

He answers it with a gruff, “Rio,” and walks out the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

I grab two bottles of water, situating them in the bend of my elbow.

Well, kind of my circus.

I decide to leave all of that for tomorrow.

Deciding to abandon my apple in the kitchen, I follow the sounds of dying zombies floating through the speakers and find August in a game room with Max.

Max wears a backward baseball cap and frantically clicks on the controller in his hand while August maintains a completely focused gaze on the screen.

A few taps later, Max throws his hands in the air, the controller tumbling from his right, and yells, “C’mon, man! Let me win one!”

August’s face goes from neutral to hysterical laughter, and he pops up from the chair.

Grabbing his tablet, he says, “Not a chance, sucker.” Then he drops his tablet on the table and skips around the room.

Despite the completely fucked situation we’re all in, I am such a lucky bastard. Because despite all this, August seems happy.

It’s the most I can ask for.

August makes half a revolution around the room before he sees me. When he does, he freezes, his hands going up to his head for a moment before tapping his cheek three times and going over to his tablet.

“Hello,” August says. “I did not know when I would see you next.”

Guilt eats at me. I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I’ve set August aside again. While I’ve been absent, I’ve let other people keep him entertained. I’ve allowed others to spend significant time with him to assess his mental state.

But I haven’t done the same, and that’s fucked. Completely fucked.

August and I haven’t gone into the serious stuff: Rex’s death, being drugged, seeing Winter shot. He never wants to talk about those things—at least, he never wants to talk about those things with me.

But Winter has been spending even more time with him, and I know they’re working through this latest trauma together.

There has to be deep hurt he’s carrying, but he hasn’t felt comfortable sharing that with me. I haven’t wanted to push, even though Winter tells me that I need to open the goddamn door.

But when I woke up this morning, I realized I don’t have to push anything, but I do need to be there.

Atone.

It’s time for me to sack up and at least try to connect with my son.

“I’m so sorry, Augs. I should have come to see you sooner.”

He sways from side to side and holds his tablet to his chest. This is his usual position when he’s uncomfortable.

When he’s scared.

“Can I spend some time with you now?”

August’s head snaps up and he walks back and forth along the edge of the wall for a few turns before he stops and says, “Yes.”

He goes toward the oversized chairs where Max watches us. Before he sits, though, he taps his screen again.

“I need to use the facilities. I will be right back.” And he leaves.

Max and I take up the room in an awkward silence.

“He’s been okay,” Max says. Two figures bounce up and down on the paused game screen.

“How long have you been hanging out with him today?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “A few hours. His social worker, Alison, is usually with him when Winter isn’t, and she’s really helped August process things. Winter hasn’t given herself much of a break, so Alison and I decided to step in and do August duty so she can rest.”

He offers this explanation casually, filling me in on the regular activities that I should have known already.

No time for regrets.

I decide to change the subject now that I’ve got Max alone.

“How long have you been spying on me?” I ask.

He grimaces. “Eh, I wouldn’t say spying is the right word. More like…” He scratches his ear. “More like I came across some information that led to more information that led to me being here.”

I raise an eyebrow and try to track his line of thought.

“So…how long?” I ask, not wavering from his gaze.

“About a year,” he replies. I hum in response.

August bounces into the room, and Max takes that as his cue to leave.

“August, tomorrow I want a re-match,” Max says happily.

August gives his version of an eye roll and says, “Sure, whatever you say.”

Max turns his hat around to face forward, gives us a salute, and exits.

August resumes his stance of discomfort. I can’t expect him to come to me. I need to go to him.

And that’s okay.

“Hey,” I say. He lifts his head, looking in the vicinity of my right shoulder. “Is it okay if I hug you?”

He doesn’t give me an answer. Instead, he launches himself into my arms. His tablet presses sharply between us, poking into my ribs, but I ignore it, wrapping my arms around him.

He makes sounds of distress, and after a second, he presses his face into my shirt. I’m able to make out the wetness of his tears through the fabric of my shirt.

“August, I’m so sorry,” I say, putting my head on the top of his head. He’s grown at least a foot since his mother died. “Shit keeps happening to us, and I’m sorry.”

August rubs against my shirt, and when he’s finished cleaning his face, he separates from me and lifts his tablet.

“It is not your fault,” he says.

Oh, but it is. It so fucking is, August. And I’m so goddamn sorry.

I put my hand on his arm, a safe place to touch him, as I’ve learned. “From now on, it’s you and me, kid. You, me, and Winter.”

“And the fetus?” he adds.

I grin.

It’s a serious inquiry from him.

“Yes. You, me, Winter, and the little bean sprout.”

August makes a face, confusion warring.

“Please remember that when you say things like that, it confuses me. Does she have a legume in her uterus? That seems like a medical emergency. It does not make sense.”

I bite my lips so I don’t laugh. August wouldn’t appreciate it, thinking that I’m laughing at him. I’m not, really. He’s just so damn funny.

Still, I smile.

“I apologize, August. It’s just us. Our family. Okay?”

August gives a quirk of his mouth, one of his smiles.

“Hey, so I wanted to show you something,” I say, walking over to the sofa to snag the keyboard connected to the entertainment system. A few clicks later, I pull up the instant replay of the RC national convention.

“Oh,” August says, and I turn to him to see him swaying with his gaze on the floor.

“I promised you that we’d watch this,” I say. “I haven’t forgotten.”

August scratches behind his ear.

“I would like to watch it with you, Dad,” August says, and my chest gets tight.

I open my mouth to talk to him more about the very important things. Like how he’s feeling about taking out Blair. Or if he’s having nightmares or is upset or what the hell he’s feeling.

I need to know how he’s coping. But Winter is way better at these things than I am. I know I’ll say the wrong things and ask the wrong questions.

“Scott Sorenson is the reigning champion for the RCNC. I have not checked his scores to see if he won again this year. I think he is generally a little sloppy on his choreography, but his precision and control are excellent,” August says.

I nod, trying to follow the jargon. “I see.” I smile at him and take up residence in Max’s empty chair. August joins me.

“After we watch this, will you play Doom of the Zombie Galaxy IV with me?”

My shoulders drop. This. I can do this with him. I want to do this with him.

“Of course, August. But try not to kick my ass as badly as you did Max’s,” I say.

There’s another quirk of August’s lips.

“I cannot make any promises,” he says.

I smile. “Fair enough.”

I watch August open another window on his tablet, snapping a blank notetaking document next to his AAC app. I fire up the replay, and the four commentators who sit behind the long desk talk about different elements of RC aircraft that I’m tangentially able to connect to piloting actual aircraft.

August types notes on his tablet for the entirety of the ninety-minute show recap, silently watching the stunt shows and making disapproving hums when a competitor makes what he deems a problematic move.

It’s not until the replay ends that he speaks.

“Scott Sorenson was sloppy, as is usual. I do not know why the judges love him so much.”

I nod along to acknowledge his statement, even though I was in awe at the level of control the RC pilot had over his aircraft.

Changing the input on the television, August says, “You know, the fifth edition of Doom of the Zombie Galaxy is set to come out soon.”

He lifts his eyebrow a tick, then taps on his controller to start the game.

“I’ll make sure you have it,” I say.

His crooked smile settles something in my soul.

ELEVEN

WINTER

“Everyone is having breakfast in the main dining room. Wanna come?” Veronica stands in the doorway to my bedroom, dressed in denim overalls and a white T-shirt. She hasn’t styled her hair like she usually does—instead, two abnormally messy French braids adorn her head.

I want to say that we’ve all fallen into a routine, if for no other reason than to stave off boredom and anxiety about The Legion’s next moves. But the reality is that’s only true for some of us.

For others, anxiety is a constant companion.

Specifically for Hunter.

At first, he seemed to settle into a sense of resignation. Things are still fucked, but he seemed to accept things as they were. But then, a few days after Ella decided to join The Resistance’s efforts to take down The Architect, he had a meeting with Misha that turned into another screaming match, and all of Hunter’s calm resolve vanished.

Every night, I watch him fall into a fitful sleep that never lasts too long. In the mornings, he wakes with dark circles under his eyes and a sharp attitude.

August and I see him around, but whenever he’s with us, he’s distant.

A few days ago, I tried to initiate sex with him, reaching across the bed and grasping his cock in the way that I’ve learned that he loves. He hadn’t tried anything since our tryst in Misha’s kitchen. I thought his hesitation was because my shoulder was still tender. But now, the wound is nearly healed, and the scars have started to soften.

It barely hurts anymore.

But before I could get two strokes in, he grabbed my wrist more painfully than he’d ever touched me, jumped out of the bed, and ran into the closet.

After entirely too much time in there, he re-emerged fully dressed and left the room in the middle of the night.

I didn’t see him again until well into the following day, and he still hasn’t talked to me beyond general inquiries and questions about the baby.

Damn him. Damn him for doing this to us again.

So things are tense with Hunter, and they’re tense with Veronica too.

Ever since our showdown in my bathroom, she’s been absent. Not that she’s been purposely avoiding me, but more like whenever we’re in the same room, she’s quiet and lost in her thoughts. The only thing that brings her out of her shell is when Summer demands her attention.

It’s rare these days for us to act normal around each other, but can I really expect things to be normal?

Things are way, way abnormal right now.

Veronica faces me with her hand on the doorknob to my room. She wears the mask that I’ve seen her don for other people but never for me. It’s the delicate smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes—one she perfected over her years of schooling. Her eyebrows are in a neutral position, and the contraction of her cheek muscles that crinkle her eyes in a mockery of joy causes dread to fill me.

She’s hurting.

She’s lying.

And I don’t know what to do about it.

I know that Veronica hates my decisions. She hates the ones I’m making now and the ones that I’ve made up until today, but I can’t make myself regret anything.

“Coming,” I say, my voice quiet.

Veronica waits for me while I throw on a pair of yoga pants under a loose T-shirt and bralette. Clothes have been a sensory nightmare for me lately. For the first several days of my recovery, the pain pills caused me to be vaguely itchy, in addition to the hormones surging through my body, causing everything to be sensitive.

I’m almost five months along now. My breasts are larger, and my questionable pooch is now a small but undeniable baby bump. I run an absent-minded hand over my stomach and say the silent prayer I’ve recited every day since learning of the new life inside me.

Let us make it through this alive.

When we reach the dining hall, I’m surprised by how many people are in here, and even more surprised by some of the familiar faces in the room.

To one side near the head of the table, Misha, Amelia, and Luna stand in a loose semi-circle, talking amongst themselves.

In another corner, Max chats with a woman I don’t recognize, and Ella stands near Misha’s group, hovering near Amelia but not interacting with her.

Seated at the middle of the long table—a table that rivals the size of the one in the great hall back home—are Jared and Rio. They both look in good health. I haven’t seen the pair except in passing while roaming the halls, and we haven’t spoken. Each time I’ve run into them, they’ve been off to tend to some important detail related to The Legion.

I get it.

I immediately search for Hunter, except he’s not here.

Unease triples in my chest, and I find it hard to breathe. For some reason, his absence impacts me keenly right now.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

“I am so glad to see you well, Mrs. Brigham,” Rio says, his voice gruff. At the mention of the name, I tense, giving him a look.

“Winter,” I say, not correcting his use of my fictional last name but also wanting to engage him. “I think we can be on a first-name basis now, don’t you think?”

He gives a slight grin.

“Sorry for putting a gun to your head,” I say, my voice halting. He shrugs, and it’s a casual response.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to do any differently,” he offers.

Veronica shifts next to me, and I catch it when she removes her gaze from Rio down to Summer. The baby begins to fuss, and Veronica shushes her as she heads off to a quieter corner to nurse.

Rio’s gaze follows her across the room.

Jared clears his throat and stands, and when I take him in, my breath leaves me in a woosh. Even though I’ve seen him at least twice since arriving, I’m still caught off guard that he looks perfectly fine, given the fact that he’s supposed to be recovering from a shot near his femoral artery.

Veronica’s words about the “freaky shit” clang between my ears as I realize that neither he nor Rio look as if they’ve just suffered near-fatal gunshot wounds.

“Thanks for not shooting me too,” Jared offers, his voice teasing.

Jared has always been an enigma to me. He’s got a deeply Southern accent and a gentle presence, yet the sheer amount of bulk he carts around makes him an intimidating figure. He’s built a little like The Mountain from Game of Thrones, but when he opens his mouth, he sounds like Rhett Butler.

Still, while they may be able to joke about that night, I’m not. I look at my shoes, and Rio’s soft, “Hey,” causes me to look at them again.

“You did good, Winter,” Rio says, and his smile seems genuine. But looking between them both again, I can tell that my confusion must show on my face.

“I feel like I’m living in The Matrix. Or, I guess, out of The Matrix. Or maybe I took the blue pill?” I’m rambling, and I have to force myself to lower my hand from my mouth when I start to bite my already-ripped thumbnail.

Kitty jumps up on my calf.

“We could tell you more later if you want,” Jared says, sliding his eyes toward Rio, but Rio gives him an unreadable look.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling the urge to bite my nails. “That would be good.”

Veronica’s words come back to me again. There’s much I don’t know, and even if Hunter is willing to share with me now, there may be things that even he doesn’t know.

Knowledge is power, and without knowledge, we may face an inevitable death.

My hand goes back to my stomach.

The double doors open, and servers file in, each carrying a steaming dish in their hands. Different types of eggs, breakfast meats, and fruit are placed in the center of the dining table, and another set of attendants come through to lay place settings and fill glasses with water.

It’s a beautiful presentation.

But it’s the eggs that do me in.

The urgent need to vomit causes me to turn from the room and run down the hall. The only silver lining is that my stomach is empty except for the water I drank to take all my meds.

I’m a few feet from my room and potential salvation at the hands of the porcelain gods when I run into Hunter.

“Sunbeam, are you okay?”

He barely has time to get the words out before I strong-arm him out of my way and retch bile and probably some of my pills onto the carpet.

“Oh, shit,” Hunter curses, and when there’s a break in my heaving, I collapse on all fours.

“Shit,” he repeats, but his voice is heavy with worry. In a moment, he shifts me over so that I’m cradled in his arms. In a powerful lunge, he takes the nine steps to bring me from the entrance of our room to our bathroom. He places me on the short settee near our toilet.

I drop my sweaty head in my hands.

“Ugh, I’ll clean that up in a minute,” I mumble, trying to collapse into my thighs. My esophagus burns and quivers on the edge of puking again.

Hunter rubs my back in slow, silent circles, and I relax into his touch.

“The baby?” he says, his voice as soft as his movements.

I nod my head, still keeping my face pressed to my lap. Well, as close to my lap as I can comfortably contort myself with the roundness of my baby bump in the way.

“They really didn’t like the thought of the eggs benedict that was served at the breakfast,” I quip.

Deciding it’s time to sit up, or at least to test my ability to, I straighten my spine and meet Hunter’s cerulean eyes.

Looking at him never ceases to stun me, and I’m not convinced that the feeling will ever fade.

Will his attraction to me fade over time, though?

I take in his features and then look at my mangled nails.

Has he already lost the spark?

My hands begin to tremble, and I bend forward again, banding my arms around my stomach as the nausea returns.

Hunter jumps back and commands, “Wait here,” without looking at me while he storms out of the bathroom. I count my breaths, both to anchor myself in time to see if he’ll return and also to give my queasy stomach something else to focus on besides the idea of hurling up my guts.

Again.

But Hunter returns a few moments later, fumbling with several small items in his palms.

“I had one of Misha’s people go out and get you some ginger pops. Also, the Internet said that peppermint might help with the nausea. But if it’s really bad, I can take you to the doctor here on the base and see if they can get you a real anti-nausea medicine that’s safe.”

He spills all this while kneeling in front of me and unwrapping a lollipop and peppermint. Finally, he offers one of each to me.

“Which one feels right?” His gaze is earnest, and I can’t help it.

I start to cry.

This is confusing. He is confusing. He’s been hot and cold, on and off, for several days, and I feel like a fool for believing that we were on a new road.

Because as soon as something upset him, he shut down quicker than a laptop with a dead battery.

“Sunbeam,” he says with a sigh. I throw myself into his arms, pulling him close. He puts his hand on my cheek, and the roughness of his calloused palms makes my body feel electrified.

“Are we okay, Hunter?” The words are vulnerable, more dangerous than they should feel.

“We are more than okay. We, you and me, are perfect, Winter.”

I bite my lip as I look at his face, searching for any sign of deceit. There’s so much on his shoulders, but the decision not to speak up isn’t the right one.

“You’re doing it again, Hunter.” I take a deep breath.

Now would be a great time to use your training.

“When you…” I search for the right word. “When you stop communicating with me, I feel insignificant. I feel in danger.”

There. I said it.

Hunter blinks at me and his hand on my face stills. “You feel that I’m a danger to you?” His words are…hurt.

I take a steadying breath. “No, that’s not what I said. I said I don’t feel safe when I am ignored by you.”

I count my breaths—one, two, three—and his hand falls from my face when he rises. When he walks over to the edge of the bathroom and turns to me, leaning on the doorjamb, I stand too.

“I feel better,” I say, desperate to change the subject, even if this confrontation is needed. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”

Hunter nods, then looks to the floor, rubbing his top lip with the back of his thumbnail before heading back into the bedroom.

I make quick work of cleaning the vomit taste from my tongue, and the mint in the toothpaste and Listerine help quell my nausea. But still, when I turn off the taps, I don’t move from my spot at the counter.

Hunter returns, taking up his previous spot in the doorway, and asks, “You good?”

Our gazes clash. “Yes, Hunter. I’m good now.”

He nods sharply and steps away from the exit, putting his hand out to indicate that I should go past the threshold.

The smell of disinfectant hits me, but I’m grateful that it isn’t pungent. The spots where I puked on the floor are cleaned. I turn back to the bathroom and see Hunter standing at the entrance, drying his hands on a white towel.

“They’re going to hand Ella over soon,” Hunter says without preamble.

The devastation that he clearly feels seems to take over his body. He clutches the towel between his hands, winding the material around his fingers as he starts to move restlessly around the room. I know he wants to rage, but I’m still caught off guard when he picks up the decorative crystal statue situated on a small end table and throws it at the wall.

It shatters into a million pieces. We’re both silent in the crash.

He lets out a dark chuckle, and without looking at me, he says, “If you were scared of me before, I’m sure you’re terrified now.”

I involuntarily raise my hand to my neck, and the other goes over my belly, over our child.

“Hunter,” I begin. There are so many things I want to say, but I’m unsure which one will set him off.

“Everything you think is always right on your face, baby. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that it’s her choice to make, and you’re right. But still, I can’t fucking stand it.”

He starts to pace again but gives up and flops to a seat on the bed, grabbing his thick, dark hair in both hands. His knuckles turn white as he pulls.

“I’m going to lose my sister,” he rasps.

The statement moves me into action.

“You don’t know that, Hunter.”

“Yes, I do.”

I huff. “Well, shit. I didn’t know you were clairvoyant. Why haven’t you told me this before? Surely we could have avoided some terrible moments, yeah?”

He glances up at me, and while I’m sure he doesn’t fully appreciate my quip, there’s a slight tilt to his mouth.

I sit next to him on the bed, our bodies touching from shoulder to knee.

“Misha’s plan is for me to contact Winthrope and tell him to meet on Isla Cara.”

I nod. “That could be a good move. Known territory and all that.”

Hunter rubs his top lip again.

“Sure, I guess. He’s been hounding me to make the call for days now, but I can’t do it.”

I grab his hand, so grateful that he’s talking, but I also want him to feel good about offering up the info, like he’s in control.

“The plan is to meet there, set up the hand-off, put a tracker on her and someone,” Hunter waves his free hand wildly to indicate the uncertainty in the plan. “And then we pull Ella out. Maybe kill a few people in the meantime. Maybe not.”

I hum in response and rub his hand with gentle circles. Rub. Rub.

“Surely they’d expect us to do something like this, so the plan doesn’t make any sense,” he says.

I bite my lip but don’t stop rubbing his hand. When I think about it, of course, Hunter is right. The plan is far-fetched and way too damn simple. But…maybe, somehow, it’ll work because they won’t expect us to make the obvious choice.

...Maybe?

“What do you think is a better idea?” I offer.

He holds back his response for several moments before saying, “I don’t know.”

He pulls my hand to his mouth, kissing each knuckle with reverence. My heart thuds in my chest.

“I’m sorry, Sunbeam,” he says with his lips pressed to my flesh.

I want to cry, not just because I’m a hormonal mess, but because everything is so fucking overwhelming.

So I launch myself onto his body, straddling his waist, which causes him to fall into the mattress on his back.

“I love you so much it hurts, Hunter,” I say into his neck.

The words shake me because when stripped away, what am I really saying?

This love hurts.

He bands his arms around my back, bringing me even closer to him. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he says.

The words whisper over the flesh at my neck, and goosebumps rise on my arms.

“All I want is for you to be safe and for nothing to touch you anymore.” He rubs his cheek against mine.

“I want to give you Paris. I want to give you the cherry blossoms in spring. I want to take you sailing around the world and for us to deal with fussy babies and diapers and putting them to sleep so we could rush off and make love.”

I pull back to look at his face. “Hunter….”

“I want to give you every single one of your desires, Sunbeam. It feels like…it feels like if there’s one thing on this planet that I could do that’s good, it’s loving and cherishing you.”

My tears fall onto his chest, where they soak into the fabric of his T-shirt.

“Hunter,” I say. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid of life when I don’t truly have you.”

The words are raw and honest, and in any other environment, I’d be embarrassed for having said them. But now, when it’s just me and him and our baby between us, there can only be space for honesty.

Hunter’s hands skim up my back, lifting my shirt, and I can’t resist grinding my core against him.

“How do you feel right now?” he asks, his tone deepening. I kiss his cheek, then give him a small caress of my lips against his.

“Definitely feeling good enough to have you inside me, H,” I say, grateful that I brushed my teeth and gargled some mouthwash.

His smile is crooked, and then, in a flash, he switches our positions. When I’m beneath him, Hunter pulls one of the throw pillows from the head of the bed and wedges it beneath my right hip.

“What?” I begin.

“The doctor says you’re not supposed to be flat on your back now. It could compress important blood vessels, remember?”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m not far enough along for that really to be a concern, H,” I say with a slight chuckle.

Hunter raises his eyebrow as he leans over me, but I suppress a gasp when he glides his hand over my hip and down to grasp my elevated butt cheek.

“The pillow stays,” he says. There’s no room for argument in his tone.

“Yes, Sir,” I say, teasing, but something flashes in his eyes when I do. While his eyes darken, he brings his face close, pressing teasing kisses across my cheeks, my forehead, and then my lips.

When he pulls away again, he says, “Let’s take it slow, baby.”

“What happened to ‘the next time you’re inside me, you’re going to fuck me so hard I can’t move?’” I lift my eyebrow to amplify my sarcasm.

He delivers a slap to the outside of my thigh, but it doesn’t hurt. It barely stings through the fabric of my yoga pants.

“That was before you puked on my shoes,” he says, grinning. Heat flushes my face with embarrassment, and I bring my hands up to cover my eyes.

“Hey,” he says, pulling one wrist away. “I want to give you what you need, baby.”

He kisses me, so soft, so sweet.

“Do you need me, Winter?”

Always.

I will always need Hunter Brigham.

“Yes,” I say with a breathless sigh.

The look in his eyes will be my undoing.

Without saying anything further, Hunter lifts my shirt from my body, kissing his way across my stomach and breasts as he does so. I moan, biting my lip to keep it from turning into an outright scream, when he licks my hard nipple before bringing it into the wet warmth of his mouth.

My fingers plunge into his hair, gripping the strands as I contour my palms to his skull.

After several pulls, which I feel deep within my pussy, he releases me with an audible pop. Kissing the flesh above my breast, he makes his way toward my ear.

“Nice and slow, Winter,” he says in a muted voice, and when he slides his hand under the band of my pants and underwear, I don’t suppress the full-body shiver that results from the feeling of his fingers moving against my wet folds.

“Hmm,” he growls. “I love how wet you get for me, Winter. Your body is getting you ready to take me in deep.” He nips at my earlobe, and good God, he drives me crazy when he does that.

I rush to push my pants and underwear down, getting them past my hips before Hunter releases a chuckle.

“Slow,” he emphasizes, grasping my wrist. I want to groan in frustration. It’s been nearly a goddamn month since we last had full-on sex, and I need it.

Badly.

“Slow. Sure,” I say, my tone petulant. He chuckles again but takes his time to move down my stomach before stopping to place reverent kisses over the place where our child grows.

“You are such a gift to me, Winter Leigh Vaughan.” He places his cheek over my lower belly, and I have to take deep breaths to keep from crying.

“I wouldn’t change anything, H,” I whisper to him, promising him that this is my truth. He freezes, but with a deep release of air, he moves, peppering kisses over my mons. The fabric of my pants bunch around the bottoms of my thighs, restricting my movements.

He doesn’t move his face from its position between my closed legs. But I nearly leap off the bed when his tongue snakes out and strokes between my folds and over my clit.

“Hunter!” I gasp, and my thighs tense, seeking more, more, more….

When I try to open my legs against the restriction, I grunt in frustration when Hunter presses them back together.

“We’ll get there, baby,” he says, and it’s clear he’s enjoying this.

“Stop teasing me,” I say, frustration eking into my words.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he replies.

“Because it’s been forever and a day since I last had your cock inside me, and I miss it. So hurry the fuck up!”

He laughs outright, and I’m so grateful for the sound. I didn’t realize just how much I’ve missed him like this. A flash of our first date pops into my consciousness. He was so happy. We were so happy.

I pout, but it turns into a smile. Then that smile turns into an open-mouthed groan when he uses one arm to pull my thighs together even more and uses his other hand to slide between my pussy lips.

“Shit!” I swear. He laughs again, and I decide to take matters into my own hands and push my pants down further. They drop to my ankles, and I kick them off.

“You can go slow next time. This time needs to be fast,” I say.

God, I need to come. I need him to come with me. In me.

Hunter pulls my legs apart and rests on his heels, staring at my pussy for entirely too long. I pull on his hair, trying to spur him into action to do something. Anything.

But he pulls my hands from him and folds both of them over my navel.

Then he places his mouth over my cunt.

My back bows off the bed, and I struggle to keep my legs flat and my hands on my stomach. I want to race off and reach my height so badly. A part of me recognizes that I want to get there with him now, immediately, because I’m so uncomfortable with how things have been with us lately.

The distance. The cold.

I can’t stand it.

“Hunter, please,” I plead. I’m begging him now, but I don’t move my hands. I just stare down at his dark head as he laps into me.

Our gazes meet, and something in mine must make him pause because after a heartbeat, he pulls away, breathing deeply as he looks at the floor.

Please.

Hunter stands and whips off his shirt and shoves down his pants. His cock is so hard that it points toward his navel. I’ll never get tired of seeing him like this.

He leans over me so slowly until we’re face to face, and he kisses me, stealing my soul from my lips.

He puts his arms under my back and lifts me so that I lie in the middle of the bed, putting me on my side with a pillow wedged behind my back. With smooth movements, he climbs over me until our bodies meet in full, and he wraps my top leg over his hip. With aching slowness, the tip of his cock runs through my folds before notching in the mouth of my pussy.

“You never have to beg me for what you need, baby.” Inch by inch, he sinks into me, and darkness covers my field of vision as my eyes roll back. “We might play together here, but I’ll never withhold what you need.” He rocks into me, fully seated within my body.

I am so close to coming, I can taste it.

Hunter’s lips find mine again, and I place my hands on his shoulders, pressing my fingers into the tense muscles as my body coils tight. He rocks in and out, dragging himself over my most sensitive parts. But it’s when he pushes all the way into me, his pelvis kissing my clit, that he uses shallow movements to bring me there.

Right there.

One, two, three strokes. Then he says, “I’ll always take care of you, my precious, precious Winter.”

Fireworks go off behind my eyelids as I tip over, tumbling into an orgasm so consuming that I lose my sense of sound and sight.

“Fuck yes,” he swears as I clamp onto him, but he doesn’t change the languid pace. Instead, he kisses me, pressing us tighter together.

And when I say, “I love you, Hunter,” he groans long and low and comes without ever changing the cadence of his movements.

We breathe together for several minutes as Hunter rests inside me, and even when he softens, he doesn’t pull out. Instead, he keeps me close as if he’s as reluctant to add space between us as I am.

“I need to pee,” I say, breaking the spell. He laughs, more of a snort, and says, “Of course, baby,” and rolls away from me.

I pad over to the bathroom, naked, and hold onto the euphoria that we’ve just experienced.

Why can’t it be like this? Why do we have to be in this space where everything is so fucked up?

And for how long?

When I wash my hands, Hunter stands behind me and wraps his arms around my middle. One of his hands rests near the side of my breast, and he rubs dizzying circles around the curve of it. He leans down to kiss my neck, and my eyes slide closed as the warm water runs over my fingers.

“I need to know that we are okay, Winter,” he says against my throat.

I take a deep breath. Are we okay? My heart and body say yes, but my mind is conflicted.

I look at him through our reflections in the mirror. My Hunter, the love of my life, the man who consumes me.

“You and I are always all right,” I say.

Yet the words echo in my brain.

Consumes me.

Consumes me.

…What will there be left of me once he’s done?

I feel myself begin to spiral as anxiety stabs its hooks into my psyche, but I’m broken out of it by loud banging on the door.

Hunter is the first to jump into action, pushing me further into the bathroom and tossing a robe my way from the back of the door as he rushes out.

Banging starts up again, and after tying the belt of the robe in a tight knot, I exit the bathroom to see a shirtless Hunter standing in front of the open door with his pants pulled up but unbuttoned.

“Leo?” I call out from my position between the rooms, but no one acknowledges me.

“How bad is it?” Hunter asks. His voice holds a note of dread so acute I feel it as a physical thing.

Leo’s naturally tan face is pale, but at Hunter’s question, it turns grim.

TWELVE

HUNTER

When Leo and I purchased the building in Chevy Chase, it marked a new era for BwP. No longer were we the scrappy startup working out of leased space that we quickly outgrew. We were the big boys now—a full-fledged organization.

Staring at the rubble of the building, tracking the flow of smoke and steam and dust as it rises to the sky, causes a curious sort of bittersweet grief to rush through me.

The sweet: I’m free from BwP in a way. With our main headquarters in rubble, we have a solid excuse to shut down. Insurance will pay out; the government will step in.

We can get rid of Panacea as if it never existed.

But the bitter? Four hundred and thirty-two people are dead from the explosion. That’s not just bitter. It’s downright vile.

Walking next to me, Leo answers all the questions the law enforcement officers and detectives throw his way. I stay silent.

Silent and complicit.

Four hundred and thirty-two people.

Four hundred and thirty-two people were slaughtered because of me.

I peel away from Leo while he talks to the officers. Their voices sound like I’m listening from underwater. I try to focus, but I can’t because even from two hundred yards away and behind the crime scene tape, I see a body. A thin arm, an angular face, brown hair. Most of the body hides under rubble, but still.

I see it.

And the corpse morphs into August and—

I don’t fight against nausea rising up my esophagus. Instead, I puke into one of the rubble-clogged sewer drains.

“Fuck,” I mumble, stumbling away from my vomit. I feel drunk off…something. This energy, maybe. Or maybe it’s the knowledge that these people, The Legion, want so badly to control me that they’d hurt innocent people.

Four hundred and thirty-two people—one of which looks like my son.

Before I found Winter at our bedroom door, I was searching for Leo, determined to tell him that the time for bullshitting around with Misha was over. I planned to tell him that I was going to take matters into my own hands and annihilate Morris Winthrope.

Morris Winthrope is just one man. I can get rid of one man. Then we’d leave Misha and all this shit behind. Because what do I really care about? Getting rid of the immediate threat to my family—and that threat is Morris Winthrope. So Misha and his wants and desires can get fucked.

After all, Misha might be my half brother, but I’m not convinced he has any familial feelings for me.

And that’s fine. I don’t need more people to care about in my life.

I won’t let them—The Legion, Morris Winthrope, Benjamin Fucking Brigham—steal another thing from me. So my plan becomes simpler: step one, get rid of Morris Winthrope. Step two, leave the rest of Misha’s bullshit behind.

One man.

Morris Winthrope is just one man.

The Architect is an abstract concept that, up until this moment, seemed almost benign. Inconsequential.

I’d resolved to let it all go as I allowed myself the privilege of intimacy with Winter, even if I could only let it go for just a moment.

But as I lost myself in Winter, four hundred and thirty-two people took their last breaths.

And I cannot allow any truth to exist except this one: My inaction led to this massacre.

Because this is The Legion, and the dread in my stomach is because I know this is only the beginning.

“H, they want to talk to you,” Leo says, coming up behind me. He hands me a bottle of water, and I chug it. Two agents who look like they work for the Department of Justice come up beside us. The shorter, blonde one looks like he’s a two-pack-a-day smoker, and his suit jacket looks a little small on his frame. His partner is his opposite—dark-skinned, tall, and a woman.

“Hunter Brigham,” I say, sticking out my hand to the woman first, then her counterpart.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” the woman says.

“My loss?” I say, incredulous. “What I’ve lost is minimal to what the families of all those people are experiencing.” I look past them.

Four hundred and thirty-two.

From the best we can tell, a string of dirty bombs were placed inside BwP’s basement floor. But whoever put them there didn’t stop just at my building. They placed bombs around the whole city block.

They went off at lunchtime on.

While four hundred and thirty-two people milled around the greenspace, stopping at one of the six food trucks, a countdown started to their deaths.

Too quickly for anyone to run or hide, the explosives went off. And then, what remained of the labs in my building caught fire.

I focus back on the agents. “My apologies. Leo and I just wanted to see everything for ourselves, but I’m sure if you have questions for us, we can meet you at your office, correct?”

Normally, if there were anything involving me and law enforcement, I’d have them come to my territory. In this case, that would be Amelia Manor. Except Amelia Manor is also devastated.

First the raid, now this.

All this…because I refused to play along.

“Suuuure,” the shorter man says, elongating the word. “We’ll be in touch, so stay close by.” He stares me down with a hard gaze, and I feel the rising accusation in his expression.

I open my mouth to speak, but Leo jumps in first. “We’ll be there,” he says.

The shorter man nods and, sharing a look with his partner, turns from Leo and me.

“Why do I get a feeling they think we’ve got something to do with this?” Leo mutters once we’re several feet from the spot. In my periphery, the body in the rubble stands out like a beacon. My mind is playing tricks, amplifying the position of the hand, the arm, the head, but even knowing that I can’t help seeing it.

“H,” Leo grinds out, pulling me to a stop with a hand on my forearm. “Where’s your head at?”

His voice is low, and I lift my gaze to see him focused on me. I inhale as if I haven’t done so in a while. “They think we’re responsible because we are responsible. Well, I am, at least.”

Leo blinks before looking to his left and right and ushering me back to the bulletproof Tahoe. It’s unlikely for anyone to make a move on us with so much law enforcement hanging out, but stranger things have happened.

Get into the vehicle, Hunter.

When the door slams behind me after I slide into the back, I stare at the seat in front of me and wait for the man to my side to speak.

The AC is on, so I’m acutely aware of the sweat that freezes and dries on my skin in contrast to the heat from the debris and summer sun.

Leo sighs in the passenger seat as Jared puts the car in drive.

Misha insisted that he and Jared accompany us to our headquarters as soon as I announced that I was going. Leo, of course, was already on his way to the garage in search of an armored vehicle.

Now that we’re headed back to Misha’s mansion, I send up a prayer that we can get through the ride back to the compound without input from the pakhan. It seems that God stopped answering my prayers a while ago, though.

“Three more people just died in the hospital,” he says, scrolling on his phone. “Fifteen more are in ICU. Some others are in trauma, but they’re expected to survive. Physically, at least,” he adds.

I turn my head away from his words.

“You know, Morris Winthrope is the one who has the real vendetta against you, Brigham. It’s not just that he wants Ella in his possession.”

I stare at the back of Leo’s seat, so I notice when his shoulders tense.

Misha continues, “What I think you fail to understand is that the entire Legion is after you.” He darkens his phone and drops it on the seat next to him.

“They’re after you. Your girl. Your children.”

“Stop,” I grind out, still not looking at him.

Four hundred and thirty-two people dead. Make that four hundred and thirty-five, and this is on top of the thirty people who died at Amelia Manor during the raid.

So much death. So much death because of me.

“You think I’m being dramatic, perhaps, when I say that they’re after full-scale destruction. Maybe you think, who could possibly accomplish such a feat?”

Jared’s hands tighten on the wheel as he navigates us onto the highway. Four other armored vehicles make up the detail, guiding us back to base.

“But if it doesn’t take more than four hundred people dying today to convince you to take action, I’m unsure what will,” he finishes.

I glance at him out the side of my eye.

“You done?” I reply.

Misha glares at me for a long moment before returning to his phone.

The ride is silent for more than half an hour. Once we hit the road that Misha’s compound claims, I decide to say something.

He opens his mouth, ready to needle me again when I cut him off.

“You think I’m some lazy asshole. You think I’m selfish and entitled.”

He raises his eyebrow, and I want to punch him again. But I promised Winter I wouldn’t get into any more fights with the Ukrainian.

“But I am a human. That was the thing that my father wanted to kill the most—my humanity.”

His face changes, and he looks somber.

“We’ll take them all down,” I say.

Leo shifts in the front seat, but I know he’s with me.

After entering Misha’s home, Jared and Misha go in one direction, and Leo heads off in the opposite.

“Where are you going?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond and I’m too tired to press more.

Left standing alone in the foyer, I head to the one place that’s turned into a sanctuary: the courtyard.

It’s quiet here now, and in any other case, it would seem peaceful. Not even the birds jump from tree to tree. Instead, the silence feels eerie and unsettling.

I sit on the short staircase of the gazebo and put my head into my hands. The familiar tug on my roots comforts me, but only for a moment.

I’ve decided, and that’s it. Part of my resistance to diving into this shit with Misha is that doing so requires me to face some fucked-up shit.

Misha says he wants information, a retelling of the horrors I experienced on Isla Cara. And I just know that in the process of laying all that out, I’ll have to tell, in detail, the things I did.

It requires me to tell them the shit they did to me.

It requires me to tell….

I surge to my feet and turn to the post holding up the entrance to the gazebo. And because it’s the closest thing to me, I hit it with my closed fist.

Then I hit it again.

And again.

And again and again and again and a—

“Hunter.” I pull my punch when she speaks, but I don’t look at her. “Are you okay?”

I let the moments tick by in my mind.

“Can we sit?” she asks.

I think about it. This will be the closest my mother and I will have been since I got here.

This is the first time it’s just the two of us.

And I’m here, facing down all my demons, and I’m not too sure who’s winning.

Breathe with me, Hunter….

I look at Amelia. Her face is neutral, her hands clasped in front of her. Patient. Waiting.

Am I prepared to be alone with her?

What do you want your relationship with your mother to look like? Winter asked me all those days ago.

She told me to think about it, and I haven’t allowed myself to.

But as she stands in front of me, just the two of us, I admit the truth of what I want.

I want my mom.

I want the woman back who was my soft place, my safe place. I want to know that the first person to care about me, the only person to love me as a child, is still there.

I want to be a man that she would be proud of.

I look at my palms before rubbing them on my thighs.

But maybe I’ve done too much damage for that to ever be possible.

“I don’t have to stay,” she says, her voice a whisper.

She tries to smile, but it falls.

I don’t recognize my voice when I say, “You can stay.”

I drop to the step.

Her shoulders lower as if she’d tensed every muscle in her body as she waited for my answer.

I slide over to the side a few inches, giving her space to sit.

When she’s next to me, I realize that she still smells the same. Lavender and vanilla.

It’s a soft scent and fitting for Amelia Brigham as I knew her. I’m unsure if it fits with who she is now.

Do I have any clue who she is now?

“I’m really sorry about BwP,” she says.

I quirk my mouth to the side. I’m not sorry about BwP. I had one foot out of the company for the longest time anyway.

But I’m devastated by the lives lost. I’ll carry the weight of their deaths for the rest of my life.

Four hundred and thirty-five lives and counting.

“It’s…” I don’t want to say it’s okay because it’s not. “It is what it is.”

“Yeah,” she says. She puts her hands next to her hips and rocks forward a fraction.

I say, “Sorry I’ve been a dick—”

She says, “I don’t know how I’ll ever apologize—”

We start talking at the same time, and we both release a chuckle. When we look at each other, her functional eye crinkles with amusement.

As I register her words, though, my jaw ticks.

“You haven’t been a dick, Hunter.” She grins a bit. “Sorry, I’m always getting used to the fact that you’re a man now.”

The words are like ice water to the face.

“Yeah, you’ve been gone a long time,” I say.

What do I want my relationship with my mother to look like?

I flex my hand, not surprised that I’ve cracked the skin of my knuckles.

“I realize I haven’t been exactly fair to you. I haven’t let you get a word in edgewise,” I say. Progress. This is progress.

We’re silent again.

“I don’t want you to think I’m making an excuse for my absence, Hunter. But I’d like to explain why I stayed away.”

Tension wraps around my spine. Am I ready for this? At all?

I nod, dragging my eyes to look at her. She rubs her top lip with the back of her thumbnail.

“Okay, so here it goes.” She takes a deep breath. “When I regained consciousness after the acid attack, it took me several months just to remember who I was. Dr. Whitney said it was a trauma response rather than any type of neurological damage, but I don’t know.”

I bite my lip, listening to her words. I want to keep her gaze while she speaks, but I can’t. I stare off into the darkness instead.

The way she looked before they dragged her away will haunt my memories forever. Her raw skin, mottled and bursting….

“That’s understandable,” I mumble.

“After that, I was so filled with rage and anger and grief because I didn’t want to be alive. Not like this,” she says, pointing toward her face.

I take a moment to examine her. The skin on her right side is taut in some places and saggy in others. The long, straight scars crisscrossing her flesh appear to be surgical—tissue grafts and donations pieced together to repair the damage. Her prosthetic eye is different from the one she wore the first time I saw her outside Misha’s front door.

I couldn’t look away from her on that day, but I’ve been trying my best to avoid looking at her since.

I allow myself to face her now.

She’s able to use both hands and her legs, but the gnarled skin stretches tight over her affected limbs. I notice she extends her right leg out in front of her, but her other leg remains bent.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, nodding to her leg. She grimaces and rubs her knee.

“Just my knee. They broke the kneecap, so it took some time to heal. And when it did, it always had a bit of a twinge.”

She leans closer to me slightly. “Plus, I’m getting old, Hunter.”

She lets out a soft laugh, and I feel the side of my face turn up. A smile.

We fall into silence again, and she’s the one to break it.

“I have so many sins to atone for,” she says, her voice strained as she looks at me.

I jerk at the word “atone.” It’s the same word Winter used when describing how I should reach August.

My mission was to atone for the wrong I’d done to him. It started with an apology, doing better every day, and never making the same hurtful choice again.

My mother’s eyes bore into me as if she’s trying to stare into my soul and find the little boy who she left behind.

“Hunter, I am sorry,” she says, her voice wobbling. The words burn as they land in my chest. I try to face her, but the sight of her tears guts me.

I shake my head and look away.

“When?” she asks. “How many times?”

My back straightens as the nausea comes back.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“How many times did they hurt you?” Her voice is thin, choked. “I know I have no right to ask, but the other day it all came together. What you went through. They hurt you after I left, didn’t they? Maybe even before?”

Oh, God.

I surge to my feet, unable to stand the line of questioning.

“He was a monster, and he didn’t know any boundaries, but I never thought he’d go that far. You were too important to him—to The Legion. But then when you said—”

“Stop,” I grind out, my voice rough and bile sharp in the back of my throat. I spin to look at her, and I’m aware that my breaths saw in and out of my chest as if I’d run a marathon. As if I’d sprinted around the entirety of D.C.

She covers her mouth, her hands shaking with the damaged one over the healthy one.

Sliding her eye shut, she says, “I’m so goddamned sorry, Hunter. I’m sorry for my part in it.”

With my heart thudding in my chest and my brain spinning, spiraling, I rush out of the courtyard, leaving her behind.

THIRTEEN

WINTER

Ilook for Hunter for over an hour. Leo walked through the kitchen where I ate dinner alone sometime around nine p.m., but when I asked him where Hunter went, he shrugged me off and continued walking, distracted.

After checking on August to make sure he ate something other than Cheese-Itz and peeking in on Ella and Veronica where they sat in front of the massive screen in the movie room, I searched all around our wing and even into Misha’s.

Hunter is nowhere.

I make my way back toward the heart of the house—the foyer at the main entrance. Could he have left again? Certainly not, and especially not without bringing someone with him or at least Leo knowing where he went.

I make a circuit around the entryway when a dark shadow shifts on the other side of the frosted glass door.

I open it to find my missing person.

Hunter sits on the front steps with a bottle of liquor in his right hand and his head in his other.

When I move and sit next to him, we’re silent, listening to the cicadas.

After several minutes, he speaks.

“I’m not very good company right now, Sunbeam.”

I inhale, rubbing my hands over my shins.

“Come to bed, baby.” I keep my words light, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. And when I put my hand on his back, he flinches.

He rises from his place on the stone step without saying a word, leaving the door open for me to walk through.

I trail behind him, feeling awkward and off-center, but he moves with confident steps, not appearing at all drunk.

What am I going to do to make this better?

What can I do?

When we enter the room, he drops the bottle on the nightstand and takes off his shirt.

At the movement, I notice his bruised and cracked knuckles and the blood trailing down his wrist.

“H, you’re hurt!” I say, my eyes glued to his hand. When I’m close enough to touch him again, I cradle his palm, looking at the cuts.

What the hell happened?

He doesn’t lean into me, but he doesn’t push me away either. “Let’s wash you up. Okay?” I speak while pulling him into the en suite.

I position him so that he can place his hand under the stream while also resting his hip on the counter.

Locating the first aid kit, I pull out the items I think I’ll need to get him patched up and pay close attention to blotting his abrasions with cleanser. Right when I blot the knuckle of his middle finger with a soapy towel, he speaks.

“You need to leave, Winter. You need to leave me.” His words sound as if they take great effort to produce.

I snap my head up toward him.

“What? Why?”

He doesn’t look at me, choosing to close his eyes. “Because I’ll hurt you. I’m not a good person to be around right now.”

His words are like a battle cry in my psyche, and I feel them as they twist and contort and take on all kinds of meanings.

He doesn’t mean that.

I shake my head. He doesn’t mean that.

Taking in the sharp angles of his strong jaw and the way his dark hair curls over his eyebrow, I silence the drama in my mind and force a bright smile on my face.

“You won’t hurt me, Hunter Brigham,” I say the words with as much conviction as I can muster. I dry his cuts, putting bandages on the areas I can access.

“I know you won’t,” I add, not looking at his face. I kiss the back of his now-bandaged hand.

Rubbing his knuckles with my thumb, I say, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he leans into the counter and tilts his head back like he’s looking at the expensive light fixtures above us.

“Do you want to talk about how you ended up a bloody mess or about the bombing—”

“Go, Winter,” he presses.

Go, Winter.

The two words, three syllables, are like a stab to the heart. He wants me to...leave?

Air traps in my chest, and all sense leaves me as I do the opposite action of what he wants me to do. I bring myself closer to him.

Spinning. Spiraling. I’m losing...I’m lost.

No.

“You need to leave right now, Sunbeam.” His words are deep, bordering on a snarl.

No. No, I will not leave him. Not when he needs me.

He needs me. He needs me to stay.

And why won’t you honor his words, Winter?

“No,” I say, tightening my jaw and staring him down. I can’t. The thought is....

He growls in response. “Winter, do as I say.”

I swallow as terror nearly consumes me. He’s pushing me away—throwing me away for real this time. All my insecurities and fears and the things that haunt me at night come to a head.

The world starts to shake, and when I clench my fingers into fists, I realize that it’s not the world, but my entire body vibrating with tension.

I’m losing....

Release your hands, Winter.

I’m losing him.

Breathe, Winter.

I’m losing the love of my life.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two—

“No,” I say, adding more force behind my words.

I don’t do the sane thing, which is to give him some goddamn space. Instead, I hold him tighter.

I have to hold him tighter.

Later, I’ll analyze my behavior. Later, I’ll look into why I’m chasing behind a man who doesn’t want me—at least, who doesn’t want me in this moment.

I’ll come to terms with the fact that I know this isn’t healthy but I’m doing it anyway.

I push the thoughts aside. “I won’t leave you, Hunter. You can’t make me leave.” My voice cracks, shakes.

He inhales sharply. “Why can’t you just do as you’re told? Why can’t you ever do what you’re told?”

It would have hurt less if he’d slapped me.

“Because I know you don’t want me to leave,” I say. “You can’t.” The last two words are a pained whisper.

Hunter stands, spreading his legs to broaden his stance.

“You want to know what I want, Winter?” He spins us so that we change positions. My ass presses painfully against the counter, and he brackets his arms around me, caging me in as I face him.

“I want to fuck you, Winter. I want to make you bend. Make you beg. I want to show you what I really want to do when you fight me on every fucking thing—even if it’s for your own good.”

I’m stunned silent by the inferno in his eyes, the promise in his words...the blood-curdling fear of what the fuck is happening here.

“What does that mean, H?” I bring my hands up between us and place them on his chest, feeling his heart race despite the vibrations in my fingertips.

“I forget how inexperienced you are, baby,” he says, leaning close to whisper the words in my ear. Wetness floods my pussy because Hunter Brigham, this close to me, whispering dirty things in my ear is a total fantasy. But also because....

Fawn.

When he trails his nose up the side of my neck, he pauses to say, “I want to punish you, Winter Leigh Vaughan.”

Alarm bells clang between my ears, and I struggle to reconcile the arousal I feel with the apprehension welling up within me.

“Why do you want to punish me?”

He peppers kisses along my jaw until he stops to nip at the flesh beneath my earlobe.

“Because I’m a broken man,” he murmurs, and the confession breaks my heart.

I hear what he doesn’t say: He needs to channel his pain and give it to someone else.

Give it to me.

My brain spins on overdrive when I let his words settle. He’s so still around me, as if he knows that what he just confessed is so much—maybe too much. And with my history, the thought of sex and pain combining should be terrifying.

Completely off limits.

But as I take in the fullness of his brokenness, I want to give him everything he needs.

I want to be everything he needs.

…so I silence the alarms.

As if someone shut me into a safe house in the middle of a tornado, the violent whirlwind of my thoughts and emotions calm.

I can be here for him. I will be here for him.

“I’m yours, Hunter.” I grab his face with a cheek in each of my palms. “Take what you need from me.”

He shudders and closes his eyes, hugging me to him for long moments. We’re close, in sync, breathing in each other as the tension between us thickens.

But when he pulls back to face me, another person stands before me.

The shuttered darkness in his eyes makes the blue of them look icy. I shiver.

But I don’t have long to think about anything else.

“If it gets to be too much, say ‘Paris,’” he growls.

I nod and he puts a thumb on my chin in a firm, nearly painful grip.

“Say it back, Sunbeam.”

My jaw drops from the pressure and anticipation.

“Paris. If it gets to be too much. What do you need, H?”

He rests his forehead against mine for a gentle second, but then he says, “Strip naked and get on the bed on your back. Keep your legs spread wide open.”

I stare at him for several seconds until he spins me around and shoves me out the door.

“Strip. Back. Legs spread,” he commands and shuts the bathroom door.

It takes me several moments for the command to register, but when it does, I hurry to comply, stripping out of my clothes. I’m a mess of confused emotions right now.

Now that I’ve had a moment to breathe—a moment to be by myself, all of the voices that come from years of schooling and therapy start to converge.

This is maladaptive.

This isn’t healthy.

This is a betrayal of myself.

You’re obsessing. You’re obsessing over this man.

But then, there’s one voice that’s louder than all of them. I love Hunter Brigham. And I want to do whatever he needs to keep him here with me.

The bathroom door claps open, slamming on the opposite wall with a mighty thwack.

Hunter stands at the entrance naked and hard.

“You can’t do what you’re told, can you, Winter?” Hunter says through gritted teeth.

His eyes are brilliant as he stares me down, and every part of me is at war with myself. The part that loves him is there, ready for battle, but the part that fears how he is right now is ready to run away.

“I’m sorry,” I rasp out. His powerful movements bring him closer to me, and instead of acknowledging my apology, he runs two fingers up and down my slit.

“Sorry for what, exactly?” he grinds out, giving my clit a rub in a firm circle.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t do all that you asked,” I pant out, rising on my toes.

My heart races, pounding so loud that I can hear the movement of my blood in my ears.

His eyes fix on my ragged pulse, and he grabs my neck, running his thumb against the artery.

“You’re really stacking on this punishment, Sunbeam,” he says.

“Oh, God,” I say, moaning. Gripping my jaw, he pulls my face toward his while he slides two fingers into my pussy. Not one. Two. He doesn’t ease in with gentle movements like he’d do any other time. He uses his hand as if he wants to bruise me. As if he wants me to feel him.

He speaks against my lips, “What was the directive I gave you, Winter?”

“You said,” I pant, “to strip and get on the bed. Legs spread.”

“Correct,” he grinds out. “And where were you when I exited the bathroom?” He rubs my clit harder with his thumb, and I shiver.

“I was st-st-standing up,” I say, my voice a rasp.

“So you do understand that you didn’t do as you were told. Again.”

I feel my eyes go wide when he pulls his wet fingers from me and circles the pucker of my ass. I don’t respond to his statement because I can’t, so in my silence, he decides to press the tip of his index finger against my rosebud.

“You do understand, don’t you? Answer me, Winter,” he snaps.

“Y-yes, I understand,” I murmur.

When I slide my eyes closed again, he pulls his hands away and pushes me onto the bed. I land on the mattress with a startled squeak, but I don’t hesitate to take the position he commanded.

My heels go to the edge of the bed, legs wide, and Hunter stares as my pussy spreads for him.

He seems transfixed, addicted to the sight.

I want him addicted to me.

I’m addicted to him.

“Like this, Hunter?” I whisper.

His dark, heated eyes telegraph his response, Yes, just like that.

He takes one step toward me, then another. “Remember the word, Winter.”

A significant part of me is terrified that we’d need one. I know he’s angry and fucked up right now, but he wouldn’t hurt me, right?

“Do we really need one, H?” I try to make my voice sound amused, but my jaw trembles, nullifying the action.

“Yes, we do, Winter,” he says, dropping to his knees.

I swallow down my anxiety.

He slides up the mattress and plants his face in my pussy. It’s like he’s doing his damndest to devour me. Running his nose against my folds, he stabs his tongue into my channel, using his lips and teeth to bring my clit to a hard nub with the suction.

“Hunter!” His name is a chant. I plunge my hands into his hair, but he snaps his head up, pulling my hands away and pinning them to my sides.

“Keep those here,” he commands, and he slides my fingers under the tops of my butt cheeks, so they’re pinned by my body weight.

Confusion whirls around. Why doesn’t he want me to touch him?

He runs his hands up to my swollen, sensitive breasts. My nipples are hard like diamonds, and I stare down my body as my breaths saw in and out, causing my chest to tremble.

The look on his face is full of so much—desire, passion, and something even darker.

I try to smile and shower him with the love I feel for him.

“I love you, Hunter Brigham,” I whisper.

He slaps his hand on my mons in response.

“Hunter!” I release a startled cry, jerking halfway up the bed, but he doesn’t let up. Instead, he shoves three fingers into my pussy, and I buck at the intrusion.

Do you like this, Winter?

Hunter watches my face closely, and when I whimper, he brings his thumb to my nub, rubbing it in dizzying circles.

“Do you want to use your safeword, Winter?” His words are rough, and it almost feels like he wants me to tell him to stop.

To tell him I don’t want this.

So I go against the voices in my head that shout that he’s too angry to make this a good idea and say, “No, I won’t.”

He puts his face into the fleshy part of my inner thigh and groans before standing and walking away toward the bathroom.

I sit up in a snap.

“Where are you going?” I say, my words rushed.

He doesn’t look back at me. Instead, he closes the door with a quiet snick.

I sit there on the bed, naked and trembling and confused, and I feel the brick wall that comes up between us.

Hunter doesn’t want me to see him like this. Even after my abduction, Hunter wasn’t overly emotional. At least, not frequently.

He was composed, if a little distant, but he rarely showed me that broken side of him.

Except for one time. The first time we made love was in the sitting room in Amelia Manor. And while we battled against each other and he begged me not to leave, he cried. He cracked under the weight of his love for me and his yearning for us to be together.

And I surrendered to him that night.

I surrendered to the reality that being with him has hurt, hurt, hurt.

But I fell into the chasm and decided that I wasn’t going to let myself crawl out of it.

I wasn’t going to turn my back on Hunter and everything that came with him.

Instead, I faced it. Embraced it.

So now in his brokenness, he wants to shove me out and hide?

Fuck that.

I scramble off the bed and enter the bathroom.

As Hunter leans over the counter with his palms flat on the granite and his head hanging low, there’s only one way to describe him.

He’s haunted. What demons are chasing him right now?

In the moments while I contemplated everything, he turned on the shower and steam mists around the enclosed space.

“I’m not going to let you do this to us,” I say, pushing my shoulders back. When he lifts his head with agonizing slowness, he doesn’t look at me directly. He chooses to give attention to my reflection.

“Sunbeam,” he says. He sounds exhausted.

“No, Hunter. You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to ask me to be completely open to you and then push me away. You don’t get to tell me to hand you my pain when you won’t share any of yours.”

He turns his face away from me, but not before I see his jaw flex.

“You don’t get to see me in my most broken and not allow me to hold you when you break.”

He lets out a low curse and gets in the shower, slapping the glass door closed so hard that I’m surprised that it doesn’t shatter.

Turn around. Leave the room, Winter.

I do the opposite of what I should. I follow him, but he sighs heavily as if he expects me to defy him again.

“I need space, Winter,” he says, and for some insane reason, I can’t accept that answer.

I know I should. I know I should.

But I’m—

But I’m…obsessing.

“You’re allowed to have boundaries, Hunter, but this feels more like you putting the Great Wall of China between us.”

He keeps his back to me, pumping body wash on the loofah and working it into a lather.

“I’m doing nothing of the sort, baby. I’m trying to protect you. I need space right now because I’ll hurt you. I almost just did.” He emphasizes his statement by scrubbing the hard plastic over his arms and chest.

“No, you didn’t!” I shout, and the sound echoes against the tile. He whirls around and his face is like stone.

“What do you want from me, Winter!” he shouts back, his voice rising above mine.

What do I want from him?

The trepidation triples in my chest.

I take a deep breath. “I want you to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” he grits out.

I shake my head. “No, you don’t. Clearly. Because if you trusted me, you’d trust me to make my own decisions. You’d trust that I’m strong enough to be there for you. To be your partner. To be your soulmate.”

I take his hand and place it between my thighs.

“What was it you said? Give me your pain. Give me your hurt. Don’t carry this pain in your heart all alone.” The words are a soft vow.

“Winter…” He closes his eyes and tilts his head back. I take the opening to press my body against his, and he doesn’t move his hand from my pussy.

“Give me the hurt, Hunter,” I whisper against his pectoral, right over the fading scar I gave him on that same night.

W.

I count his heartbeats with my ear pressed to his chest as it races.

After a moment, I feel his free hand slide into the tangle of hair at the base of my skull.

“Sunbeam, you know I love you more than life, right?” His words sound dazed, distant, and his heart starts to beat even faster, harder.

“Yes, Hunter, I do,” I say, not moving from my spot.

Another few heartbeats. “Good,” he says.

Then he wrenches my head back with a fistful of my hair.

“Because I’m about to fuck you like I hate you.”

He slams his mouth to mine, his tight fist never providing relief to my roots. I moan into his mouth, putting my arms around him.

I hold him, even though he’s trying to destroy me. I’ve never felt more alive.

The hand that holds my pussy flexes, and in the next instant, his fingers are inside me again. A dull ache settles in my core, but it’s met by the sudden heat of his fingers hitting the most sensitive parts of my sex.

I moan again, letting my voice rise louder and louder.

I want him to know I’m enjoying this. I want him to know that I feel sexy and powerful and wanted and connected to him, even when he’s like this.

Especially when he’s like this.

I have barely a moment to reconcile my position before he spins us, slamming my back against the cold tile. His hand in my hair prevents my head from cracking against the marble.

“You’ve got me, and I’ve got you, Hunter,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“Stop talking, Winter,” he rasps out.

“No, because you need to hear that I love you.”

He lets out a frustrated groan, and in a swift jab, he enters me. I slide up the tile a few inches before grabbing onto his shoulders.

His hand falls from my curls, instead landing on my hip to steady me for his thrusts.

“Shut up, Winter,” he says, and his voice is dark, so dark. He pounds into me in earnest, driving into me so hard that his balls slap against my backside.

“I love you,” I say on a gasp.

“Shut up, Winter,” he repeats, his words even more driven. He lifts my leg onto the stone seat and kicks my other foot to widen my stance.

Spread out now, he pounds even harder, faster, and I clench on him.

I’m there. I’m right fucking there.

“Who says you get to come?” he growls, and the words cause me to tip over the edge, defying him.

Stars sparkle behind my closed lids, and I release a loud breathy moan that goes on and on because my orgasm goes on and on.

“Always fucking defying me,” he says. He keeps pounding into me, and my orgasm recedes but doesn’t dissolve completely. It hovers right in front of me, ready to burn bright again at the slightest strike.

“I’m sorry. I love you,” I say, my voice breaking with each bounce from his thrusts, but he growls at my words, and he does the unexpected.

He grabs my throat.

At first, the action stuns me and my breaths seize in my chest.

He pulses his hand around my throat, applying pressure to the sides of my neck, and I’m startled by the rush I feel.

I exhale instinctively, the breaths rasping as the constriction of my throat causes an erotic tingle to shoot down my spine, centering in my clit. My arousal gushes on his dick.

I open my mouth again, but words don’t come out. Hunter searches my face, and I know I can’t show any fear or discomfort. I have to see this through with him.

He needs it. I need it.

I want it.

“I hate myself every day, Winter. I’ve been the happiest ever in my life since meeting you, but you want to know my truth? It’s that I hate myself.”

His words, the dark confession, shake me.

“You want to know the darkest parts of me, Winter?”

I can’t speak, so I suck in air when he pulses his hand around my throat, giving me a slight reprieve. His hand tightens again, more firm this time.

“I’ve killed ninety-seven people, Winter.”

I’d gasp if I could. The number startles me, but I don’t waver.

“Mostly women, some children,” he continues. His pace in my pussy slows a fraction. “I would tell myself that I was being merciful and saving them from a worse fate, but really? I’m a murderer.”

Oh, Hunter.

“I’ve watched hundreds of women get abused—drugged, raped, hunted, strung up and lynched.” His eyes glaze over, lost in the memories. “I saw all of this, and yet I did nothing to save them. I just let it happen. And when I was told to, I ended them.”

Tears crest my eyes, but I don’t dare blink. He’s telling me the darkest parts of himself with eyes open, his gaze locked on mine, but I’m unsure if he actually sees me anymore.

“I’d done every drug known to man before I was fifteen years old,” he says.

I shake my head, an involuntary reflex, and he tightens his grip. Static starts to form at the edge of my vision.

“The day after my mother died,” he says. He bites his lip and surges into me one more time, stilling with our bodies kissing where we’re joined.

“The day after my mother died,” he starts to say again, but his breaths come faster and faster, more erratic.

I bring my hand to his face as it trembles. He’s distracted by the movement, and he loosens his grip on my neck. I suck in a greedy gulp of air.

“The day after, I was raped.”

My fingers flex against his cheek. I’d suspected, but I didn’t know….

“By several men. I was bleeding, begging them to stop, but they just laughed.” He breaks piece by piece, and he shuts his eyes then, but it doesn’t stop his tears from falling.

“My father gave me to them. He said it was my punishment, but it wasn’t the first fucking time, just the worst time.”

When I try to bring his head to mine to kiss him, he flinches.

Batting my hand away, he doubles down on his grip on my neck. Shaking his head, I watch transfixed as another person takes over his body. As the uncomfortable, terrorizing truth spills from his lips, he goes to the defense mechanism that he knows so well.

He hides, emotionally running away.

And even though I’m familiar with how he copes, this Hunter in front of me, inside me now? I don’t know him.

A sharp slap to my flank comes seconds before he takes the same leg and lifts it around his waist. I’m nearly suspended now, pinned between his hard body and the wall. Throughout his confession, he didn’t soften, and now, he’s hard as steel.

“Is this what you wanted?” His eyes are bloodshot, hard, dazed, and angry, and I try to open my mouth to say something, anything, but he squeezes my throat the tightest he ever has.

He’s still not applying pressure to the front of my throat, but where he presses to the sides it causes my head to feel heavy.

The fuzzy static returns.

“Do you like seeing me weak, Winter? Is it not enough that I’m so vulnerable being in love with you, but now you have to strip everything from me?”

The sensations of him below and the spiraling pressure at my throat cause my orgasm to step to the brink again.

I shake my head less than an inch. No, this isn’t what I want for him.

“I want to be the man you need me to be, but I’m not. I never was.”

Hunter. Oh, my love….

He loosens his grip, and I draw in air again. In the freedom from the compression, I take the risk of saying, “You’re a good man, Hunter James Brigham.”

He inhales sharply, his hand flexing in a crushing grip, and I put both of my hands on his wrist.

It’s too much.

The world tilts.

It’s too much….

And even still...another orgasm rockets through me, bright and vivid, and my head claps back against the tile, all my muscles seizing.

“Fuck!” he grinds out, and his eyes slide closed as he explodes inside me with one-two-three final surges into my body.

Sirens start screeching in my brain, begging me to take in precious air. But as the seconds tick on and he comes down from the high of his orgasm, he doesn’t loosen his grip.

Hunter….

One-two….

My hands fall from his wrist and he releases me in an instant.

“Shit!” he says, looking at me and gripping the sides of my face. He looks horrified.

“Winter, Winter, I-I—” He makes a choked sound, so I go to reassure him.

“I loved….”

The last thing I hear before I fall to the floor is Hunter’s pained roar.

FOURTEEN

HUNTER

Ican’t stop staring at the bruises.

Winter only slipped from consciousness for a few seconds, but it was enough to scare the shit out of me.

After placing her in our bed, soaking wet and against her protests, I ran across the compound in a towel, screaming at the top of my lungs for help.

Ten guards and two handfuls of medical staff, including Dr. Whitney, came running toward me. Most of them were in their sleep clothes.

“Winter. My room,” was all I could get out, pointing them in the direction with a trembling gesture. Water dripped from my arms, making my trek back to the space where Winter lay dangerous.

I wanted to slip and fall and crack my skull on the expensive tile.

After Dr. Whitney thoroughly assessed her and determined her and the baby were safe, I collapsed on the hallway floor, right outside my door but not daring to enter.

That’s where Leo found me. He took a look at me and walked into my room, returning with a shirt and gym shorts.

I don’t remember putting them on.

When he asked what happened, I couldn’t say the words.

I couldn’t say that I hurt Winter.

I hurt Winter.

Hurt.

Winter.

I ran down the hallway and away from the room, retching alcohol and bile in the bushes once I landed in the courtyard.

“Hunter, are you okay, man?” Leo’s voice comes from behind me, standing on the cobblestones while I pant with my hands on my knees.

I shake my head, sucking in air but never getting enough.

I hurt Winter.

I gag again. When nothing comes up, I try to stand and manage to hobble over to the gazebo where Ella and I smoked and Leo watched.

Was that when I began to spiral? When did I crack? When did I become the person who hurts the woman I love?

I’m a broken man, I said to her. And now, I think I’m beyond repair.

I fall onto one of the wooden benches and bend over, lacing my fingers behind my head and staring at the knots in the floorboards.

“Wait here,” Leo says, and I feel his movements as he leaves.

Every emotion forms into a sharp current up and down my spine, shooting to spin in my stomach.

I hurt Winter.

One.

Breathe. Breathe. How does Winter do the breathing?

One-two-one.

I hurt Winter. I bruised her. I-I-I—

One-two-three-two-one.

I repeat the mantra over and over, trying to bring myself down but warring with the part of me that believes that I should feel every bit of this discomfort. I need to suffer.

Will she ever forgive me? Should she ever forgive me?

“Here.” Leo shoves a cool water bottle in front of my face, forcing me to take it as he releases it from his fingers. When I don’t do anything with it, he says, “Drink it, Hunter.”

I comply, my movements stilted.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Leo says.

I take my time before looking at him.

He sits, completely casual, with his ankles and arms crossed.

It doesn’t matter that it’s midnight and the mosquitos must be eating him alive as they’re doing to me.

He’s there. Waiting. Patient.

Being a good friend.

“Why are you always there for me, Leo?”

He quirks his eyebrow. “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Yes, but…” I clear my throat and take another sip. “You’ve gone beyond what a friend would do. You’ve done so much for me so that I didn’t have to face most of the horrible shit alone. But what I don’t get is why?”

Leo tilts his head to the side, analyzing me. With a big breath, he says, “I’m there for you because you’re my family, Hunter. And I love you like a brother.”

The words are gruff, as if he’s uncomfortable saying them.

I don’t reply, I just take time to stew in my thoughts.

“You’re worth being there for, Hunter. I know you don’t think that you are, but you matter to a lot of people, including me.”

When I stare at him for a long moment, Leo sighs and claps his hands once.

“Well, if this isn’t turning into a goddamn Hallmark Christmas movie,” he grumbles.

I release a puff of air, a breath of humor.

His face turns serious.

“I’ll ask you this and I need you to answer me clearly. Is Winter safe with you?”

His gaze is unwavering, and I feel the weight of his judgment in it.

“I…” I open my mouth to say the words that I’d never hurt Winter. That I love Winter and she’s as vital to me as oxygen is.

But I can’t say that. Because it’s not true—at least, the part that I would never hurt Winter.

Because I just fucking did.

“There’s no excuse for what I did, Leo. We were in the shower, and I got…rough.”

His look hardens even more.

“I took it too far,” I say, my voice a whisper.

He’s silent for a beat, but when I look at him again, he says, “She’s pregnant with your child.”

“I know.”

“You put a collar of bruises around her neck.”

I jolt. “I know.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know!” I snap, standing, and I walk over to the entrance of the gazebo, plunging my hands through my hair, gripping at the roots.

“She trusted me to do what I needed to do, and she’s suffering for it like she always suffers for me,” I say, my back to Leo.

“You need to stay away from her, Hunter,” he says, empathy tinging the hardness of his voice. I look to the floor and nod.

“Probably not forever. But you need space to figure your shit out, H, and quickly.”

I nod again.

“Come over to my room if you want to stay close but need a place to crash.”

I nod, and he walks away, so I let myself sit in silence.

Leo’s right, I do need to figure out my shit.

You need to actually face what was done to you.

I close my eyes and sink to the short step.

I was raped. I actually uttered those words to Winter. Words that I never allowed myself to think or face.

I should be able to sack up about this.

I should be able to—

Nausea hits me again. I try to push the thought away, but it echoes again and again.

I was raped.

I was raped.

I was—

I press the heels of my palms to my eye sockets, trying to breathe through the panic that threatens to take over.

I was—

Just like pressure in a volcano, I unlock my jaw and roar into the night sky. My screams bring heat to my face and ice to the rest of my being. I feel numb; I feel electrified.

I am a body of contradictions as I scream, scream, scream.

Somewhere in the midst of my breakdown, I realize my knuckles are bleeding again and awareness of pain comes slowly.

I punched something.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

I try to breathe in and out like Winter taught me once.

Winter. Winter who is too good for me.

I hurt Winter.

For the second time tonight, hot, angry wetness covers my face. Tears.

I hurt Winter.

“God,” I swear out loud.

I am just who Benjamin Brigham raised me to be.

MISHA, Amelia, Luna, Max, and I sit around the table in the war room. Leo’s off doing whatever he’s doing, and I’m glad that he’s absent. We shared a room last night, but I’m grateful that Misha offered me my own space on the other side of the compound.

One, it prevents me from having to deal with Leo’s iciness toward me.

Two, it prevents me from acting on the urge to go back to the room where Winter sleeps and taking her in my arms, begging her forgiveness.

My heart races at the vision—me on my knees for her, pleading with her not to leave me.

She’d give me a sweet smile with her delectable mouth, only to say, “No.”

Just as she should.

The adrenaline causes a sharp headache to form between my eyes.

“Let’s reverse engineer this, Hunter. Tell me what you know about Isla Cara—what places feel important—or even unimportant. We’ll all put what we have together, and maybe something will make sense.” Luna’s voice is uncharacteristically soft. She’s taken the lead on this meeting, which has gone on for three hours.

First, Amelia recounted all the places she knew on Isla Cara and other places outside the island that Father deemed important.

The hidden spaces in Brigham Estate.

The multiple vaults he held riches in.

The list of twenty-seven properties he owned and the dozens of others he held with partnerships.

None of them rise above his connection to Isla Cara.

I take a deep breath, prepared to give them a listing of everything I saw on Isla Cara over the several years I spent there on and off, but I stop short because everyone is giving me strange looks.

Misha looks grim.

Luna looks empathetic.

Amelia looks…sad.

Max ignores us all, favoring work on his computer.

I clear my throat.

“There weren’t too many places I was allowed to go when I visited him there, and I only spent a few weeks at a time. I spent the summers there when I was older.”

Luna nods, scribbling on her notepad.

“Do any specific instances stand out to you?” Luna puts the end of her pen in her mouth, and I track it when the ballpoint side traces a faint blue line on her palm.

“Sure. Several things.” I close my eyes and try to push away the image that’s been haunting me on a flashback loop.

Me on the veranda. Hot. Naked. Bloody.

I clear my throat again.

“I saw Misha there once. I was about fourteen or so, and it was the first winter break that my father had me the entire time.”

Misha speaks up. “I remember seeing you a few times on that visit, but you would always run away.” He gives an amused chuckle, and I try not to bristle.

Run away, you little pussy. Father’s words ring between my ears.

“I guess,” I mumble. Luna sits up more in her chair, giving her husband a side eye.

“Was there anything in particular that made that visit and Misha stand out to you?”

I rub the side of my head. There was so much happening during the visit. This one was important—Father was brokering some type of deal with some of the most powerful people on the planet. At least, that’s how he described it.

I often saw Misha with the president of Russia. On the second evening, I saw the president on that damned veranda, and blood covered Misha from nearly head to toe.

The sight scared me so much, I hid in my room for much of the remaining visit, not even bothering to get food to sustain me—besides the potato chips I’d brought in earlier—for three days.

“It stuck out because that was the first time I shot up,” I say. My mother lets out a strange sound, and when I slide my eyes to her, she presses a fist to her mouth, screwing her eyes shut tight.

“Don’t worry,” I say with a bite. “I’m clean now.”

She takes a trembling inhale, opening her eyes.

“That’s not what I’m upset about,” she says. A punch of guilt hits me in my chest.

“To be fair, I didn’t shoot myself up. Someone else did, and I lost a lot of time when they did it too. It scared the shit out of me.”

I try to keep my eyes focused on Luna, not letting them twitch as I recall the hypervigilance I experienced. This was around the time that Father’s friend and partner-in-depravity, Alistair, was there.

And he loved to watch me. Always watching me.

Alistair died on Isla Cara, and it was the best day of my life up to that point.

I turn my head away to face the wall, clearing my mind of the memories.

“Do you know what you took?”

“Ketamine,” I say. Just saying it, my body remembers how I floated above myself as people moved around me. Laughter morphed and the walls moved.

It’s not a memory, though. Because when I try to recall the moments leading up to the injection, administered by one of Father’s women for the night, all I get are flashes.

Misha hums, and the room falls quiet.

“Do you remember the underground?” Luna asks. When she mentions it, a sharp recollection comes.

Dark and damp, I’m under the mansion at Isla Cara.

It’s cold down here, and I shiver even though the air is thick. It’s a contradiction.

At the end of the tunnel are lights. I follow them, and at the center of the raised dais is a young girl. She wears a thin, short dress as she kneels before my father. Around us are several other men, their faces hidden in the shadows as they sit in neat, theater-style rows.

I hide my body along the wall, trying to sink into the damp stone. The girl looks up at my father, fear plain on her face.

But when he says something, stroking her cheek, she smiles. And then Father slits her throat.

I bite back the scream, and right as I turn to run, there’s a voice in the darkness.

“Will she survive?” the dark, mechanical voice intones.

“Yes, just watch,” Father says with pride. “You’ll be very pleased.”

I sit up straight in my seat in the war room.

“I remember something. Maybe.”

“We need to explore every avenue, Hunter,” Luna says. I really take a moment to look at her.

“Did they bring you to the underground? My father. Did you…” kneel before him before he slit your throat? “There was a dark room well underground, beneath the mansion on Isla Cara. There was a raised platform. Were you on it?”

Luna’s skin turns pale and she nods before saying, “Yes, I remember that night. You were there?” Her voice takes a reedy cast, and Misha reaches over to grab her hand.

“After they….”

“Nearly killed me?” Luna offers.

“Yes. After that, you fell to the ground, and there was a distorted voice that spoke. I didn’t recognize the voice then, and thinking about it now, I don’t know who it was.”

I rub my thumb with my index finger.

“I get a feeling that maybe…maybe it was The Architect.”

I remember the strange sense of awe my father had when he addressed the person in the shadows.

“There wasn’t anyone who my father revered. He was friendly with people, but to say he was ever awestruck by someone? I can’t say that I’d seen that from him,” I say.

Amelia sits up straight. “You’re right, Hunter. There wasn’t anyone he cared about like that, but still, what makes you think it was The Architect?”

I don’t know. Not truly.

“It’s just a hunch,” I say.

“I still feel like we’re missing something,” Misha mutters, looking down at his papers. “We’ve gone through Isla Cara over and over. It feels…like an obvious oversight.”

Luna gives a small sigh. “Yes, but Misha,” she says.

But before she can complete her sentence, I interject. “The messages,” I say. All three look at me with confused expressions.

“What do you mean, Hunter?” This comes from Amelia.

Pulling out my cellphone, I scroll through my texts and find the one from all those months ago.

“I took Winter to an appointment and received this cryptic message.” I toss my phone on the table, pushing it toward Luna, who shares the screenshot with Misha and Amelia.

A Scar

A Liar

“Any ideas? We couldn’t trace it from anywhere. Unless it came from you all?” I ask.

Misha and Luna shake their heads, negative.

“It’s an anagram,” Max says, piping up from his spot in the corner where he’s been silently tapping away over the past several hours. I didn’t think he was paying attention at all, but evidently he’s been processing our conversation.

We all turn to him. “Didn’t you look into this before?” I ask him. I’d sent him the message almost immediately after I’d received it.

Max has the grace to look chagrined. With a grimace, he says, “Yeah, I did…but I figured it was Amelia up to her usual stuff.” He shrugs and my eyebrows crease.

“Her usual stuff?” I ask. Misha releases a long sigh that turns into a groan.

“Misha and I had a few…disagreements about how much contact we should have with you. We planned to quietly observe and not interject in your lives until we were sure, but….”

I roll through my memories, searching for all the stand-out instances.

“The bag from the doctor’s office?” I say.

“That was my doing,” Amelia says while Misha grumbles.

“Why?” I throw back at her. Amelia shoots a look to Misha, and Misha looks like he’s barely suppressing an eyeroll.

“Mother had the bright idea that if you knew about The Legion that you’d seek help. Maybe come to our side. She thought things were moving too slowly,” Misha says.

I shift my gaze back to Amelia.

“I knew you were in danger, and I couldn’t stand it,” she says. I ignore the warmth spreading across my chest.

Tilting my head, I say, “The shoot-out. The cars all dropped back as if they got an order to. Was that you?”

Amelia smiles, but Max is the one who speaks up. “Since that night Winter was taken, we added some more…surveillance to the fleet. So when you were being chased, Rio sent a signal to me and I was able to jam the cars that were chasing you, essentially causing them to shut down on the road.”

I would laugh if I could. Thinking back on the harrowing moments after the gunfire and how Winter held on to me as if I were her only lifeline, it was strange that one minute, they were chasing us and the next, they just stopped.

“I see. Well…thank you?” I say to Max. He shrugs in acknowledgment.

Turning back to Misha, I say, “The text messages?”

“There were more than one?” Amelia replies.

I nod. “I received one, as did Leo.”

Amelia hums. “Neither of those were me,” she adds, and Misha looks troubled.

“I’ll have to get the other one from Leo,” if I can get him to talk to me, “but Max, you think this one is an anagram?” I ask.

Max turns back to his computer, tapping along in a rapid cadence until he says, “Aha!”

“What?” Luna says in a slow drawl.

“Well, the anagram spells out ‘Isla Cara.’”

“No shit?” I reply.

Max gives me a look that telegraphs the thought, Of course I’m fucking sure.

“I’ll run the program again to see what other viable results come up, but the shit says Isla Cara, so I’m pretty damn sure that’s what the message is,” Max replies.

I lift my palms to show him that I’m not getting onto him about the results.

“Now to figure out who the fuck sent this,” he mutters. “And why.” He turns back to the computer and zones back into his screen.

“So Isla Cara does hold something important, and we’ve just not found it?” This comes from Luna. I close my eyes and bring up the island. Isla Cara isn’t a huge landmass, but it isn’t exactly small, either.

If someone wanted to hide things there, they most certainly could. And with the recollection of the underground crypts, how many other places are like it there?

“What do you think could be hiding?” I ask.

“The location of their labs. The identity of The Architect.” Misha shrugs as he lists off possibilities. “Knowledge is power. The more intel we can gather on what they’re up to and who they’re doing it with, the better.”

“And the ultimate goal is to get rid of The Architect because if the head falls, so does the rest of it,” Amelia adds.

I nod again. “We need to look deeper onto the island. We need to go back to Isla Cara,” I say, understanding dawning.

Isla Cara has always been the key. We just need to find the right combination to unlock its secrets.

“The eye,” I say. “Do you know the differences between them?”

Misha and Luna share a look. Luna speaks, “We haven’t really looked into their symbols very much.” She looks thoughtful.

“Some wear rings, like my father and Morris Winthrope. Others have tattoos.” I think about the commissioner and the black smudge behind his ear.

“Then there are the symbols that appear elsewhere, like the floor of the vault in Isla Cara.” When Leo and I went there the last time, we opened the vault and found what we expected to find and more—on the floor in the center of the room was the same eye, but with additional features than what’s on the ring my father wore.

“There’s something there,” I say.

Misha sits up in his chair, and Luna begins to sketch the symbols on her legal pad.

Amelia turns to me. “This is the closest we’ve been to any type of breakthrough in a very long time.”

She reaches across the table and puts her scarred hand upon mine.

“Thank you, Hunter,” she says.

I let her hand stay.

FIFTEEN

WINTER

Ihaven’t seen Hunter in two weeks.

Quite literally, I haven’t laid my eyes on him in fourteen days.

Not when I searched for him to go to my sonogram across the compound in the medical bay. Not when I tried to give him the latest pictures of our baby. Not when I looked for him to share about the late night August, Ella, and I had and what August confessed about how he’s been feeling about Blair’s death.

Fourteen days have passed.

And I haven’t been able to think of anything else except Hunter. I try, try, try to force my brain to focus on any other topic, but it’s impossible.

I’ve fallen into obsession.

I can’t sleep. I have this unsettled feeling deep in my chest, as if at any moment I could tip over the brink of literal heartbreak. When I breathe, I think of Hunter. When I move, I think of Hunter. When I’m still, I think of Hunter.

And even though I know what’s happening—that I’m flowing down a path of paranoia and perseveration—I’m helpless to stop myself. So every night, I pull his clothes from the closet and cocoon myself with them. I spray his cologne on his shirts and pretend he’s with me. I pretend that we’re back at Amelia Manor, making pizza and playing video games with August.

I allow myself to pretend...and deny the fact that I’m in a dangerous place where the line between love and obsession is indistinct—practically invisible.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone, but I'm familiar with the hallmarks of my mental illness: compulsion, obsession, hypomania.

When will this stop being so damn hard?

My love for Hunter is poisoning me. I can recognize this truth in a distant part of myself—the part that can be rational and objective and self-honoring.

But I can’t stop thinking of him. I can’t let myself feel anything but the pressing, chronic need to have him by me. To see his face. To feel his body pressed against mine.

To be loved by him.

I want him however I can get him, even if that means I have him with an ocean full of darkness.

I was raped.

When he said those words, my heart splintered into a million pieces. When he spilled the parts of his past in that bathroom at the Appleton Country Club, I knew there was more. I could feel it in how his protection of me morphed into something darker in the days following my abduction.

I could sense it in his overwhelming need to control everything.

We’re not dissimilar, he and I. He puts things, people, events into neat little boxes. He forces everything to fit in the parameters he’s set for himself and those around him.

He never wants anyone else to get hurt, even if he’s destroyed bit by bit in an effort to protect them.

My Hunter, my love, is a mess.

And I’m a mess too.

“Not hungry?” Veronica’s voice is soft as she sits next to me. Her plate is nearly clean of the deluxe sandwich and chips Misha’s cook made for her, but I’ve absently stirred the tomato soup for the last fifteen minutes we’ve sat here.

It feels fancy—the chef put it in a sourdough bread bowl, and according to the woman who cooked it, there are notes of smokey fire-roasted peppers and other seasonings that I can’t remember. Paired with it is a crusty grilled sandwich with about four different types of cheese.

“I am,” I say, picking off some of the bread core and dipping it inside the soup. “Sorry. Distracted.” I pop the bread into my mouth and force myself to chew.

Veronica hums and glances over to the short bassinet Summer sleeps in. She rocks it with her foot, sticking her bare toes out from the high-backed barstool she sits on at the kitchen island.

I stop stirring the soup and bring the spoon to my mouth.

The food tastes bland on my tongue; the sandwich is like sawdust in my mouth.

I swallow it, nonetheless.

It took three days for Veronica to see me, but not because she didn’t try. I didn’t allow anyone to see me except Dr. Whitney, and not just because I didn’t want anyone to see the bruises around my neck.

They were startling enough for me to look at in the mirror.

But mostly, I didn’t want anyone to tell me anything I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want anyone to try to convince me that Hunter and I were wrong.

But Veronica damn near broke down my door when she met her limit, and when her eyes landed on me and she morphed into a vibrating ball of fury, I immediately started crying.

I had to physically restrain her from hunting Hunter down and killing him while I choked on my tears.

When she calmed down enough to have a conversation with me, she tried to get me to move into the room she shared with Summer.

I refused.

That started another fight, which ended in her slamming my door and storming off down the hallway as Summer wailed.

Veronica and I have called an unsteady truce. I think it’s because Hunter hasn’t bothered to show his face again.

“Can I ask you something?” Veronica’s voice is still low and measured, and when she speaks, she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she gives all her attention to her sleeping daughter.

I put the spoon down. “Sure,” I say.

With a deep breath, she breaks her gaze away from Summer and turns to me fully. With her eyes locked on mine, she asks, “Do you think you’re safe here?”

I swallow, a knot forming in my throat.

Do I think I’m safe here? What is safety, anyway? Am I safe anywhere?

“I haven’t been truly ‘safe’ since my parents died, Veronica,” I reply, not answering her question.

She blinks long and slow. With another breath, she presses on, repeating herself. “Do you think you’re safe here?”

I bite my lip, and the tears that are ever-present spring to my lower eyelids. “Veronica, c’mon.”

She slides away from the table in a snap. “No, you c’mon, Winter!” she whisper-shouts.

I bring my pinky nail to my mouth since I’ve bitten all the others off.

“Winter, you are a smart woman. You are a resilient woman. And you’re being abused. You’re being stupid about staying here.”

She takes her plate from the counter and scrapes her food remains into the hidden trash can. “I don’t know what to say to get you to understand that you’re in the wrong place to be real.” She shakes her head as she spins to the deep sink. Her dishes fall into the basin with a clank.

Summer twitches in her bassinet, cracking an eye open with a grumpy side-eye.

“It’s more dangerous out there,” I murmur, and she laughs.

It’s a sharp crack in the otherwise silent kitchen.

“Do you really think so, Winter? Can’t you see what’s happened? You’re back to where you were a decade ago—hiding away, locking yourself in, thinking you’re safe from the outside world when in reality, the most dangerous threat is here within yourself.”

The tears crest and fall now, and my stomach churns at her accusations.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

“Do this for me,” she offers, crossing her arms tight across her chest. “I want you to catalog all the shit that’s happened to you in the past year. How many of those things have Hunter Brigham as the root cause?”

I swallow and look away from her.

“Nope, don’t avoid the question, Winter,” she demands.

“Stop it, Veronica!” I shout, and Summer begins to wail. I reach for her instinctively, but Veronica reaches her first, stepping in front of me so I can’t touch the baby. I bring my hands to my chest, stunned, flopping back onto my stool.

Veronica shushes Summer while she bounces her on her hip. Summer plants her face into her mother’s shoulder.

“First, the man lies to you about being engaged. Then he does nothing to keep you protected—really protected—when he knows he’s being chased by some affluent goons. Then he knocks you up. Did you all have a conversation about this, at least? Like, you know how babies are made, and I’m sure that Genevieve would have told you that getting pregnant while still recovering from a huge trauma is a bad idea.”

My leg starts to pop up and down with agitation. But the idea knocks on the door where I’ve firmly placed it: That Hunter did bring up the idea of pregnancy, and I didn’t say no.

But I didn’t give an enthusiastic yes, either.

I shake my head, nausea threatening to bring back up the pieces of sourdough and soup.

“Then he gets you involved with the fucking mafiya and puts you into a situation where you have to kill people. Murder, Winter!”

“I did what I had to do,” I mumble through numb lips.

“Sure, but why did you have to do it? Because of Hunter, that’s why. And now…” She puts her hand on Summer’s head, looking at the ceiling, and I’m startled when she starts to cry. “And now he’s hurt you. Really hurt you, Winter.”

I bring my hand to my neck. It’s so hard for me to say that…I didn’t hate the bruises. I didn’t hate what we did.

I didn’t hate it at all.

Shouldn’t I have hated it?

Confusion makes my head spin.

Veronica sucks her teeth. “Hunter Brigham must have some magical dick if you’re allowing yourself to be manhandled by him.”

I push away from the table and stand, mirroring her pose.

“My sex life with Hunter is none of your business, Veronica, but to set your nerves at ease, I fully consented to everything that happened that night.”

“Just like you consented to getting knocked up?”

“Yes!” I yell. “Just like that.” I’m vibrating, shaking, unsettled. She keeps bringing this up, and every time she does, I feel….

“Winter, little miss doctoral degree in psychology, you know that you could not consent to shit in your state.”

“I was of sound mind—”

“You were depressed and traumatized—”

“I was a full participant in that and everything that’s happened since.”

“No dick is worth this, Winter!”

“Well, at least I have someone who cares about me!” I snarl. Veronica’s head snaps back as my words land, and disgust and hurt war on her face.

“I—I’m…I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, shame causing me to flush, because I know that I really did mean it that way. I don’t want to hurt my best friend, and somehow that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Veronica’s face slips and her mask returns. She’s troubled by this…troubled by me and my decisions.

Why is this even happening right now? What the hell am I even doing right now?

“Veronica—”

“However the fuck you meant it doesn’t matter.” Veronica shifts Summer to her other arm. “Here’s the bottom line. I’m out. Are you coming with me or not?”

My brows furrow. “What do you mean ‘you’re out?’”

She sighs shortly. “I mean that I’ve thought about it, and I don’t feel safe here. And neither should you. So I’m leaving with Summer. I’ll ask one last time: Are you coming?”

Leave Hunter?

The thought starts up a buzzing inside my head.

I can’t leave Hunter.

Even though he’s all but thrown you away?

I shiver and shake my head. I can’t say the words, but my mind only accepts one truth. No, I’m not leaving Hunter.

Even if he’s all but left me.

Veronica is silent as I contemplate my world ending, and she sighs, heavy and long.

“Fine,” she bites out.

“Where the hell do you plan on going?”

“Don’t worry about that,” she says. “The fact is, I need to think about me and Summer. And if you’re not going to save yourself, well…” She shifts Summer higher. “I can’t save you if you don’t want to be saved.”

The weight of the silence between the two of us makes my chest ache, and when she brings me into a crushing one-armed hug, I feel the fingers of panic start to clutch at my throat.

“I love you, Winter. Please love yourself.”

She leaves the kitchen without another word.

SIXTEEN

WINTER

The night before he left with Veronica, Rio delivered the leather Moleskine journal I kept in the nightstand at my apartment. In it, Veronica left me a note. It’s several pages long, but I haven’t managed to read it.

I can’t bring myself to do so.

What I have been able to do, however, is clutch it to my chest as I sobbed for so long that I developed a headache.

Veronica is gone.

Good to her word, she left shortly after our argument in the kitchen. She didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t let me kiss Summer one last time.

Veronica’s mother and father are currently sailing around the island of Crete. Along with Rio and Jared, Veronica and the baby plan on meeting her family in Mykonos. From there, Veronica and her family will leave to hide away in the South of France.

Rio will stay with Veronica, and Jared will return to the compound.

I should feel a little comforted that Rio will look after her. I like him, and I know he’ll keep her and Summer safe.

But I can’t help but cry into my satin pillowcase because she’s gone, and I don’t know for how long or if I’ll ever see her again.

Pulling on the tools that Genevieve and I developed over the last several years, I roll out of the bed and amble toward the courtyard with Kitty trailing behind me. My hair is a mess, jumbled at the top of my head in a tangled ball that I’m sure will take me at least an hour to unknot.

I try not to think of my mother’s horror at me walking outdoors in my house slippers and pajamas.

I sniff as my mother’s face flashes before me.

She prepared me for so much, but she didn’t prepare me for love.

Is this what love is supposed to be like?

I take in a deep, deep breath when I settle on the bench with Kitty in my lap and roses surrounding me. Closing my eyes, I go through one of the routines Genevieve taught me back when I was in the hospital all those years ago.

Three things I can smell.

Roses. Freshly cut grass. Sap from the trees.

Three things I can feel.

The breeze as it rushes past my face. The stone bench beneath my bottom. Kitty’s fur beneath my palm.

Three things I can hear.

The birds chirping. The rustle of the leaves in the wind. Footsteps.

I crack my eyes open, orienting myself in the direction of the noise.

Amelia Brigham stands at the entrance with one hand on the doorframe as she looks at me with a questioning gaze.

“You’re more than welcome to join me,” I say to her, trying to fix my face into something like a smile. “I don’t own the place.”

In fact, I don’t own anything at all anymore. Everything I have, except for Kitty and this journal, has come from Hunter.

That thought is...unsettling.

Amelia smiles and walks over to me. In the morning light, I can tell that she’s moving a bit more stiffly than she usually does. She generally walks with a slight limp, but she’s moving now as if injured.

“Are you okay?” I ask once she’s close enough to sit next to me.

“Yeah,” she says with a small grunt as she lowers herself to the bench. “Just troublesome joints.”

I hum in reply and turn to watch the birds flit from branch to branch. A butterfly floats around a fragrant violet butterfly bush, and I’m reminded of the trip Veronica and I took to Dichotomy a lifetime ago.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

And since then, she’s had her baby, we’ve discovered that the owner of the shop was not who he said he was, and Veronica is gone.

I bite my lip so I don’t cry.

“I’d hoped he’d love someone as much as he loves you,” Amelia says, and it’s the wrong thing to say because the tears I’m trying to hold back fall.

“I love him so much that I don’t know what to do about it,” I say, just letting the tears roll down my face.

Amelia is quiet for a moment, then she says, “You don’t have to tell me all that happened, but can I say something?”

I nod, telling myself it’s okay to look at her, because maybe she won’t judge me for how out of control I am right now.

“I’m not sure that I even know what love is, but I know what it’s not.”

I look down when she says those words.

“Are you going to tell me that our love isn’t right?” I ask. I examine my nails, searching for a place to bite them that I haven’t already made bleed.

“No, not at all, Winter,” she says instead.

I snap my head back up.

Her smile spreads, and I freeze when she places her hand on mine.

“Love isn’t neat or simple. Love isn’t without ebbs or flows. Love isn’t just for perfect people.” She squeezes my fingers a fraction.

“Hunter has gone through so much. Much more than I think he’ll ever confess. And that’s okay. Sometimes, people need to hold their pain in a way that makes it manageable so they can survive. I think you understand that, though,” she says.

I nod in response. Of course she’s right. I pushed Hunter. I pushed him beyond where he was ready to go, and in the brightness of the sunrise, I can see just how goddamn irresponsible that was.

Therapeutically, it was the wrong thing to do. I caused harm to Hunter by not taking into account what he needed so that he could come to me and trust me.

Maybe that’s why he’s stayed away for so long. I was trying to strong-arm him into trusting me, so it’s no wonder why my actions resulted in the opposite outcome.

If the shoe were on the other foot, what would people be saying about him?

I tug on a piece of dry skin on my lip with my teeth.

“He’s been hurt. You’ve been hurt. But neither of you are broken beyond repair. Things can always be mended, even if they fit together a little differently than they did before.”

I can’t say anything to her words because I know if I do, I’ll just collapse and sob all over her. So I continue to bite my lip and nod.

“Your heart isn’t wrong. Listen to it,” she says.

With one final pat, she adds, “Have you eaten breakfast yet? You need your strength. You’re growing my grandbaby in there.”

I let out a small chuckle, and she squeezes my hand again.

So many men have hurt this woman—her father who traded her, her first husband, and then Benjamin Brigham—and yet she’s still out here comforting me, reminding me that love can work.

Love can be safe.

“How did you figure it out?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

“Figure what out?” she replies.

“What love isn’t. Have you been in love then?”

Her smile turns sad. “Something like that,” is all she says in return.

She stands, cutting off the thread of conversation, and says, “I’ll have the chef make you a real breakfast. I heard that you’ve been existing on apples and Oreo cookies.” She lifts her eyebrow.

I give her a chagrined smile. “Yeah…” I say.

She smiles in return.

“Fifteen minutes, okay?”

I nod, and she leaves the courtyard.

What does your heart know, Winter?

Kitty huffs and settles more fully on my lap. He’s not on high alert, but he senses that I’m upset, so he patiently waits for me to come down.

One.

I know that Hunter and I have a lot to work through.

One-two-one.

I know that I have to come back to myself and figure out who I am again. Winter before Hunter doesn’t exist anymore, but I’m not sure who I am today. That changes now.

One-two-three-two-one.

I know that we’ll figure out the rest of this together.

A lick on my cheek brings me back to now, and I pet Kitty behind his collar.

“I’m okay, lovebug,” I say into his fur. “I really am.”

He hops down after a few minutes, and I tell him, “Off-duty,” to give him the freedom to explore. He gives me one of his trademarked side eyes for a beat, then he hops off to chase a butterfly.

I pull the journal from the oversized pocket of my robe and run my thumb across the blank cover.

I know that Veronica had so much to say in her goodbye letter, and now that I’m allowing myself to think about it…I know that not all of her assumptions about Hunter and me are wrong.

She’s correct that there have been so many lows in our relationship, but there have been so many highs too.

And the bottom line for me is this: I am happy with Hunter as my partner. It’s like the Universe knew that our two battered souls needed foils and thought it wise to bring us together. We both have rough edges and sore spots. We need to figure out how to help each other rather than trigger each other.

I open the cover of the journal, ready to read Veronica’s letter, but I stop at the entry I made more than a year ago.

Winter’s Life List

Genevieve gave me the assignment all those months ago to create a list of things that would make me feel like I’m living.

It felt impossible to come up with ten things, but I managed to write them after agonizing over my responses for entirely too long.

1. Explore U Street

2. Take a cooking class

3. See the latest art collection at the museum

4. Visit the Cherry Blossom Festival next spring

5. Kiss someone on New Year

6. Run in a marathon

7. Go sailing

8. Visit Paris again

9. Go on 15 unique dates

10. Have sex Make love while in love

Examining the list, I see that many of these things I’ve done since Hunter came into my life.

I’ve explored U Street. I haven’t taken an official cooking class, but the time Ella taught me how to bake Hunter’s favorite cake counts in my book. We went to artTech to view an installation of roses on our first date, and we most certainly kissed on New Years.

I close my eyes to savor the memory of how explosively we came together in that opulent bathroom. We consumed each other, committing to loving each other with everything within our broken souls.

I open my eyes again and skip them down the page to the last entry.

Make love while in love.

Even in our angriest moments or most needy moments, sex between us has always been more.

It’s been an expression of our hurts and fears. It’s been healing. It’s been connection. It’s been joy and pain and reconciliation.

Sex with Hunter has always been making love—literally co-creating love and growing it into something that’s beyond the two of us.

I put my hand to my stomach, over our growing child.

Veronica was right when it came to this part—Hunter pushed for a baby, and I acquiesced. I didn’t do anything to prevent it; instead, I just let it happen. But that doesn’t mean I was in the right place to consent to it.

And yet…Hunter made the decision. If I look at it closely through the lens of his control and his fear of losing me, I can see how he came to that choice.

It’s not the healthiest move on his part, to say the least.

Still, I can accept when I’m quiet and analytical, that I wanted to surrender to what Hunter wanted.

And is that really that bad?

Only if you lose yourself in the process, Winter. Only if you reach that point by turning yourself into a victim.

Kitty bounds over, skidding to a stop with a cricket leg poking out of his mouth. He drops it at my feet—an offering.

I reach down and rub his silky ear.

That’s the key. We can do whatever we want, be whoever we want together…as long as we know who we are as individuals too. As long as we honor ourselves.

“You ready, Winter?”

Amelia peeks her head from the doorway, and I close the journal, securing it with the attached elastic.

“I’m ready,” I tell her and walk back into the house, determined to find my future.

SEVENTEEN

HUNTER

Misha made a joke a few days ago that I live in the war room, but the fact is, he isn’t wrong.

Ever since the breakthrough that I might have actually met The Architect on Isla Cara all those years ago, I’ve been searching everything I brought to Misha’s home from the island, scouring them for any further clues.

Sure, Isla Cara isn’t the size of Texas, but if we needed to go through the entire island looking for clues to where The Architect is and who they are, then it would be so helpful to narrow things down so we’re not searching for a needle in a haystack.

Plus, the time crunch is real. It’s like I can feel Morris Winthrope breathing down my neck, getting ready to tear my life apart.

No, not tear it apart. Completely annihilate it.

I started documenting my memories, examining them backward and forward and trying to draw connections.

And still, I’m coming up short.

It’s frustrating as fuck, but not as frustrating as the need to give Winter space.

Winter.

I do the thing I’ve done over and over every hour for the last two weeks.

I push the thoughts of her aside.

You need to get your shit together before you can even begin to think about approaching her again.

I rub my eyes and try to refocus them on the computer screen in front of me when the scent of soy sauce, ginger, and five-spice registers.

I blink in the darkness and startle when I realize my mother is there holding a plate of beef and broccoli and a tall glass of lemonade.

“I don’t know what it is about you all not eating regular meals, but I can’t let you miss what the chef made tonight,” she says, placing the plate on the only spot not covered with papers to the side of the laptop. She moves a stack of legal pads and places a coaster down before putting the glass on top of it.

“Thanks,” I mumble just as my stomach releases an audible growl. With a glance at the clock on the monitor, I realize it’s well into the night and I haven’t eaten since the forgotten bagel this morning.

Mom sits in the chair next to me as I pick up the fork and waste no time shoveling a bite of the food into my mouth. She watches me with her head resting on her fist as she leans against the table, and in a few blinks, the plate is nearly empty.

“See? You were hungry,” Mom says. “You need to take breaks, Hunter.” She flicks on one of the desk lamps, bringing light to the room that isn’t from the ambient glow of the computer monitors.

It’s a mess in here, and I grimace when I take in the clutter. The pile of blankets and pillows in the corner mock me.

I’m not taking very good care of myself right now. I stopped looking in the mirror when I went to the bathroom about a week ago; the prominent dark circles under my eyes reminded me of Christian Bale in The Mentalist.

She watches me as I finish off the rest of the dish and gulp down the lemonade. I feel full for the first time in days.

“I talked to her this morning,” Mom says, and I close my eyes to avoid her words.

I grunt. I can’t think about Winter. I can’t talk about Winter.

I need to leave Winter alone until I’m good enough to be with her again.

Until I’m good enough to make things safe for her.

Until I am a safe person for her.

“She wants to see you, you know. Your absence is doing more harm than good,” she says.

I try not to grunt again, so I settle for clearing my throat.

“How long are you going to shut her out?” she asks, her voice soft.

I want to lash out at her and make her feel bad for trying to be maternal in this moment.

But I realize that this is her trying. This is her caring.

And it’s okay to allow myself to be cared for, especially by my mom.

“I hurt her,” I say simply.

Mom nods. “It looks that way,” she says.

I rub my thumb over my top lip.

“Hurt people hurt people,” she says. “It sounds trite, right? Like it’s a cop-out for people to act like assholes.” She laughs.

But then she says, “You’re nothing like your father, Hunter,” and air seizes in my chest.

“I know I feared that you’d take after him, but I get it now. I see your heart. You are not a monster, Hunter.”

I want to walk away, instead, I stay rooted in this spot.

“You and Winter…I dreamed of having a love like you two have, Hunter. I truly did. And I’m so incredibly glad to see that you do have it.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. I turn my head away from her and stare at the wall.

“Hunter, allow yourself to heal from what has been done to you. Don’t throw this gift you’ve been given away.”

The seconds tick on as her words spin in my brain.

Winter is a gift—the most precious gift in my life, alongside August and the child we’re bringing into this world.

I don’t want to throw it away. I don’t want to push her away. And yet….

“I’m afraid,” I say, my voice so low that I’m sure she can’t hear the words.

“I know, Hunter. I know.” She squeezes my shoulder. “But I promise you that with you and Winter? If you both work at it, it will be okay.”

I am very conscious of my inhalation and exhalation; I force myself to count just as Winter taught me.

When I feel the crushing weight of her declaration release its stronghold around my neck, I relax my shoulders. Mom pats me on the back and stands.

“Go sleep in a real bed tonight, yeah?” she says with laughter in her voice. “We’re keeping an eye on Winthrope and Ella’s training is going well. We’re close, Hunter, but this,” she motions to the piles of papers and the now sleeping computer, “isn’t going anywhere. It’s okay to rest.” She picks up a stack of legal pads and loose-leaf paper and taps the documents on the table to straighten them. The action causes a forgotten granola bar wrapper to flutter to the floor. “You can shut it down for a night.”

I nod and she gives me another pat on the shoulder. When she goes to remove her hand, I grab it on instinct. She stills at the touch, and I spin in my chair, hugging her, planting my face in her stomach as if I were a child. It’s like she’s not breathing for several long moments as I hold her, but then, when her arms wrap around me, we both relax into the embrace.

“If you remember nothing else, remember this: I am proud of the man you have become, Hunter James Brigham, and I love you.”

I bite my lip.

I squeeze her one last time and sit back in my chair, moving the laptop to give my hands something to do.

But I surprise myself when I say, “Ditto.”

Her smile is radiant.

“Shit!” I shout and we both jump when the door claps open again and the overhead lights come on, blazing.

Misha, Luna, and Max rush into the room, followed by Leo. Their faces are serious, with a slight edge of panic, so I jump into action alongside them.

I stumble, though, when Winter enters the room.

She wears a plain white T-shirt and black yoga pants—a simple outfit for a random Tuesday. But I can’t stop staring at her neck. Even though her flesh has healed, I can only see the ring of my handprint around her throat.

Like me, she has dark circles under her eyes, and she clutches Kitty, who gives me a menacing glare, to her chest.

I want to say something, anything.

“Hunter,” she whispers, and it’s like a gong going off in the room. The sound of my name coming from her lips has me wanting to run toward her while also forcing the feeling of wanting to run away.

Run away so I can’t taint her anymore.

Ella charges into the room, and I’m saved from my pining by Leo’s clap on my shoulder, spinning me away from Winter and toward the television screen.

The two agents from the bombing, who I now see are from Homeland Security, stand behind a podium surrounded by at least fifteen other officials. The shorter male agent begins to speak.

“The Chevy Chase Bombing earlier this month has claimed four hundred and forty-nine lives to date.”

The statement shoots ice through my veins.

He continues. “As of now, those who are recovering are doing so with a long road ahead of them. Many of them have lost their families in the massacre. We, as a nation, grieve alongside them.”

A camera flash goes off as the agent speaks.

“After a tireless investigation by the Department of Homeland Security, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation, we have determined that this terrible event was not the doing of an outside terroristic force, but instead the actions of homegrown enemies.”

The crowd begins to rumble.

“We have reason to believe that this attack was a coordinated effort by a small team of individuals who had specific, personal motivations to see this particular location wiped from the map.” The man’s gaze hardens as he looks directly into the camera.

“We believe that this attack was motivated by money and a disregard for human life rather than for ideological or religious reasons. There will be more to come as the investigation continues, but please rest assured that our agencies will stop at nothing to capture those responsible and to bring swift justice to those who have been impacted by this tragedy.”

The agent walks off the stage, declining any further questions as the crowd starts to spit them in his direction.

Another agent that I don’t recognize comes forward, but the broadcast cuts away to show Addison St. James’s somber face. The newscaster nods with her finger pressed to her ear. Her expression is very different from the one she wore when interviewing Morris and Blair Winthrope all those weeks ago.

After a beat, she raises her eyes to the camera. “That was Special Agent DeSoto with the Department of Homeland Security providing a much-needed update on the Chevy Chase Massacre. However, new information is coming in right now for startling breaking news.”

Dramatic, tense music pops through the speakers for three seconds as the camera angle changes. “We’ve just received an exclusive report that Blair Winthrope, daughter to business mogul and presidential hopeful Morris Winthrope, has been reported missing by the Winthrope family. Justin, what information do you have on this?”

“Yes, Addison,” the other newscaster, Justin, says with his finger pressed to the speaker in his ear. “We’ve just received a report that Blair Winthrope, fiancée to BwP CEO Hunter Brigham, has been reported missing by the Winthrope family. Sources say that Blair has been missing for the last two weeks, coinciding with the bombing of her fiancé Hunter Brigham’s building in the Chevy Chase Massacre.”

The camera angle changes again as silence falls over the room, and my heart thuds in my chest.

I don’t look at anyone—not Misha nor my mother. I definitely don’t look at Leo, who mutters an emphatic “shit” as he starts to pace the room.

Ella gasps and I allow myself to look at her. I’ve been avoiding her as much as I’ve avoided anyone else. She seems tired and sweaty, as if she’s come from a hard workout…and her eyes affix firmly on Leo.

“This news comes on the heels of the statement from Agent DeSoto regarding the same Chevy Chase Massacre which claimed four hundred and forty-nine lives. Justin, I have to say, there’s an obvious common denominator here and, I hate to say it, but….”

“Addison, that’s correct. It’s startling to say that both these events allegedly have some connection to Hunter Brigham. The BwP CEO hasn’t been seen in the weeks since the attack and very rarely before. Lance, can you bring up the images—”

The television flicks off when a picture of Blair and I at our engagement photoshoot flashes on the screen.

Luna is the one to break the tense silence. “So, I guess that’s their angle. Huh.”

She says this as if she’s curious about their actions rather than alarmed by them.

“They want my take down to be public,” I say, everything locking in place.

I see their plan so clearly, as if watching it on a movie screen.

First, they’ll provide evidence of Blair’s death, linking it to me. Maybe they’ll bring up Amelia Manor and the attack that happened there. Of course, they’ll make it my fault somehow.

Then they’ll find something to point to my involvement with the bombing. Maybe it will be BwP’s failing financial state. Maybe it will be the idea that we can’t pay investors back after billions of dollars wasted on Project Panacea.

Then they’ll find me. They’ll try me. They’ll execute me either in secret by The Legion or through the state as a homegrown terrorist.

It’s all so very simple.

“So what’s the plan?” Leo asks the room, directing his gaze to Misha.

“We move now. That’s the plan,” Misha says.

Ella straightens and puts her hands on her hips, her back straight. “I’m ready,” she says, her voice confident. I stare at her for a solid three seconds before turning away. She does seem ready. Even if I’m not.

“Max, any luck on cracking Leo’s code?” Misha asks. The younger man bounces his leg as he sits in front of his computer screen.

He pulls something out of his pocket, keeping his palm closed until we can gather closer.

He reveals what I know to be the golden eye band that belonged to my father. Next to it is my mother’s pear-shaped diamond ring.

When I left Isla Cara after finding my father’s decomposing body, I threw his ring in with the box of other recovered materials.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking the rings from his palm.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the symbols. Look at this one,” he says, shifting the papers across the desk. When he lands on a large photo of the floor in my father’s vault, I search it for clues.

“What am I supposed to see here?” I mutter, rubbing the skin between my eyebrows.

“Look at the lines here.” He points to the juncture at the top of the eye, right over where the iris would be. Tracing the line, I see the pear-shaped image form, but he doesn’t stop, and I see that—

“It’s three-dimensional,” I say, assessing the rings in my hand.

“Yes, like a diamond. Put them together, Hunter,” Misha replies. Luna steps closer, as does my mother. I situate the smaller diamond ring beneath my father’s larger one. The image matches the one in the picture.

“Cool, but what does it mean?” I say.

“Wait,” my mother says. Taking the rings from me, she flips them over to peer at the undersides of the stones.

“Wow,” she says on a breath. “It looks like a code. Coordinates, maybe?”

Holy shit.

When held together, markings that would appear completely benign when the rings are separate now transform into a legible set of numbers and letters.

Max moves from his station, rushing over to us. Amelia hands him the rings, and he takes care to keep them pressed together.

Holding them high and close to his face, he says, “No, not coordinates. They’re the key to Leo’s anagram. A cipher.” He jumps over to his desk, sliding into his chair with his hands already on the keyboard. He types furiously for several seconds before blindly grabbing a notepad and pen and scribbling on the paper with his eyes locked on the screen. “But there are a few more digits in the series than is necessary.”

Max ignores us, and Leo walks over to him to pick up the notepad when Max drops the pen and returns both hands to his computer.

“How do you know?” Leo asks. We all tried working on the anagram that Leo received in a text message over the past several days. None of us could figure it out—meaning Max couldn’t figure it out.

He ran several scripts to try to detangle the code, but none of them worked. Deciding that there must be letters missing, we set solving the anagram aside.

Max pulls the pad from Leo’s hands and spins back to his desk, hunching over the notes and resuming his frantic pen scratches. After several seconds, he stops and his eyes move back and forth as he scans the top and the bottom of the page.

Misha taps on his phone and then turns it around to show us the map on his screen. “Clearly, they’re coordinates. And unsurprisingly, they take us to Isla Cara.” Misha’s eyes spark with excitement over his discovery. “Specifically, it leads to the northwest side of the island.”

“The mansion is on the southeast side,” I say.

“So clearly the northwest side is more important,” Misha offers, confident in his conclusions.

“It’s a key,” Max presses. “Everybody shut up so I can think.”

He curls in more on himself, and the scratch of his pen is loud in the room. Max is in the zone.

We all look at each other.

“Or it could be a date?” This comes from Leo. I work the numbers backward and forward in my brain.

It comes together. Zero-six two-zero.

“It’s June 20th,” I say. My brain goes back to the summers spent on Isla Cara…and the horrors that happened there every year. “It’s The Hunt.”

Leo gives me a grave expression, standing straight. On the summer solstice, my father gathers the selected elite to join him on Isla Cara. For seven days, they fulfill their deepest, most depraved desires. They dance with sin and play dark games.

No one is safe during The Hunts.

“It definitely is,” Leo says.

I run a hand through my hair, grateful for the sensory feedback my body gives me as I’m pulled under by my memories.

“Ominira.” I say her name, even though she’s long gone. Blood cakes beneath her head, a deep crimson. I feel pressure to give her my time and honor her life. Her life which was spent, against her will, on Isla Cara. But now I was able to give her a choice—a single choice—to die as she wanted, on her terms.

“I hope you find peace,” I say to her body.

I listen to the waves as they crash on the shore.

Minutes later, the hunters stumble across us. Two men groan at missing their opportunity to catch their target.

The third man—the man in the center—hums.

It had to be him. Alistair.

The other men walk off, diving into the dense jungle to stalk the scarce group of survivors from phase one.

But that leaves me and the corpse. And him.

Alistair.

Mosquitos buzz past my ear, and I stay completely still, willing him to leave. Leave me alone.

So I continue to ignore him, even though keeping my back to him feels like standing in front of a firing squad.

“Excellent, Hunter. Truly an excellent job,” Alistair says. “All hail The Huntsman!”

He yells so loud in his posh accent that birds flap away from the dancing palm trees.

He gets closer—one step, two. His breath ruffles the hair at the back of my neck. I grip the switchblade still in my hand and—

Maybe it’s not just a message, but an invitation.

“What are you thinking, Hunter?” This comes from Winter. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

Almost, because my body can’t forget her proximity anytime we’re in the same room together.

“I think this is a calling card. An invitation for The Legion—maybe some of them, maybe all of them—to show up at this place,” I point to the map on Misha’s screen, “on this date. And if I had to guess, it’s for The Hunt. I never thought too deeply about The Hunt and all that happens over that week, but clearly there’s more.”

Winter’s eyes widen, and there’s a bit of excitement in them.

“That could be—Hunter, that could be huge,” she says.

“It’s for the anagram,” Max pipes up, agitation plain in his voice, even though he doesn’t look at any of us.

“They’re coordinates,” Misha emphasizes.

“And it’s the date,” Leo and I say at the same time.

I’m confident that the message is an invitation for The Legion to gather on the summer solstice. That’s two weeks from now.

Max throws his hands up and pushes back from his desk. Whirling to grab the laptop docked next to the monitor, he grumbles, “Do whatever the fuck you want,” and leaves the room.

Leo blows out a breath and says, “I’ll go talk to him,” and follows Max out the door.

“Hunter, you think you heard The Architect on Isla Cara. When was it?” This comes from Luna. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, waiting for my answer.

I close my eyes and bring up the memories.

“It was the day before The Hunt,” I say. “I tried to stay out of my father’s way, so I mostly kept to my room unless Father summoned me, but it felt like…a shift in the mood on the island. I was there for the entire summer that year, and the first few weeks were relaxed, fluid.”

I rub my thumb back and forth against my top lip, thinking. “But then everyone snapped to attention. There was this...energy among everyone there—especially with my father, Morris, and Alistair.”

I managed to say his name. I don’t look at Winter.

Misha walks over to the massive wall calendar opposite the television screen.

“The solstice is in sixteen days,” he says, still facing the wall.

Ella perks up. “What are you thinking, Mish?” Ella shortening his name makes me itchy, but I focus on the scenario at hand.

“I think,” Misha begins, turning around, “that despite Isla Cara’s previous state, The Hunt will still happen as planned. I think someone else has already taken over your father’s spot, and I think that person is Morris Winthrope.”

He leaves his station near the calendar and walks toward me. “I think we’ve been handed the opportunity to take them all out in one swoop. The Architect included.”

The revelation makes the skin over my sternum feel tight, the implications becoming clear. “Ella doesn’t have to be involved in this anymore.” I rub my chest and look at my sister.

“Wait, what?” Ella interjects, but Misha gives her a brief glance before addressing me.

“Correct,” he says. “It’s better this way.”

Ella gapes at us, opening and closing her mouth before tilting her chin down and rushing out of the room.

“I should go after her.” Winter’s soft voice causes a shockwave in the confused silence. At least, it does for me.

I barely think about my next words when I spin to face her. “No. Stay. I...” I need you. “Just stay.” Please.

It feels like a lifetime passes before she says, “Okay.”

My mom surprises me when she breaks the silence. “Well, let’s get the motherfuckers.”

Misha grins wide and I feel the side of my mouth kick up, but only for a moment.

“Let me get the rest of the team up to speed,” Luna says, nearly bouncing with anticipation.

“Hunter,” Misha says. He walks closer to me, and I’m startled when he places his beefy hand on my shoulder. His gaze is sharp and pinned on me.

“We’re going to figure this out, and we will keep you and your family safe.” He places his other hand over his heart, and in his eyes, I see the rest of the sentence: I swear it.

I nod, absorbing his words…but not fully believing him.

Because while I trust that he will figure this out and he will get to the endgame in this fucked-up mess, I’m not a hundred percent convinced that I will make it out of this. The investigator’s words roll through my thoughts.

They’re coming for me.

I turn my attention to Winter. She’s pale and shaking, but I feel the knot in my chest loosen when, in her gaze, I see the same fierce love she’s stopped trying to hide.

As long as she and August and our baby are safe…I can be at peace with that.

I move over to Winter. She stares up at me and grips Kitty’s fur as though he’s her only lifeline.

I do the thing that I’ve been denying myself for the last two weeks. I caress her cheek.

“Don’t be scared, Sunbeam,” I whisper just for her ears. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her lips tremble, and then she says, “How do you know?”

I so badly want to kiss her. To be with her, inside her—inside her heart.

To make everything be right just because I say so.

“I just know. Call it a hunch,” I say, trying out a grin. The expression she wears telegraphs her skepticism.

So I say, “Come with me.”

EIGHTEEN

HUNTER

Ipull her through the compound, angling for our bedroom. When we reach it, I pause only long enough to bring out the black duffel bag I stashed there when I sent Misha’s people to Amelia Manor to grab things from my safe.

Repairs to Amelia Manor are well under way—by the end of the summer, the property restorations will be completed. In my dreams, Winter, August, and I could return home and pick up where we left off. But I know that fate likely has other plans for me.

I look down at Winter as we walk—it's a quick glance.

Maybe she’ll be able to return one day.

When we’re out of the room, I run into Luna and Leo where they talk in the hallway. I absently note that Max isn’t with them, but quickly put the thought aside.

“Can we use your office?” I ask Luna.

She gives me a curious look, but then says, “Sure. Knock yourself out.” Spinning on her heel, she heads toward the main workroom for the rest of the members of The Resistance.

Taking in a short breath, I turn to Leo and say, “Follow me, I’ll need a witness.”

Leo’s expression doesn’t change, somehow gathering the severity of the situation and the next thing I need to do.

Winter speaks. “A witness for what, H?” I pull her along faster and Kitty yips.

A witness for me making everything right.

I can’t voice the words. All I can do is keep walking—keep moving forward. I have to do what I can to protect her and our baby and August.

“Hunter? A witness?” Winter presses, but I continue to ignore her. She pulls on her arm, dislodging herself from my grasp, and I whirl around, grabbing at all the patience left in my body.

“We don’t have time for this, Winter.”

The fearful, worried look she’s worn for the last several minutes disappears, and in its place is the spark of fire that I’ve missed so much.

“We have enough time for you to explain where you’re taking me. You don’t just go caveman on me and expect me to meekly follow.” Her chest rises and falls with the intensity of her rising fury—red casts across her golden cheeks, and she’s so angry the tips of her curls seem to vibrate.

I want to look at her face forever. But now….

…now you don’t even know if you’ll see tomorrow.

“Sunbeam, please,” I say. The four of us are silent—Winter and I stare at each other while Leo stands off to the side, and Kitty pants, clearly judging all of us.

After a moment, Winter says, “Okay.” She tightens her grip on Kitty and walks toward Luna’s office, leaving me behind.

When we’re all inside, I shut the door, walking to the file cabinet where I stashed all the documents I grabbed from the vault at Amelia Manor.

“Leo, grab a few pens,” I throw over my shoulder.

Walking back over to where Winter stands frozen, I grab her elbow, rub it gently, and say, “Please sit.”

She does, taking a chair at the two-person table on the far end of Luna’s office.

I open the first file. “This is an accounting of all my assets. The investments, cash on hand, the properties we own.” I slide an earmarked sheet to the top. “You’ll sign here, and they’re all yours. Leo will witness.”

She gapes at me, her eyes wide. “What?”

I pull out another folder. “This one explains August’s guardianship. When I’m gone, I want to make sure that you’re his guardian and that you have control of his inheritance until he reaches the ages outlined in my will here.” I pass her the bound document with my will and information on August’s trust.

“H,” Leo says, his voice rough.

I lift the bag, open it, and pull out stacks of cash and documents.

“Here are the passports I got for you. There’s one for August too. There’s sixty grand here in cash, but here are the account numbers for other places to get more money. There’s roughly four hundred and eight million in liquid cash. The rest are in investments and real estate. We have a lot in Bitcoin and a few other cryptos. I recommend holding those, though.”

I don’t know what will happen to those if and when the Feds decide to put their hooks into me. I want to make sure they’re all taken care of.

“Hunter—” Winter begins.

“Go here,” I point to an address in rural upstate New York. “You can hide for a while. At least until things die down. Then I want you to go overseas with August. Start over. Make up with Veronica and stay close to her. Keep yourself safe and lie low.”

“Hunter!” Winter’s voice pierces through my tirade like a thunderclap, and I pause with my hands splayed on top of the woodgrain desk, over the reams of paper.

I breathe in, but it’s hard to gather air.

“Hunter, what is this?”

I can’t answer her. It’s too hard to say the words: I’m preparing you to live without me.

“I want to make sure you’re taken care of, baby.”

She starts to shake. “Why? It’s going to be all right. Misha said—”

“I know what Misha said, Sunbeam. But the reality is….”

The reality is these people can do whatever the fuck they want, and I want to make sure that Winter and August are as far away from here as possible.

Safe.

Her eyes widen even more. “Hunter, you will get past this. They have nothing tying you—”

“Sunbeam, you know as well as I do that if they wanted to connect me to all of this, they can. Just do this. Please. For me.”

Leo lets out a deep breath, but I can’t break my eyes from Winter’s.

“No,” she says, her voice firm.

“No?” I straighten, looking down at her.

“You heard me right, Hunter. I’m not signing all of this. I’m not going to New York or wherever the hell you want me to go, and you’re not going down for this. I won’t let it happen.”

My eyes slide closed, and I focus very hard on staying in control.

“Winter, please,” I say. When I feel her shift to stand and Kitty moves around my ankles, I give her my attention.

The smile she wears is tight. “We’ll be right back,” she says.

Leo nods at Winter from his position leaning against Luna’s desk, tapping his finger on the lip of the top.

Winter grabs my wrist, not unlike how I had grabbed hers, and she leads us back through the house. When we reach our room, she says, “Kitty, find August.”

Kitty tilts his head and then moves off in the direction of August’s game room with a huff and an eye roll.

Winter shuts the door behind us.

“First, slow down, H,” Winter says. Her tone sounds as if she’s struggling to gather as much patience as she can.

“Sure,” I reply. Then I head to the closet to gather her empty suitcase.

With the rolling bag in my hand, I grip the handle to keep myself tethered here in this moment.

One foot in front of the other.

I shouldn’t be surprised to see Winter at the threshold when I turn around, but I am unprepared for the stony silence she gives me for several tense heartbeats.

She decides to break it after eyeing me down for an uncomfortable minute.

“Don’t speak to me that way ever again, Hunter Brigham.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You gave me orders like I was an errant child or an animal. You will not speak to me that way.”

The silence is heavy.

I want to say, “I’m sorry,” but there’s so much that I’m so incredibly sorry for, I couldn’t begin to note specifically what I’m apologetic about.

“Winter, let’s rest together for a bit before you leave. I want to hold you,” I say. I don’t recognize my voice with the gruff-ness lacing it.

She huffs, an uncontrolled sound. “Before I leave? I’m not going anywhere, H.”

I sigh and roll my eyes heavenward. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Because if she continues to push and push, I know I’ll break.

I need for our family to be safe, and I’m not a safe person for anyone right now.

I think about the bruises around her neck—the bruises I left.

I meet her gaze head-on.

“Hard? Hm.” She moves from the closet entrance and over to the bed. I follow, rolling the bag behind me. When she grabs the suitcase, I’m startled when she chucks it across the room, where it hits the door with a loud smack.

“Hunter, let me tell you what will be hard. Having your baby all alone will be hard. Worrying every single day and night if you’re okay—if you’re alive or dead—will be hard. Not knowing what the fuck is going on is hard. So yeah. Go ahead and choose which hard we’re gonna tackle first.”

I absorb her words and stand up taller.

“Sunbeam, I’ve set everything up. You’ll have state-of-the-art medical care—”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you’ve set up. I’m not going anywhere!” She screams at me.

“Sunbeam, calm down,” I say.

“Don’t you tell me to calm down!” She vibrates, enraged, and I take slow steps toward her, intent on grabbing her hand. When our palms touch, she squeezes my fingers for a second, but then she rips herself away.

“I’m not doing it, Hunter,” she spits back.

“If I have to drug you and drop your ass on the plane, I’ll do so.”

“Try it and see what the fuck happens, Hunter James Brigham.” Her voice is low and deadly serious.

“You threatening me, Sunbeam?”

She folds her hands over her chest. “No, baby. I’m promising you that whatever you’ve got in your head won’t fucking work. A non-starter.”

She takes a big step toward me until she’s pressed to my chest.

“Here’s how this is gonna go, big guy.” She stands on her tiptoes. “You’re going to get whatever bullshit narrative that’s spinning in your brain out. You’re going to accept that I’m not going anywhere and that there’s strength in numbers. But beyond that, you’re going to accept that you and I? We stick together. We’re a team. So where you go, I go. Got it?”

Our breaths mingle as we stand deep in each other’s spaces, and the fact that it’s been weeks since I was last inside her hits me right in the dick.

Her plush tits press against my chest, their lushness even more pronounced with her pregnancy.

“We are a team, baby,” I swear, running my hand up her arm. The gunshot wound is pretty much healed, and the feeling of her flesh beneath my palm brings everything into sharp focus.

The past few weeks of staying away from her have been the lowest parts of Hell. I need her. I need her so badly.

But I need her safe more.

“You need to talk to me, then,” she whispers. Her eyes turn soft, pleading. There’s always been so much unspoken between us. The secrets and the things we don’t speak about have been silent ghosts in our relationship.

Except, Winter has always laid it all out for me. She’s shared her whole heart, her whole past, no matter how painful. But I’ve kept the sharp, fragmented parts of mine hidden from her and from everyone.

“Why do you want to hurt me, Hunter?”

Her words are simple, but they cause a jolt of shock to sizzle at the base of my skull.

“What?” I rasp.

“Why do you want to hurt me?”

My hands start to shake. “About the shower, I’m so sorry—”

“I’m not talking about the goddamned shower, Hunter,” she snaps. “You know, you didn’t even ask me how I felt about what happened. You’ve already decided for me that I hated it, that you’re a terrible human, that that is what has broken us.”

She puts her hand on my cheek.

“I’m talking about being hurt here.” She puts her other hand over her chest. “I’m talking about my heart. I know you love me. I know it. But you are hurting me, Hunter. You’ve been hurting me.”

I step back until my legs hit the bed. Then I sit.

I… What the fuck am I doing?

“Winter…” I run a hand down my face before reversing course and plunging my hands through my hair. I pull at the roots.

I’m barely hanging on here.

What do I do?

We look at each other and I can’t help but feel like she’s thinking what I’m thinking—that there’s so much unsaid, unresolved between us.

And there isn’t always time to fix things.

“Sunbeam. Winter, I am so fucking sorry that I’ve put you in this situation. You can’t imagine how sorry I am. And…” I move my gaze to the ceiling. “And I’m not sorry for believing that your safety is my top priority. That our family’s safety is a top priority.”

“Hunter, there is no way that I’m going to go through this terror without you. I’m not giving birth to our baby alone. I’m not going to sit back while people try to hurt you. You think you protect me? Well, I protect you too. You’re not doing this without me, and I’m not doing this without you.”

But you might not have a choice, Sunbeam.

Winter grabs my face in both her palms.

“Hunter, one day you’re going to have to let me all the way in…or you will lose me.”

I let out a shuddering breath.

My thoughts spin and spin and all of this is too fucking much.

“I want all of it, H,” she whispers and brings her lips to my cheek. “You think your darkness will scare me away. But the truth is, I want your dark, your light, and your in-between. Because you’re it for me. I love you completely. Transcendentally.”

She echoes the same words I’ve shared with her over and over.

“Okay,” I whisper. I move to kiss her forehead, bringing her even closer—wishing I could absorb her into me. “Let’s make a deal, then.”

She pulls back from me and raises her eyebrow. “A deal?”

I rub her arms. “Yes,” I say, the idea formulating quickly in my brain.

There’s so much there in her gaze, and I know that there’s so much more I need to tell her. There’s so much more we need to discuss and so much more trust to rebuild.

But right now, all I know is that the next right thing to do is this: I kneel before her, gazing into her eyes and holding both of her hands.

“Winter Leigh Vaughan, will you marry me?”

She’s dumbstruck for several moments, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Then her face turns sad.

“I…I thought you said Paris would be…” She stops talking and stares past me and to the art piece hanging on the wall.

“Yes, I did say that,” I reply. I said that before the world exploded. “I want to give you that. More than anything I want to give you that. But I can’t wait any longer. We can’t wait any longer. And if we’re going to face this shit down together, I want to do it with you by my side as my wife. I love you, Winter.”

I kiss her hands, clutching them in mine.

“I never expected you. I never dared to hope that I could find someone that I love as much as you. Or that I’d find someone who loves me as much as you do.”

She bites her trembling lip, and I’m not sure she’s aware that she’s crying.

“Please, baby, I hate to see your tears,” I say. I stand, wiping her cheek.

“Hunter…” she says on a breath. She grips my wrist, keeping my palm to her cheek.

“I know that I’m a broken, broken man. I know that I’ve hurt you.” My voice catches, and I try my damndest not to think about that fucking bathroom or the sight of her collapsing on the tile.

“I have so much to atone for with you and August and so many other people. I know that this isn’t what you dreamed of or what you deserve, but if there’s anything I want on this planet, it’s to be one with you in every single way that I can.”

This is such a far cry from the image I’d spun for her—us at the top of the Eiffel Tower with my mother’s ring in my hand.

I don’t even have a ring—I left my mother’s ring, the diamond that was last on Blair’s corpse, with Misha.

But if this is all that we have, I want to give her all of it.

Winter pulls me away from her face, but instead of stepping back, she leans into me, wrapping me in a tight embrace.

After several thuds of my heart racing against my breastbone, she lifts her head.

And smiles.

NINETEEN

WINTER

As the sun falls past the government buildings across the Basin on a summer afternoon three days later, I hold hands with Hunter James Brigham and take him as my husband.

The cherry blossom trees are barren of the buds I love so much, and there aren’t as many people here as I’d expect.

Hunter’s hands are cool against my sweaty palms, and I’m grateful for the light breeze that kicks up my skirt near my ankles.

The irony isn’t lost on me that it’s not the right time for the blooms. Just as, perhaps, the timing is all off for Hunter and me.

Everyone came to our brief ceremony—Misha and Luna, Amelia and August, Leo and Ella.

Veronica’s absence is like a hole in my soul. I feel it deeply.

August was happier than I thought he’d be, considering the sharp change in the structure of his life, but when Hunter and I told him about the impending nuptials, he took it in stride.

“I have told Dad before,” he said, “that I think that you are cool as hell, and I do not mind you being my stepmother.”

“You don’t have to call me Mom or anything like that,” I told him, clutching onto Hunter’s hand as we all spoke in August’s game room. August simply shrugged and said, “I will decide at a later date.”

It was the best reaction I could have hoped for.

Ella was quiet during the ceremony, appearing like she was deep in thought. But then she hugged me tightly after Hunter and I declared our vows and whispered in my ear that she’d always wanted a sister. Then she had a driver take her back to Misha’s compound.

Misha and Luna were aloof, as usual, but when Amelia hugged Hunter and he didn’t push her away, I started to cry in earnest.

I think everyone thought they were happy tears.

I’m not a hundred percent sure they were.

We’re in the armored G Wagon now, and I allow my eyes to go in and out of focus as I count the trees. Hunter still holds my hand in the back seat while Jared drives us toward Reagan International.

There were a few paparazzi at the Basin as we said “I do,” and I learned that Misha and Hunter decided to tip them off. “We need to control the narrative,” Leo said.

I guess it makes sense. Now, by all appearances, we’re headed off on our honeymoon, but in reality, we’re giving ourselves an excuse to be out and about around the globe while Misha and the rest prepare to take down The Architect in two weeks when The Legion descends on Isla Cara.

The idea is that all eyes will be on what Hunter and I are doing, so we’ll let them watch. But that doesn’t mean we’ll give The Legion easy access to us. So Hunter, Jared, Max, and Misha came up with an elaborate scheme to get us to our honeymoon destination.

With everything happening since uncovering the codes on the rings, Luna and Misha have been hard at work getting everything prepared to take down The Legion.

Ella has retreated again, and I think back to her heavy silence right before the raid. When I tried to talk to her this morning in the kitchen, she ran in the opposite direction.

“If she wants to pretend she’s Michonne or some shit, I’ll buy her a video game,” Leo said as he stood next to me at the kitchen island with a bowl of cantaloupe in front of him.

I thought the words had been too dismissive—harsh even—but I’ve been so tired that I left it alone.

Our timeline is tight, but we’ll be able to take a full week to ourselves before the others join. Then we’ll take down The Legion, and we’ll be able to leave all this bullshit behind.

Please God, let this prayer come true.

In truth, I’m overwhelmed and feeling…adrift. I feel like a large part of me is missing, namely Veronica and Summer, and I also feel that I was robbed of something special, having to marry Hunter like this. Not that I wanted or expected anything elaborate.

All I’ve ever wanted was to love and be loved.

But I suppose that’s the thing. Hunter and I are fragile. I know with every cell in my body that I love Hunter, and I believe that he loves me too. But I’m unsure if that’s enough to save us if he is insistent on keeping me on the outside.

The thought causes my heart to race, and I feel the undeniable urge to break down on the expensive leather seats.

Hunter murmurs something and his words are so low that I miss them.

“Hmm?” I say, tilting my chin toward him but not removing my eyes from the branches as we whip by.

“We’ll do it right next time, Sunbeam,” he says a little louder.

I keep my face toward the window so he doesn’t see the sheen of tears.

We pull onto the tarmac and Jared exits the driver’s seat, but Hunter and I don’t move out of the back.

“I know we didn’t exchange rings,” Hunter says, “but I got you one. Not the one I got you to visit Misha,” he adds quickly.

I turn to him then, trying to craft a smile on my face.

“Oh? It’s no big deal, Hunter,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. I honestly haven’t given much thought to rings or anything like that. Outside of the crystal jewelry he got me last Christmas, I am not one to wear much jewelry at all, especially rings.

Hunter’s smile is sad. “But it’s a big deal to me,” he says.

He lifts my left hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.

“Here,” he says, pulling a small blood-red ring box from his pocket. “I had this designed months ago. Luckily it was delayed in delivery to Amelia Manor, so I was able to intercept it and bring it to Misha’s.”

When he opens the box, holding it up for me to examine, my heart jumps into my throat. The ring is stunning, and when I inspect it, I realize that the shape and cut of the diamond are very similar to Amelia’s ring. It’s exactly something I would have loved and picked out for myself.

The ring is flawless—an understated but still large pear-shaped diamond at the center with a halo of smaller diamonds around the stone. More diamonds adorn the rose-gold and platinum band, but what takes my breath away is the interlocking braid of lightly colored gems.

“What are these?” I ask, still not taking the ring from Hunter’s hand.

He smiles, pulling the ring from its place nestled between the small velvet pillows. “These are sapphires, padparadscha sapphires, to be exact. I researched for days to find the right one,” he says, running his finger around the braid of stones.

The colors are stunning. They shift between orange and pink depending on which way the light hits it. The ring is unique and special, and I’m glad Hunter got something important to him too—a ring modeled after his mother’s.

“Sapphires are known as a stone of protection, and they stand for wisdom and strength.”

He kisses my hand.

“Even though you’ve made me the happiest man on Earth by agreeing to marry me, I always want you to be you. Just you.”

I bite my lip; my nose burns with unshed tears.

“It’s beautiful, Hunter. I love it,” I say. “I didn’t get you anything, though.”

The ring Hunter wants to gift me is at least half a million, easy. Even though I know he wouldn’t want anything nearly as showy, I worry. I don’t have nearly as much money in my bank account, so anything I could afford would be well below what he’s spent on me.

Overwhelm starts to rear its ugly head. What would he want?

That is, if he wants to wear a ring at all.

“Do you want to wear a ring? You don’t have to,” I say, my voice low and my eyes focused on the leather seat between us.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is deep, serious.

I snap my gaze back toward him.

“There’s nothing that I want more than to wear the ring you give me, baby.”

He’s so passionate in his words, I know he means them with his entire body and soul.

I gaze past him and out the window, watching the ground crew and the pilots confer.

This is a perfect moment. And it’s still not right.

What would it take to make you happy, Winter?

“I’ll work on getting you something special,” I say, pasting on a smile before returning my focus back to Hunter. He smiles back at me, but he looks so tired. I can’t help but put my hand on his cheek.

“I love you so goddamn much, Sunbeam,” he says, pressing his lips to my flesh and whispering the words into my palm.

I know you do, my love. I know you do.

“Will you wear it, Winter?” Hunter asks. His eyes lock on mine.

I’ll never take it off.

“Yes,” I say. “I will.”

Hunter slides the ring onto my finger, and while it’s only marginally more romantic than when he placed the fake engagement ring on my finger in Misha’s driveway, I know I mean my words.

I won’t ever take it off, even if keeping it on kills me.

Jared disturbs the moment by coming around the back of the vehicle and opening Hunter’s door.

Keeping his voice low, he says to Hunter, “The manifest states you’re headed to Costa Rica, but a divergent plane will cross paths near Cuba. Afterward, you’ll change course and land in Martinique. You’ll take the yacht to sail to—”

“Ah, got it, Jared,” Hunter rushes to add. The blonde man nods and I tilt my head toward Hunter, curious about where we’re going.

When I told him that I’d marry him but I required a honeymoon, even if it were a couple of days, he said he’d surprise me.

I was hoping we wouldn’t go to Paris. So I’m glad we’re not going there.

Hunter nods, sticking his hand out to the tall blond to shake his hand. “Thank you, Jared. Take care of the rest of my family, will you?”

My breaths get short thinking about leaving August behind.

“I’ll protect them with my life, sir,” Jared says.

We exit, and Hunter takes my hand, guiding me up the staircase to the plane.

Getting on Hunter’s plane gives me a strange sense of time. The last time I was here, I was leaving the hospital in Asheville following my abduction. That was a short flight, under three hours, and I was so out of it from the meds and trauma that I didn’t take in much of the scenery.

That time, when Hunter brought me back to the sleeping quarters, I was only able to take in a few details.

Now, I’m a little stunned by the opulence of the plane. Creamy, tan leather seats with tons of leg space line the sides of the plane, and in the center of the aircraft, there’s a small living room area bisecting the forward from the aft. There’s a television on one side of the plane, and on the other, there’s a bench seat that’s as long as a standard-issue sofa and a table affixed to the floorboards.

Beyond that area is a small galley to complement the larger one at the front of the plane, a toilet room, and then at the back, I spy the sliding door for the main bedroom and bath.

Hunter’s hand just above the curve of my ass causes me to stop gawking and take a seat.

When I’m buckled in, he leans over me with one hand on the back of my chair and the other on my armrest. “I’ll be right back, Sunbeam. Just need to talk to the pilots,” he says. He leans closer, his face inches from mine, and pauses.

It’s like he doesn’t know if it’s okay to kiss me or embrace me or take me on the floor and make love to me.

In the end, he gives me a chaste kiss on the forehead and turns toward the cockpit. When he greets the captain, he unbuttons the wrists of his shirt and rolls up his sleeves.

I pull out the iPad Misha gifted me, retrofitted by Max for security, to message August one final time before takeoff.

I miss you already, kid. Your dad told me that you have a new game on the way. Want to play it together when I get back?

It takes a few minutes for August to reply.

Yes.

His simple, one-word response makes me miss him even more. Before I can write another message, he replies again.

Thank you for letting Kitty stay behind with me. We will miss you.

He sends a picture of himself and Kitty. August doesn’t smile, but his eyes are almost fixed on the camera lens. Kitty’s tongue hangs out on the side. Their expressions both seem happy.

I love you. And I also feel immense affection for the fetus. Please come back soon.

I bark out a laugh-cry, tapping to reply to his message. I really, really could use Kitty by my side right now, but August…he needed him more. There’s very little I wouldn’t do for August.

August, who is now legally my child.

I love you too, August.

“What refreshments can I get you, miss?” I blink away from August’s message and face the flight attendant. It’s the same one from my last time on this plane, Jami, and with Hunter away, she wears a detached, professional expression. But she has one too many buttons undone on her top, and her skirt is definitely not regulation length.

Huh.

“A sweet tea, please,” I say, giving her a personable smile that I don’t feel. My iPad pings, but I don’t check the notification.

“Are you sure you don’t want unsweet tea?” Jami asks, pasting on a bright smile.

I arch an eyebrow. “No, I’m sure I’d like a sweet tea. Thank you.” Bitch.

Jami flicks her glance down to my ring finger, purses her mouth, and then returns her gaze back to me.

“I’ll be right back with your refreshments,” she says. She spins on her heels, and I narrow my eyes at the slit in her skirt that stops just below her ass.

Several emotions whirl in my stomach, and my knee starts to pop up and down in nervous energy.

I realize I’m biting my ring finger when the taste of blood registers on my tongue.

How fitting.

I lower my hand. I won’t let my jealousy or my anxiety control me right now.

After all, what do I have to be jealous about? I’m the one with his baby and his last name.

Except he’s tried to exile you to live across the globe not even seventy-two hours ago, and he’s dropped you like a hot potato for the last half-month.

My hand goes back to my mouth and my leg shakes in double time.

This isn’t about me. Hunter clearly has some shit he’s dealing with—or, I guess more accurately, isn’t dealing with. The educated professional in me wants to give him a heaping dose of grace. He hasn’t had the emotional and mental support that I’ve had to heal from the past. But there’s a lot of darkness within him, and while I know he wants to shield me from it…I can’t help but want to dive in headfirst.

Not because I crave his darkness, but because I crave him.

To distract myself, I return to the iPad, preparing to download an audiobook to listen to. But the notification at the top of the screen makes my blood turn to ice.

Abuse and betrayal: Former lovers expose Hunter Brigham's cruelty

What the actual fuck?

I open the article, noting that it’s from a top news source and not a gossip magazine.

My heart sinks to my stomach.

…French model and ex-girlfriend to Hunter Brigham, Gisele Delacroix, goes on the record saying, “Hunter craves control. He needs it like he needs air. So, with his submissives, he’s not a loving, careful Dom. He’s the definition of a sadist and a violent abuser.”

The muscles in my chest freeze, compressing my lungs as I take in the words.

Seeing the words Dominant and submissive next to Hunter’s name doesn’t surprise me. Even though I was inexperienced when it came to sex before him, I haven’t been living under a rock. I know what BDSM is. Not only have I studied it in my coursework, but I’ve learned about it in all the places one would learn such things.

Plus, I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey, even if the book is a horrible representation of D/s relationships.

I wouldn’t call Hunter a Dom. At least, he’s never Dommed me…I don’t think. The things we’ve done together carry an edge of his dominance, even when he’s trying to be sweet and gentle.

Hunter Brigham is always in control: of my orgasms, my movements, and himself.

But a sadist? Not my Hunter.

The rest of the article is much of the same: ex-lovers of my now-husband coming forward to tell tales of how abusive, violent, and sadistic he is. There are close-up pictures of bruises and abrasions—all allegedly left by Hunter.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.

Movement at the front of the airplane distracts me from my spiral, and I watch as Hunter and Jami meet at the galley. Hunter steps around her, but when they turn sideways, I watch as Jami sticks her tits out and Hunter rubs against her.

The way she tilts her head to look at him, her expression…was she one of his submissives?

I tell myself that Hunter doesn’t intend for any part of him to touch her. That same voice urges me to give Hunter the benefit of the doubt. It screams that this article is likely another focused effort by The Legion to discredit Hunter, to paint him with a black brush of violence and deception.

They’re playing their game.

But the louder voice yells at me that, of course, he’d be with someone like Jami. That same loud, loud, loud voice says clearly: Do you really know him?

Hunter stalks toward me, his face serious but also closed off. I want to keep my eyes on him, but the longer I do so, the more I want to devolve into hysteria. I close down the iPad screen and turn away, leaning over to open the window blind.

I feel the air shift when Hunter takes the seat next to me, and the click of his lap belt sliding home makes me flinch.

I’ve never been more invested in the movements of the ground crew than I am at this moment. I’m transfixed as I watch them fuel the plane.

“Sunbeam?” Hunter’s voice is close to my ear, and I want to throw up and cry and rage and scream when his hand presses to mine.

I’m being a total psychopath right now. And yes, I know that’s not a fair or proper statement from an almost-psychologist.

Can I even say I’m an almost-psychologist at this point? Two semesters have passed, and I’ve made no progress.

I just want things to go back to normal.

…whatever that is.

The forward door closes with a deep thunk, and I start to breathe again when the plane shifts as the cargo doors close below.

“Here’s your sweet tea,” Jami says from my left, and I feel the bitchiness on my face as I allow my eyes to land on her. She puts the tea on the small woodgrain table. “I also brought you some lemon and extra sugar packets. Just in case you want it sweeter.”

Her words are innocuous enough, but I know cattiness when I hear it. Lord knows I’ve watched enough reality TV with Veronica to write a dissertation about it.

My face burns again as memories of me and Veronica surface. Hunter laces our fingers together and I freeze.

“And Mr. Brigham, what can I get you?” Jami asks. I put my hand on my knee to stop it from bouncing.

“Nothing. Thanks,” Hunter says. He squeezes my hand tighter, likely sensing my distress.

But when Jami leans over Hunter, reaching for the tri-fold safety information cards affixed to the wall, I hit my limit, because not only does she put a hand on Hunter’s thigh, but her breasts are at his eye level, her shirt gaping open to showcase the lacy bra beneath her crisp button down.

But instead of jumping up and throwing my likely too-sweet tea in her face or stomping on Hunter’s foot while I scream at him, I freeze.

I go within myself.

I let it happen.

“I don’t need you to give me the safety instructions. Just do your demonstration,” Hunter says, his tone sharp and dark.

And dominant.

Hunter needs control like he needs air….

“Do it over there,” he says, pointing to the front row near the front of the plane. Smiling brightly at Hunter, she says, “Certainly, Mr. Brigham,” and heads off to the front of the plane.

As a defense mechanism, I tune out Jami’s voice as she performs the inflight safety demonstration.

We pull back from our spot on the tarmac and head to the runway more quickly than I’d anticipated. When Jami stops speaking and returns to her jump seat, I can finally take a deep, therapeutic breath.

“Are you okay, Winter?” Hunter’s voice is soft, but I still hear him over the roaring engines as we take off and race toward cruising altitude. I give him a weak smile.

My brain is not a happy place right now and I hate that.

I hate this.

I look at my left hand again. The ring really is so beautiful. I can tell he put a lot of thought into it.

My eyes slide back to Hunter.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

Veronica was right.

I shut down the thought as quickly as it comes.

Hunter nods and faces away. From the set of his shoulders, I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he’s likely unsure what to say or how to fix this.

Fix us.

I so don’t know how to, either.

We’re silent for the next hour of the flight. I desperately want him to say something, anything. I don’t know what the hell I expect him to say or what reassurances I’d expect from him.

All I know is that everything feels wrong where it’s never felt wrong between Hunter and me.

“Winter, I…” Hunter starts speaking but doesn’t finish his sentence. When I angle my body closer, I note the tension running through him.

When exactly did this wall come up between us? And, more importantly, how can we break it down?

No. The most important question is: Should we break it down?

I think back to that damned shower. I wish he wouldn’t have retreated from me, which is what he did. He ran away from me, from us. And while I know he did so to protect himself, I can’t help but feel that I’m responsible in part.

I pushed and pushed. I demanded that he show me all of it. And I did so without giving him a safe place to be vulnerable.

I can accept responsibility for my part.

And still…Hunter’s absence is something he is choosing.

You are Winter Leigh Vaughan, daughter of the incomparable U.S. Representative Katherine Vaughan and the first Black Chief of Neurosurgery in the history of all medical systems in northern Virginia. You come from a line of fierce, strong women. You are beautiful and a badass. No one will make me feel inferior.

I recite my pep talk over and over in my brain, focusing on the statement rather than the swirling self-loathing and anxiety on the periphery.

But maybe if I weren’t so raw, so exposed, so…lost, I could handle it when Jami returned to us and fixed her sights on Hunter again.

I might have been able to tolerate her flirtation then because, in an alternate universe, Hunter and I are solid.

But when Jami leans over to whisper in Hunter’s ear and reaches out to touch his chest, it doesn’t matter to me that he grips her wrist, halting her progress. It doesn’t matter that she gasps, and twin pink spots appear on her bottle-tanned skin as he gives her a flat, unimpressed glare.

It doesn’t matter that Jami smiles at Hunter, acting as if I don’t fucking exist or matter at all.

None of it matters because I’ve pushed past the level of control.

“Get your hoes in order, Hunter,” I snap, wrenching the buckle loose and standing.

Hunter’s head whips toward me, his eyebrows drawing down. I slide past them both and head toward the sleeping quarters.

TWENTY

HUNTER

My emotions are at war within my body right now. The loudest part of my fucked-up brain feels peace because Winter is finally mine. My wife. My everything. Tied to me in ways that are as difficult to unwind as possible.

Winter Brigham is right here next to me.

It’s a dream come true.

But another recognizes that Winter is unhappy, and I feel her discontent in every one of my nerve endings. It’s like she’s deflated with every hour that has passed since my proposal, and now that we’re on the plane, she’s as distanced from me as we are from the earth below.

We’ve been in the air for an hour, and every five minutes I try to talk to her—try to come up with some semblance of a valuable conversation—but I know we won’t really be able to communicate until we’re both willing to spill all the shit out on the table and address it.

What happened in the shower.

What I confessed.

How we can move forward from here….

I don’t think I’m ready to address it at all. Because even though she’s my legal wife now, the safest choice for Winter would be to leave me and never look back.

I know that she’s the better person—the healthier person, the happier person, the better human.

And I also know that if I allow it, she’ll let me consume all of her.

I won’t let my darkness dim her light.

I’m deep in thought when blonde hair interrupts my vision. Blinking twice, I gather what’s happening. Jami leans over me, nearly pressing her lips to my ear.

The audacity of the woman stuns me for a moment, but then white-hot anger has me gripping her wrist in a crushing hold when she’s inches from putting her hands on me.

But instead of embarrassment or, hell, even a modicum of shame, she gasps and blushes. Her arousal radiates off her, and I feel dread at the entire situation. Holding the flight attendant’s wrist away from me, I’m prepared to berate her so soundly that she’ll never want to step on another plane ever again. That is, if she’ll even have anything left of her career once I’m done.

I should have had her removed from the fleet altogether after Asheville.

“Get your hoes in order, Hunter,” Winter spits out, and in a blink, she pushes past us and is in the back of the plane with the door slid shut behind her.

Panic blinds me.

I jump out of my seat and go after my wife.

“Wait, Mr. Brigham,” Jami says. I don’t know why I stop to listen to her, but it’s probably because I’m stunned that she dares to touch me again.

Her blood-red nails press into my forearm.

One.

Two.

Three.

“What do you want?” I ask, my tone unkind.

She gapes for a moment, and for a fleeting second she looks unsure. Then she licks her lips. “I was hoping we could…play some more. I can’t stop thinking about the last time. I know I freaked out on you a bit at the end, but….”

She blushes, and where her hand makes contact, my skin burns.

I lift an eyebrow, waiting in her silence as she tries to find her words.

“My wife is here,” I grind out. Her mouth pops open in surprise.

“Oh? I thought that was—the last time it wasn’t true, so I didn’t know. I just figured that since this was a much longer flight, maybe you could spare some time away.”

I know I wear a look of disgust, and she gains some sense and pops back a foot, dropping her hand.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Trying to battle my tendencies to solve issues with violence.

After three breaths, I access enough calm to speak.

“Come here, Jami,” I say, using the voice that feels foreign now in the eighteen months that Winter has been in my life.

Jami balks, and I widen my stance.

I know that I’m giving her what she wants: my attention. She wants the reward of my time and the punishment I’ll mete out.

But I won’t.

She doesn’t realize that for the rest of my life, the only woman who will have me is at the back of the plane.

Upset. Hurt.

No one gets to hurt Winter ever again. Not even me.

“You want to play?” I ask, dropping my voice even lower. Jami bites her lip and looks up at me from beneath her eyelashes.

“I want whatever you want, Mr. Brigham,” Jami whispers.

I hum. “Right,” I say, my voice low. I turn without further acknowledging her.

I put my hand on the latch, prepared to wrench the bedroom door open, but I pause as sense returns to me.

If I fuck this situation up, if I handle it in the wrong way, that could likely be it for me and Winter. No matter that she now is my legal wife. No matter that she carries our child.

Breathe, Hunter.

I’m surprised that the door isn’t locked when I slide it open on its silent track.

The room is dark, but a shaft of light comes from the oversized en suite bathroom. Water runs and I can tell it’s from the sink. I count the seconds as I wait for Winter to emerge, choosing to lean against the now-closed door.

When she exits the bathroom, she stops short. She’s changed out of the fancy linen outfit—picked in case we ran into paparazzi—in favor of a flowy beach skirt that skims the top of her feet and a camisole that shows a sliver of her stomach. Her face is shiny, and it’s clear she washed it.

But the thing that arrests me is the fact that her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed.

“Talk to me, Winter,” I say in a low voice.

She remains silent, swaying slightly as if she were drunk.

“I’m so sorry she was so disrespectful. She’ll be off the plane as soon as we land, and you’ll never have to see her again.”

Winter crosses her arms, the stance protective rather than combative. The hum of the airplane engines fill the silence.

“Winter, what can I—”

“Hunter, what do you want from me?” Her words are low and her tone holds devastation. I’m transported back to the first time we made love and those hours after.

My memory forces me to sit in the worst moments of my life: when I lost her.

But even then, there was a spark of something that blazed between us. I could see it in her eyes. There was still hope because she cared. She cared too much.

Now as I stare at her, all I feel is coldness, and that makes me want to sink into the cargo hold.

“What do you mean, Sunbeam? I only want you as you are. Your presence next to me is all that I need.”

I pour the truth of my heart out to her, praying she’ll absorb the words and come back to me.

But when she’s silent again, still looking at my feet, I take a step forward.

She tightens her hands over her arms and takes a step back.

“I don’t know who you are, Hunter.”

My voice is hoarse when I speak. “What do you mean? Are you talking about the flight attendant? She was before you, and I promise you’ll never have to see her again.”

“Oh, so you did fuck her? I’m not making that up in my brain?” Her delivery is flat.

I press my lips together and shake my head. “It was before you. I don’t want her at all. She doesn’t begin to compare to you.”

She sniffs, raising her nose and unfurling her arms as she spins toward the nightstand. She lifts her iPad, tapping on it for a few seconds before squaring her shoulders and reading the screen out loud.

“‘Abuse and betrayal: Former lovers expose Hunter Brigham's cruelty,’” she says, reading as if she were reciting the morning announcements. “‘Hunter Brigham is a complex man,’ UK pop darling Missy Que says in an exclusive statement to The Eagle. ‘But if there’s one thing that’s simple about H, it’s that he needs to control everything around him—including his women. Especially his women.’”

When the plane banks to the side, I stumble more than I usually would, taken off guard by her words.

“Let me see that,” I say, and she hands the tablet over wordlessly.

Still, she recites from memory: “‘Hunter craves control. He needs it like he needs air. So with his submissives, he’s not a loving, careful Dom. He’s the definition of a sadist and a violent abuser.’”

I take a deep breath, ready for my entire world to spiral out of control as I read the article. I have to hand it to The Legion: it’s damning. I look like a monster in this, and it’s clear how they plan to setup my fall for Blair’s murder. When the story does drop that Blair is dead, the court of public opinion will already be poisoned against me.

Not all of my sexual experiences explored the edges of kink. I could clock it easily when a woman was down to allow me to be rough. The ones who weren’t into it left unharmed after receiving a few excellent orgasms and the right to say they fucked Hunter Brigham. But the ones who were inclined to let me do what I wanted to them…they helped get me back to center when the world stopped making sense and my control started to slip from my grasp.

Any sexual interaction I’ve ever had with a woman began with their enthusiastic consent.

But the article isn’t too far off the mark.

“I know how it looks, Sunbeam. Especially with what I did to you the last time we were together—but I can assure you, what these women are saying is totally spun the wrong way. It’s not even like that.”

She makes a delicate sound in her throat. “What’s it like then?”

I open my mouth, only to close it. She continues in my silence.

“What do you want? Does it make you happy to mark the women you sleep with up? To make them bleed?” Her eyes drill into me. “Do you need this, Hunter?”

The plane banks to the side again, and when she loses her footing, I can’t resist grabbing her arm to steady her. She jerks away from me and places her hand over her stomach. Over our child.

“Sunbeam, I don’t need that stuff. Not anymore. I’m disgusted with myself at what happened that night. I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you.”

“You don’t need that stuff anymore?” she says with her eyebrow raised.

“No,” I say emphatically. “Before you, I…I didn’t have tools to cope with what I’ve done. I didn’t know how to cope with what has been done to me,” I say, trying to swallow, but my mouth feels coated with sand.

She tilts her head to the side.

“I don’t believe you, Hunter Brigham.”

We stare at each other and her face is unreadable.

I stand taller, make my shoulders broader, and I stalk toward her.

“All I need is you, Winter,” I spit out. The words don’t sound as loving in their delivery as they do in my head.

“I know that you love me, Hunter. I don’t question that at all. But I want to know: In order to be happy, do you need to be with someone like your girlfriend Jami out there? Someone who doesn’t push your buttons? Someone who straddles the line between vixen and submissive?”

“Don’t, Winter,” I bite out.

“Do you want someone you can throw around? Someone who will take everything you can give them? And do you think that woman isn’t me?”

I’m on her in an instant, my hand firm around the back of her neck. I control her movements, and she places her hands on my chest.

Her pale pink nails press into my flesh, scoring my pectorals through my shirt.

“You want to fight, Sunbeam?”

“Yes, I do, Hunter!” She shoves me away. “It’s always ‘fight me about it later,’ but later never comes. So we’re doing this shit now.”

One of her curls falls in front of her eye and she bats it away with an agitated flick of her hand.

“In the absence of your full honesty in this relationship, all that’s left are empty dreams and manipulations. And now that I’ve taken off those rose-colored glasses, I realize that goddamn it, I love you, but you’ve been manipulating me all along.”

I stop breathing. She picks up the iPad, lifting it to give it a quick shake in the air.

“This? I can see what this is. I can see right through how The Legion is using this to harm your reputation. Do you think I can’t connect the dots and see how they’re trying to spin things?”

“You can figure out anything,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“The issue right now, Hunter, is that despite me begging and pleading with you to open up to me, and despite me giving you every single part of me over and over—even when it dishonors myself—you still have me on the outside looking in.”

“Sunbeam—”

“No, it’s my turn to talk,” she says, her voice a shout. “I understand how painful it can be to talk about your past. I empathize with the level of trauma you’ve been through, and I’ve always, always wanted to help you be the best, healthiest version of yourself possible. I want you to have the best life, Hunter.”

Her bottom lip quivers, and I have to clench my fists to prevent myself from rushing toward her.

“But this relationship isn’t healthy. Not right now at least. There’s so much that’s fucked and if we’re going to go anywhere, even if it’s just as co-parents, we have to start getting very honest with each other.”

I choke. “Co-parents?”

“Please be honest with me, Hunter. Did you knock me up to trap me? Was getting me pregnant one of your games to control me?”

My voice is hoarse. “Don’t talk about our baby like that, Winter. Our baby is a miracle.”

“Our baby is a miracle. I love our baby. I am happy to be pregnant, but what kind of family are we bringing them into? What lies and secrets will they have to carry alongside ours?”

“Enough!” I bellow. The pressure of the cabin closes in on me. I want to make her stop. I want her to stop.

I sink onto the bed. “What do you want, Sunbeam?” I murmur with my head in my hands.

“I want to know who the hell I married,” she whispers. “I want to know what is real and what is a lie.”

“I’ve never lied to you about us, Sunbeam,” I say. I can’t look at her, so I stare at the expensive carpet beneath my feet.

“You hid this crucial part of yourself from me. What do you call that, then?”

“I don’t want to be like that with you,” I grind out.

“Well, maybe I do!”

We’re silent, staring at each other.

“What do you mean, Winter?” I rasp.

“What if I…” she pulls in a shuddering breath. “What if I like it when you’re assertive and dominant? What if it makes me feel safe and protected? What if…what if I wanted that from you because I know your truth? Which is that you do need that, at least on some level, and there’s nothing wrong with needing what you need?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Hunter—”

“No!” I yell, lunging to stand and getting close to her face. Winter stares back at me wide-eyed. Then, her face morphs, hardens. She closes the distance between us, pressing her breasts to my chest.

“You need to tell me right now. If I can’t be what you need, what do you want? Who do you want? Choose now, because I can’t take spinning in your circles anymore.”

I gape at her, feeling like I’ve stepped outside the plane and am barreling toward the ground.

“I won’t be like that with you, Winter,” I say, my voice low. Even to my ears, it sounds broken.

She stares at me for a moment, and then she nods.

“Okay,” she says and takes a step back. “I’ve been thinking about it. Really thinking about it—this concept around pain and hurt. And I realized…I’ve missed a critical distinction.”

She takes in a deep breath with a tremble.

“There’s a difference between harm and hurt. Your silence harms me, Hunter. Your darkness hurts. And call me crazy, but if the cost of having all of you is pain alongside our love, I can handle that. I want that. I’m sure it probably sounds fucked up but what we did in the shower? I loved it. But you never even asked what I wanted. You just decided for me, Hunter. So yes, the things we do together may hurt, and that’s okay with me. I welcome the pain in many aspects. But I won’t tolerate you causing me any more harm.”

She picks up the iPad again.

“You think I’m not capable of making my own decisions. You think I won’t stay if I know all of you. But the fucked-up thing is, I love every single part of you, Hunter James Brigham. Even the parts you hate.”

It feels like my chest is breaking open—cracking with each soft-spoken word.

“I’m tired, H. I know I didn’t honor your need for space when you asked, and for that, I’m sorry. But right now, I need…I need some space.”

Since I can’t speak, all I do is nod and leave the room, sliding the door closed behind me.

TWENTY-ONE

WINTER

I’ve never felt the level of disquiet in my body as I feel right now. It’s like there’s a fine tremor of tension thrumming along the facia covering my muscles, and it takes effort for me to breathe in and out as I lay on my side in the bed.

The bed that, given the circumstances, my husband likely fucked the woman outside that door on.

Contract. Release. Contract. Release.

I fell asleep for what feels like forever—lulled into unconsciousness by pure exhaustion and emotional overwhelm—but the digital clock on the far wall tells me that I’ve been out for an hour.

I don’t want to think about how much of a fool I’ve been.

I know that Hunter loves me. He loves me with all that he can. And still, he refuses to cross the gulf separating us.

I know the hurt he’s experiencing, and part of me realizes that I shouldn’t make demands he’s not ready to fulfill. If I were just his friend or his counselor, I wouldn’t. I’d offer him chances to come to whatever conclusions he draws about his life in his own time.

But I’m not his counselor. I’m not just his friend.

I’m his lover.

I’m his wife.

I’m supposed to be his soulmate.

Soulmate. The title feels right, seeing as it’s my soul that’s in the process of cracking.

Now that I’m Mrs. Winter Leigh Brigham, I could walk away and be set for life. I’d questioned him over and over about a prenup, and each time I brought it up, he just looked at me like I were mad.

We didn’t sign one. Instead, he handed over nearly everything to me.

But I don’t want to walk away from him—from our family.

I want him.

All of him.

And what I have of him right now isn’t enough.

A tap on the door has me sitting up in the bed. I pause for a moment, afraid that it might be Jami on the other side, but my shoulders drop when Hunter speaks.

“Sunb—Winter. We’re preparing for landing. Can you please come to your seat?”

His presence on the other side of the door is comforting…and at the same time, I don’t want to see him at all.

You’re hiding again, Winter.

“Yes,” I call out. “Give me a moment.”

I move to the bathroom, wetting my palms and using them to slick my hair into a messy bun at the top of my head. Staring at my reflection, I catalog all the changes in my appearance.

The scar I got from Adam’s attack is barely noticeable most days. Now, it feels like a beacon on my forehead.

“You are a bad bitch from Hell. You’ll get through this,” I say to my reflection.

I feel Veronica’s presence next to me, cheering me on.

No matter what happens, I will get in contact with her.

Pulling my shoulders back, I exit the room and keep my eyes on my seat as I navigate toward the front of the plane.

I want to cry and yell and throw up all over the floor when I see Hunter’s dark hair over the top of his headrest. The captain’s chairs are spacious, set on a swiveling base. He faces forward, whereas before he faced the aisle.

When I reach him, he looks up at me with so much conflict in his gaze. Things are heavy between us, and I know that he knows what I know: Things could go nuclear at a moment’s notice.

I don’t want to fight—at least, not like this. So I look away and take a seat, putting the seatbelt on with a quiet snick.

“How much time until we land?” I ask once I’m settled. I situate my seat to face forward like Hunter’s. He taps his hand on the table in front of him, and I notice curiously that instead of whiskey, he has water in his glass.

He blows out a deep breath with a chuckle. “I thought about stretching the truth, but that won’t get me anywhere. There are still a few hours before we reach our first destination.”

More deception. More manipulation.

Putting my hand on my seatbelt, my voice is grating when I say, “What the fuck is this, Hunter?”

But before I can remove the belt, he grabs my hand, pausing my movements.

“Can you give me fifteen minutes of your time, Winter?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but his plea carries the weight of the world within it.

I stare down to where our hands touch, his thumb resting near the ring he gave me just hours before.

“If you want to talk, then let’s talk,” I say, my voice just as low.

He nods slowly before leaning closer to me.

“I’ve done some thinking while you were in the back.” His voice is a whisper against my ear, and even though I don’t think he’s trying to seduce me in this moment, I shiver. I can’t help it.

“And I realized…you’re right.” He breathes in a slow cadence, and I feel the pressure of his exhalation against the flesh of my neck. “My worst nightmare is the one where I lose you, Winter. There have been so many goddamn times where I’ve almost lost you, either from me being a dumbass or from my father or from these fuckers who want to erase us.”

Then, as if he can’t help himself, he presses a delicate kiss behind my ear.

When he pulls back, he puts his head on the rest behind him, turning his face toward me. I mirror his pose, facing him. “I’ve been so scared of losing you that I haven’t allowed you the opportunity to go.”

I watch, mesmerized, as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows.

“When you almost left me at Amelia Manor…when you found out that my father had—” he stops, running his hand over his mouth. “I knew I wasn’t fighting fair. I knew that if I wore you down, you’d relent. I just needed an in, a crack in your armor so I could hold on to you and never let you go.”

He grabs my hand, pressing a hard kiss to the back of it. After a long moment, he lowers it and shifts to put his hand over my lower stomach. Over our child.

“I knew you weren’t in the right place mentally to even entertain the idea of having a baby when I brought it up before. I knew that there was so much you were healing from. I knew that you were lonely and missing Veronica. But I’m a selfish fucker, and all I could see, all I could think about was giving you a good enough reason not to want to leave me again. Because the sight of you running away from me with only a backpack crushed me. You were so determined to leave me that you were prepared to leave everything behind, and that means something.”

His voice is fierce, filled with emotion as he spills all the raw truths that he’s never confessed before.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for how I twisted and bent and pressed you into doing things you might not have chosen to do otherwise, but I can’t say that I’m sorry that you’re here with me. And the fucked thing is, if given the same circumstances, I very likely would make the same fucking decisions.”

His eyes don’t waver from mine as he delivers his final words. And I really, really believe him.

It’s a massive red flag, sure, but again…I’m a silly bitch. And I love the fuck out of it.

“So what do we do now?” I ask, and my voice sounds strange to my ears.

His face turns even more serious.

“You say you want to see all of me. You want to know all of me. So I’ll give you this choice, Sunbeam. Are you willing to go into the darkness with me? Are you willing to see me at my worst—know of all the terrible shit that comes along with me?”

I hear the part he doesn’t say as he grips the armrest with the hand not clutching mine: And if my ugliness is too much for you to bear, I’ll let you go.

I stare into his bottomless blue eyes.

“What do you want, Winter?” he whispers.

I nod before my brain can catch up to my body.

“Hunter, I want all of you,” I say.

His smile is slow, and the plane lifts in the air before falling a fraction, mirroring the roller coaster in my gut.

“Okay,” he says with a breath. He moves to the seat across from mine, spinning it around so that we face each other—his back to the forward galley and my back to the bedroom.

“You want to know what happened with that flight attendant, yes?” he asks, and a piece of me appreciates that he’s not calling her by her name. His voice is so low and firm that it centers in my lady parts.

Do I want to know? Not really. But if this is what he needs to know I won’t leave, then….

“Tell me,” I say, trying to add steel into my voice.

His smile is sad, distant. In contrast to his words, he leans back in the chair, spreading his legs so that he’s the picture of nonchalance.

“I was flying from Türkiye back into D.C. I’d just learned that Maiya had died and I was a mess, to say the least.” The side of his mouth kicks up. “It felt like fire ants were under my skin. I was buzzing, so overwhelmed and afraid and paranoid that everything was going to shit that I wanted to stop existing. I couldn’t handle being alone with myself. So when she came by and offered herself up, you know what I did?”

I swallow. “What did you do, Hunter?”

“I told her to go to the back room and get on her knees to suck my cock.”

I want to close my eyes. I want to cry, thinking of the room I just left—the room where he held me after leaving Asheville—having shared space with her.

“I see,” I say, fighting to keep all judgment out of my voice. In my periphery, I spot Jami’s blonde ponytail at the galley. She’s not looking at us, but I feel her presence in my space nonetheless.

This 767 isn’t big enough for both of us.

“And because I commanded it, she kneeled on the ground and opened her throat to take my dick.”

This time, I can’t resist the squeak that pushes past my vocal cords. I close my eyes in a long, slow blink.

“But you want to know what else happened, Sunbeam?”

I keep my gaze focused on him, even though my eyes burn. “What?”

“It didn’t do anything. It didn’t help. Even though she was sucking me off like a champ, I still wanted to jump out of the plane each second that went on.”

I nod. “I see,” I say. His words make me feel unsteady in my seat—like the plane is going in one direction and I’m floating in another.

I realize that if Jami hadn’t been so fucking disrespectful and tried to come after Hunter, I wouldn’t care about this woman’s past with him.

My husband.

But it is what it is, and I find myself completely untethered as I’m confronted with Hunter’s past.

“So you want to know what happened next?”

No.

“Yes,” I rasp.

“I took it out on her. It started with her ass, and the sting on my palm helped a bit to center me, but even though I was spanking her so hard that she was crying, I still was fucking losing it.”

Oh, Hunter.

“I understand,” I say.

“But you want to know what finally brought me down?” He leans forward in his chair suddenly, clasping his hands over his knees.

Not waiting for me to acknowledge his statement, he says, “It was when I put my belt around her neck and brought her to the edge of consciousness.”

My hand goes to my chest, but I settle it right beneath my neck.

“The more she gasped for air, the harder I got and the more at peace I felt. And it wasn’t until I thought I’d kill her with my actions that I stopped.”

“Hunter,” I say, my voice strangled as if I were the one whose air supply had been cut off.

“This is the darkness I have been running from, Sunbeam, because you know the boundaries of my violence. There aren’t any. There aren’t any except for with you.”

He leaves his chair, and I stop breathing when he kneels before me.

“With you, I don’t need any of those things. With you, I can breathe just by being in your presence. I can dare to dream about the life that I’ve never allowed myself to want.”

I lose the battle and a tear falls down my cheek. Still, he keeps kneeling and doesn’t touch me.

“You’re not just the sunshine, baby. You are radiance personified. I was in such a dark, dark place when you walked into my life. When I became solely responsible for August, I was desperate to stay out of that place—not for myself, but for August. But then you strolled in and completely wrecked my shit in the way I didn’t know I needed but I’m so grateful for.”

I grasp the sides of his face, but then he snaps and says, “Hands down.”

I drop them back to the armrests, but he has me shaking when he puts his hands on my thighs, rubbing from my knees up to the crease of my groin, bunching the fabric of my skirt.

“You’re right, baby. You’re right that I’m fucked up from all the shit I’ve gone through and the shit I’ve done. And I haven’t had people around me to help me find myself through that. So I picked up whatever pieces I could find and pulled myself together. And there are parts of me that don’t fit; there are jagged edges to me that I’ve been trying desperately not to let cut you.”

Balling my skirt in his fists, he stretches the fabric taut over my upper thighs. “What I did with her was a Band-Aid.” He releases the tension in my lap, looking into my eyes, pleading. “Please believe me when I say that.”

I bite my lip, nodding to show him that I understand, that I believe him.

“You think I need to be like that with you, but the reality is, baby, I don’t want that. I want to be gentle with you. I want to be strong for you. I want to hold you and worship you and make you feel like the most spectacular woman on the planet. Because that’s what you are to me.”

His hands go to my waist, and I part my legs, letting him get closer to me. He lifts my shirt to right beneath my bra. I’m self-conscious about my rolls and the way my stomach has grown with each week of my pregnancy, but Hunter stares at me with such reverence that I feel like a goddess.

He puts his lips to the flesh above my navel, giving me sucking, open-mouthed kisses across the width of my abdomen. He kisses me on the flesh that protects our child.

“There will never be another woman you need to be jealous of, Winter,” he whispers against my skin. “There will never be a time when I don’t want every piece of you that you’re willing to give me.”

I ball my fists, desperate to run my fingers through his hair. “Can I touch you, Hunter? Please,” I say, tension in my voice.

I’m dimly aware of Jami’s presence on the other side of the plane, but at this moment, I can’t force myself to care.

Hunter shushes me, bringing his hands up my ribcage and to the clasp of my bra at my back. He unsnaps it. When I stiffen, he says, “Trust me.”

I relax back into the seat and nod once. He pulls my top and bra off in one move.

When the cold recirculated air hits my breasts, my nipples tighten, drawing a line to my clit. My gaze flicks toward the galley, embarrassment blooming hot over my cheeks.

“Eyes on me,” Hunter commands, and he puts his hand on my jaw and forces me to look at him.

Only at him.

When I suck in a breath and drop my voice to say, “Yes, Sir,” he smiles—beams.

“Good girl,” he growls. My panties get stupidly wet, and I do a Kegel involuntarily. “What’s your word, Winter?”

I shiver. We’re really doing this.

“Paris,” I say on a breath.

“Use it if it gets to be too much.” Hunter lowers his head to my right nipple and my back bows off the seat. He palms the other, squeezing the peak of my other breast between two fingers. When he draws hard on my skin, I moan loudly and shut my eyes, dropping my head to the headrest. Distantly, I feel him unbuckle my seatbelt.

A beep draws me from the ecstasy he’s stoking within me, and my eyes snap open. I immediately fix my gaze on the illuminated call light above me and gasp, looking down at Hunter.

“Do you want to use your word?” His gaze and voice are hard, commanding.

I can’t resist him; I don’t want to deny him. It dawns on me that I really, really want to do this. I want to go there with Hunter.

So I shake my head, even though Jami’s blond head looks past the galley curtain to where we sit.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he commands. And this time, he isn’t daring me to stop him. He wants me to be in this with him.

He invited me to dive into the madness. And I’m following him like he’s Virgil and I’m Dante, going all the way into the darkest parts of Hell together.

“I trust you,” I say. My tits tremble from anxiety as much as from the cold.

He lands another reverent kiss to my stomach before standing, pulling me up with him.

I want to cross my arms over my chest, but Hunter moves behind me and sits in my vacant seat. He doesn’t order me to sit—instead, he pulls my skirt up, bunching it high around my ribcage, and sits me on his lap.

As Jami bounces closer, Hunter’s hard erection presses to the cleft of my ass.

When he puts my hands on both armrests, I let out a squeak. I want to cover myself, hide myself from her. Not because of insecurity, but rather because I don’t want to be vulnerable in front of this woman.

Hunter palms both of my breasts, covering my nipples when Jami lands upon us. She stumbles and gapes at my nakedness; I blush and raise my chin, channeling every ounce of confidence I have in my body.

“Sit,” he bites out, directing his words at Jami. Part of me wants to hide, but instead, I force myself to stare her down.

Yeah, bitch. Sit down.

Jami lowers herself to the seat Hunter used across from us, and I raise an eyebrow when she primly places her hands on her knees.

“Don’t move from this position, Winter,” he murmurs in my ear. I drop my head against his shoulder.

With aching slowness, he runs his hands over my nipples, bringing his arms up to cradle my jaw from where he sits behind me. In this position, his forearms cover the tips of my breasts, so only the sides of my cleavage show around his muscular limbs. His hands are gentle on my face, and he doesn’t have to exert much pressure to get me to turn toward him.

“You still trust me?” he whispers against my lips.

I nod so hard that I feel a lock of my hair fall from my bun.

“I need the words, baby,” he says in the same low tone.

“Yes,” I choke out. “I still trust you.”

I feel the movement of his lips when he smiles. “Good.”

In a smooth movement, he puts his knee between my slightly spread legs and parts them wide.

I’m so shocked at the move that I can’t protest when he reaches down and rips my panties in two. Now, with my skirt cascading over the swell of my baby bump and the remnants of my underwear hanging pointless above my snatch, I start to tremble at how exposed I am. He bands one arm across my chest again, palming one breast, and with a flick of his wrist, he slaps his hand over my lower lips. My sheath contracts.

Holy fuck, I love it when he does that.

“Still trust me, baby?” he rasps, and I’m distracted by the feeling of his hand on my breast and the other covering my pussy.

“Y-yes,” I say, stuttering.

“Good girl,” he says.

I swallow and absorb his words.

“Jami,” Hunter says, his voice back to the hard, authoritarian tenor that he held before. He speaks without looking away from me. “It seems that you have misunderstood your position here. More importantly, you’ve gravely misunderstood my wife’s station in relation to yours.”

A shiver goes down my back when he growls “my wife.” He sounds so possessive, so proud, more wetness ekes out of me.

“It’s vital that you understand what I’m about to tell you,” Hunter says. His hands start to move, and I suppress a full-body roll as he circles my button.

“Do you see this mouth?” He moves the hand on my breast to my jaw, and my nipple tightens from exposure. “Nothing you can say or do with your mouth will ever compare to Winter.”

I stop breathing again. I trust him to take care of me and I know he wouldn’t do anything that would tear me down, but his words just then are unexpected. Just as unexpected as him putting his finger in my mouth.

Just as unexpected as when I reflexively suck on the digit as my eyes cross, the action causing a new surge of wetness to slick over his roaming fingers below.

He pulls his finger out of my mouth with a wet pop, and I feel his dick twitch beneath my ass.

“Do you see these breasts?” He groans as he moves back to my tit, squeezing the entirety of my breast with his broad hand.

I groan in response. My breasts are so sensitive from the hormones that the action causes me to leap toward the edge.

“Do you think you could compare to the feeling of her flesh beneath my hand?”

“Hunter,” I slur, thoroughly overwhelmed by his words and the scene he’s creating.

“Her brain,” he says, “My god, her clever, beautiful, incomparable brain…you will never, ever come anywhere close to her intellect.”

Hunter slides a finger into my pussy, pressing hard on my clit as he massages me from the inside and outside.

“And this pussy?” He laughs darkly. “I’ll die in this cunt.” He slides another finger inside me to prove his point.

“But the best thing about her?” One of his hands shifts and he places it over my chest while he continues to work me below. “Her heart, and how freely she’s given it to me. I will always protect it.”

His words are fierce, pointed, and I think I could combust at the slightest additional pressure.

His words, words, words….

“She is my queen,” he says. “She is my everything.” He turns my head and kisses me openmouthed over my shoulder.

I whimper into his mouth, awareness dawning that I’ve been his good girl and haven’t moved my hands from the armrests—even though I’m clutching them for dear life.

“How could you possibly think that a few meaningless moments with you could compare to what I have with her?”

He picks up speed with his hand, working me in the way he always does to get me off quickly. My moans turn into deep sighs, and my legs tense around his hand.

“Not yet, baby,” he whispers against my lips. Then, without taking his gaze off mine or slowing his pace, he says to Jami, “On your knees.”

I hear her sharp intake of air, and if I didn’t have my eyes affixed to Hunter’s, I probably would have jumped up and run into the other room.

But I feel the movement when Jami shifts to her knees, silently coming closer and pausing right before Hunter’s feet.

“Apologize to my wife,” he commands, slowing his pace just a fraction to keep me from the edge of orgasm. I don’t want to look at her, but she’s so close that I can’t ignore her presence.

“I’m sorry,” Jami says in a small voice. Hunter picks up his pace.

“Apologize better,” he growls to Jami. He breaks our gazes and tilts my chin to look at the blonde at my feet.

She looks…wrecked, like she’s devastated that she’s losing Hunter.

But she actually never had him to begin with. Because he’s mine.

“I’m so sorry for disrespecting you, Mrs. Brigham,” she says, placing her hands on her chest.

“Was that apology good enough for you, Sunbeam?” Hunter’s voice is close, and he nips at my earlobe.

“Yes,” I moan, not caring about her empty words but caring so very much about what’s happening here between me and Hunter.

“Hunter, please,” I cry.

His smile is sinister, malicious.

I let out a sound of protest when he removes his hand from my pussy, but then seconds later I’m yelling for a completely different reason when he pulls his pants down a fraction and slams me down on his cock.

“Oh, God, Hunter—” I choke. He turns my head back to look at him.

“Keep your eyes on me, baby,” he says, his breath flowing over my lips.

I don’t defy him.

“I love every single part of you, Hunter James Brigham,” I say, mindless. I’m so, so, so fucking close. Despite what my more conservative self would say, I love the fuck out of this.

I love the fact that this audacious bitch is at my feet, begging me for forgiveness. I am ecstatic at the fact that she has to watch Hunter fuck me—claim me—and reaffirm that she’s a non-motherfucking-factor.

“You own me, Winter,” he says.

He slams his lips to mine, and he transmits every single fear, insecurity, and desire into the act.

“Come on my cock,” he whispers for my ears only.

I obey him. My god, I obey.

When all my muscles clench and fireworks bloom behind my eyelids, I finally allow my hands to move, reaching one hand back to grasp the back of his head behind me.

“Watch her as she comes and know that you’ll never have this again,” Hunter growls. My orgasm goes on and on, sucking at his cock greedily as I crest and crest and crest—

“Winter. Wife,” Hunter says as he surges his hips up in three sharp thrusts and explodes inside me. The feeling of his dick twitching against my walls has me rolling over the peak one more time.

In the aftermath, all Hunter and I do is breathe.

And just when the shame and discomfort begin to edge into my post-orgasm haze, Hunter saves me and says to Jami, “Get out of my sight and stay out of my sight. And never say another word to me or my wife again.”

I feel Jami move off toward the front of the plane.

Still, we can only look at each other, so I see it when Hunter’s gaze turns from dominant to vulnerable. He closes his eyes, lifting me off his softening cock. When I stand, turning to face him with his essence dripping down my thighs, he leans back, looking away from me.

And if my heart is correct in my assumption, he’s waiting for my rejection.

It doesn’t come. It never will.

I settle back on his lap again, this time facing him with my skirt bunched between us. When I land on him fully, he takes a deep breath and holds it.

When he releases it, it shudders out of him, but his face is still like stone.

“Look at me, Hunter,” I say, putting my hand on his jaw. His five o’clock shadow scratches my palm.

“I am your safe space. You are safe with me. I love you, and I’m not leaving. You can’t scare me away,” I say. Then, just because I want to, I lower my forehead to his and sigh.

And wait.

The plane banks to the side and absently, I note the captain’s voice as it comes over the intercom, detailing something about our travels.

But I tune the pilot out when Hunter opens his mouth for several long seconds, preparing himself to spill his truths.

“I love you, Hunter Brigham. I am so incredibly happy to be your wife,” I say.

He shudders again. Drawing in another breath, he begins to speak.

“The leader was someone who I expected to hurt me. He was my father’s co-conspirator, his right-hand man, and he was always on Isla Cara when I was there. He was always watching me. His name was Alistair.”

I commit the name to memory as Hunter rasps the last word of his sentence.

“My father sat across from me, watching, the entire time I was being raped by Alistair and his friends,” he begins.

I still all my muscles, ready to listen to him say as much as he needs to.

As much as he wants to.

“I want to tell you about it, Sunbeam,” he whispers against my lips. So I wrap him in my arms and bring him close.

“I’m here to listen, baby,” I say. Running my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, I dedicate the next two hours in the clouds to hearing all the horrors Hunter Brigham has endured.

TWENTY-TWO

WINTER

Breaking international law is surprisingly anti-climactic.

While the press thinks we’re going to Costa Rica for our honeymoon, which is where all documentation says we are to land, the reality is we landed at a small airstrip in Cuba under a different call number from the one we departed with, and took a smaller jet over to Martinique.

We flew into Forte-de-France, settling on a private airstrip, where we took the private helicopter that Hunter piloted to ferry us to our next destination: his yacht in the Caribbean.

Hunter and I exited the helicopter hand-in-hand, not letting each other go as we descended from the ship’s helipad.

Settled into the room as the sun falls past the waterline, Hunter is silent as I take time to put our bags away and start up the shower. I’m told we only have a skeleton crew on board: twenty mariners, the chef, and the captain—so we’re on our own for most things except piloting the vessel and our meals.

We’re roughing it, if one could “rough it” on a two-hundred-million-dollar super yacht.

“Come on, H,” I say softly, pulling Hunter off the bed and toward the shower. It’s a massive en suite—much larger than I’d expect for a boat—and Hunter allows me to strip him before I remove all my clothes and guide us into the shower.

The warm water must shock him a bit from his stupor, but he still doesn’t say anything. I realize that he’s avoiding my eyes.

I know what this is—where he is. The emotional onslaught of retelling the most horrifying, traumatic moments of one’s life can tax survivors in many different ways. For me, my compulsions tend to get worse, and I perseverate over little things to an unhealthy level. Usually, these effects are temporary, thanks to many years of therapy and meds.

For Hunter, however, it’s clear that he’s dissociating—withdrawing into some safe space in his brain where he doesn’t have to confront the terrors on the outside.

I get that too.

So while the water cascades over us, I bring him against my body and hug him. There’s nothing overtly sexual about the move. I just want to provide him comfort and give him a physical counterpoint to anchor him to the now.

I want to help remind his body that he’s here with me—not back on that veranda at Isla Cara.

I force myself not to tense as my brain spins over all the horrors he’s faced in his life.

I thoroughly understand now why he ran away. I understand why he tried to shield August from his father’s attention. I thought there was an edge of paranoia on his part before, but now? I can imagine the constant anxiety he must have felt over keeping August safe.

And then when his father managed to hurt me….

I squeeze him a bit tighter.

“I love you, Winter. So fucking much,” he says in a low voice. His body begins to shake in a fine tremor, and I know that he’s finally, finally crying. He didn’t shed a tear as he told me about the assault, witnessing his mother’s brutal attack, or any of the other atrocities that he experienced under the hand of Benjamin Brigham.

But here, in this shower, Hunter breaks down. And I hold him through it.

When the water starts to cool and Hunter begins to shiver, I turn the taps off and pull us into the main bathroom.

“Let’s eat some dinner,” I say, bending over to dry my legs. When I stand, I wrap my towel around my body while Hunter stands silent as a statue. Water drips off the ends of his hair, but he doesn’t even shiver from the cold.

His gaze fixes on me, and within it, there’s so much heat.

Still, I try to keep my movements efficient, and I help him dry off. I run the towel over his wet hair, moving down over his shoulders and chest.

When I lower into a crouch to dry his legs, he puts a steely hand on my shoulder. My head snaps up, and I stare transfixed as his jaw ticks. I try to ignore his erection rising near my cheek.

“What do you want me to do, H?” I whisper. The look in his gaze darkens, and when his hand tightens more on my shoulder, I let out an involuntary gasp.

At the sound, he blinks once, then again and again in rapid succession.

With an exhale, his shoulders collapse, and he lets go.

“Hey,” I say, standing. “It’s okay.” I wrap the towel around his waist.

“We need to talk some more before anything else happens, Sunbeam,” he rasps out. I offer him a smile, aiming to be reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” I say back. For the first time in several hours, I see the ghost of a smile cross his face.

“You’re amazing, you know that, right?” His words are as soft as his hand at the back of my neck. “But we need to set some boundaries.”

He’s right, of course. To redefine our relationship on new ground, we need to lay it all out on the table.

And there’s no time like the present.

Hunter tilts his head in the direction of our suite, and I follow him out of the bathroom.

I allow myself only a few moments to ogle the muscles as they flex in his back, and then I hurry to dress myself in a light jumper. Dusk has fallen since we entered the room, so I layer on a light sweater in case it’s chilly on the deck.

Once Hunter finishes pulling his shirt over his head and donning his cargo pants, an outrageously casual look for him, he turns to me.

He looks better. I wouldn’t say “back to normal,” because so much guilt marred his version of “normal.” But he looks better. Lighter than before.

I smile at him.

Grabbing my hand, Hunter says, “Can I please hold you?”

There’s so much vulnerability in the ask that I don’t even consider denying him. I crawl on top of the bedspread and pat the side next to me. He joins me a second later, pulling me into his chest. He sighs and I do the same.

I’m so happy to stay like this forever, with the waves rocking us up and down so gently from our spot in the sea, but Hunter wants to talk, so I want to do that too.

“Boundaries, huh?” I say, running my index finger along the seam of his collar. “The professional in me automatically agrees with you. The human side of me is grimacing a little bit at my behavior over the past few weeks.”

I sit up to look at him.

“I’m sorry, Hunter. I pushed you way beyond what you were ready for, and it wasn’t right.”

Hunter shrugs. “Maybe so. But it was what I needed. What we needed,” he says, lacing our fingers together.

I purse my lips, twisting them to the side as I contemplate his words.

“Staying away from you these last few weeks has been pure hell, Winter. I never, ever want to do that again. We’ve gone over my behavior before—when I get scared, I get controlling. And when I get controlling, I go cold.”

I make a face. “You get controlling?” I ask.

He gives me a light eyeroll. “Okay, so I get more controlling. I guess.”

I fall back onto him, balancing my weight on my hip to avoid my stomach and placing my chin on my hands where I rest on his chest.

“So what’s the solution?” I ask.

He blows out a breath as he looks at the expensive ceiling tile. “I’m not a hundred percent sure. I’m figuring this all out as I go along,” he says. “But I think I need to figure out how to push through and let other people help.”

I make an affirming sound. “In Dialectical Behavior Therapy, there’s this tool called ‘Opposite Action.’ As you can probably guess, it’s basically when you do the opposite of whatever your big emotions tell you to do.”

His eyes crinkle in the corners as he looks at me, listening.

“So for example, if you feel like storming off and not talking to me for two weeks—”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry, Sunbeam,” he interjects. I pop up to kiss his cheek.

“I won’t say it’s okay because it wasn’t, but I’ll say, I understand. Anyway, back to Opposite Action. If you feel like storming off and going ghost, instead you’ll make a conscious effort to do the opposite. Which, in this case, might be pulling your girlfriend into your bedroom and talking it out with her.”

“Wife,” he says.

“Huh?”

“You said girlfriend. You’re my wife. Get used to saying it, Sunbeam. Because I’m gonna tell everyone I see that I’m your husband.”

I smile wide this time. “Sorry. Your wife,” I say and bring my hand out to admire the ring.

“Do you really like it?” he says with caution, grabbing my outstretched hand and tilting to reflect the overhead lighting. My wedding ring sparkles as it catches the light.

“I so, so do, Hunter.” I feel his hum of contentment against my cheek where it rests on his chest.

“Okay, so let’s think of another example.” I continue to look at the ring but then Hunter distracts me when he begins to rub circles on the back of my hand with his thumb. “Let’s say you’re so angry or overwhelmed or fill-in-the-blank that you want to hit something. Instead of doing that, you might go hug someone. Like me!” I say, turning to face him again.

He’s frozen, and a strange, shocked look washes over him.

Oh. Oh.

“I-I mean,” I start to say.

“Winter, did you really mean it when you said that you liked what happened in the shower?” His voice is a low rasp; his eyes are a bit unfocused. Sensing him going off the deep end a bit, I sit up and straddle him, grabbing him by his face.

“Hunter, please hear me and hear me clearly,” I say. I pause, waiting for his eyes to make contact with mine.

“I loved the breathplay,” I say. I bring my lips closer to his, but he winces.

“See, calling it ‘play’ isn’t right, Winter. There was nothing playful about it.”

“Okay, H,” I say, sitting up straight and crossing my arms. “Would you have killed me?”

He jerks, putting his hands on my hips. “What?”

“Would. You. Have. Killed. Me?”

“No!” he yells, and the sound is loud in the cabin.

“Okay, now that that’s settled. Let me tell you something: the feeling I got when you had your hand around my throat was…” I search for the right word. There are so many that fit the definition. “It was ecstasy. I felt high, like I was floating. I think that—I feel that—”

I chew on my lip, but I don’t look away from Hunter.

“Keep going, Sunbeam. No secrets. No unspoken thoughts that need to come out between us,” he says, his face serious.

I rally myself.

“Pain and sex as a concept is complicated for me. It shouldn’t be—in fact, pain and sex should never be in the same sentence for me after what Adam did. But, with you, it’s different. I don’t think it would be like that for anyone else or with anyone else, but with you?”

I bring a hand to my heart and another to my stomach, schooling myself to breathe as deeply as my growing belly allows into the space between my skin and my palms.

“With you, I loved it. I think because I know how much you love me. I know how much you don’t want to harm me. You don’t want me damaged. You want me whole. You want me to be happy and safe and loved and cared for. And I want those same things for you. I trust you not to destroy me, Hunter Brigham. There are enough people in the world who want that honor, but I’ll never expect that with you.”

Hunter doesn’t move from his position beneath me.

“I loved it so much, Hunter, because I saw all of you. The real you. That isn’t to say that I want you broken. I don’t. But you trusted me to see you—to know you—and I’ll honor that responsibility for as long as I live.”

We’re silent and I could catalog all the different sounds on the yacht if I cared to. But then Hunter sits up and crushes me to his chest in a fierce hug.

And we just breathe. Inhale. Exhale. All in sync.

Hunter and I…we just are.

When a loud, friendly beep rings in our room followed by the Chief Stewardess’ announcement that we have half an hour until dinner, Hunter and I pull back from each other, but it’s like there’s an invisible string connecting us.

“You know you’re never getting rid of me now, right? You’re stuck with me, babe.” He chucks me under the chin, grinning. It’s like the real Hunter is back. Well, not back. Here, for the first time ever in his life.

He looks and feels…free.

“I don’t want to. So lucky me,” I reply.

He acknowledges my statement with a gentle kiss.

“We still have to have a very unsexy talk about sex, baby,” he says into my flesh, pressing kisses across my cheek and down my neck.

“Uh-huh,” I say, trying not to moan. I’m in the second trimester now, and just like the doctor told me, I have the energy of three women.

And the sex drive.

I’m fucking horny right now.

“Yep,” Hunter says when I start to subtly rock against him. He slides me off his lap and places me on the bed across from him.

I try not to pout.

“Okay, H,” I say, puffing out a breath. “Have at it.”

He smiles and pulls the fallen strap of my sundress up to my shoulder.

“Do you know your limits when it comes to sex?” he asks.

And because I’m still uncomfortable talking about sex, I blush.

“I…haven’t given it much thought,” I reply. When I start to bite on my fingernail, he gently pulls my hand away from my mouth.

“Well, now is the time to think about it,” he says, sitting up straighter. His back is on the headboard, and he crosses his ankles, oh, so nonchalant.

Whereas I am very much chalant.

“Let’s do this,” he says. “How about I present a topic and you tell me a yes, no, or maybe.”

“Okay, sounds simple enough. Let’s do it,” I say, crossing my legs.

“First up, penetrative sex—penis in vagina,” he says. Both of my eyebrows go up and I look down at my round abdomen.

“Um, H? I hate to break it to you, but….”

He laughs, and it’s rich in a novel way. It makes me smile, my heart tumbling a bit as I take in his amusement.

“Yes, I am aware, baby.” He kisses my hand. “But it’s important to re-establish all boundaries. So I’m starting from the top before we go down the path of deviance.”

Deviance? Suddenly, I get nervous. What if there’s something that Hunter wants to do that I absolutely can’t do? What if—

“You’re starting to spin,” Hunter says, cutting off my internal diatribe. I shake my head, giving myself a reset.

“I’m good. Okay, peen in vagina. I’m way cool with that. Next?”

After a pause where Hunter assesses me, he says, “Okay, so anal. What are your limits there?”

I hum, thinking. I’m so surprised that I love anal. Even thinking that feels so dirty, but I know that’s deep conditioning talking.

“I actually really like anal,” I mutter.

“What was that?” Hunter replies with a chuckle.

“I really like anal!” I say much louder, “Jeez, happy now?” I fold my arms over my chest in a protective posture and look away.

“Hey,” he says, his voice much softer.

I look at him again.

“It’s okay to enjoy sex. All kinds of sex.” He rubs my knee. “Especially between us. Nothing we do together is wrong. Okay?”

I focus on the sensation of his hand on my crease of my leg, breathing in the truth of his words.

“Nothing you and I do is wrong,” I repeat.

He’s silent for slow moments as he rubs my skin in perfect circles.

“Okay, so anal in general is a go. Which is perfect because I’m an ass man. At least when it comes to your ass.”

I blush, and I’m sure that I look like a Black Ronald McDonald with how hot my face feels.

“Let’s talk a little more about pain. So I know you like it when I slap your pussy. I’ve felt it,” he says, giving me a very serious look. I start to envision Hunter smacking my pussy, and I make a strange noise in my throat, a combination of a moan and a whimper.

“Focus, Winter,” he says, humored.

“Right,” I reply, but my body undermines my words when a violent shiver travels down my spine.

“So spanking, where can I do it, when can I do it, and for how long?”

I hum again, forcing myself to swallow the spit that’s pooled in my mouth. “Okay so I don’t really like to be hit. My pussy is an outlier, I guess,” I say, ready to combust for several different reasons. “But my ass is okay too. Anywhere else, I don’t think I’d like. And only with your hand. Using any other tools feels like Roots.”

“Jesus Christ, Sunbeam,” he says, his eyebrows slamming down in an appalled stare.

“What? I mean, tell me it doesn’t feel weird to whip your Black wife?”

Hunter chokes. “Not going to even go there. But yes, I agree, it’s off the table.”

I put my hands out to my sides, like there you have it.

“Oral?” Hunter asks, his voice a bit hoarse now at this point.

“Yes, pleeeeease,” I drawl, and Hunter’s face transforms, heat flaring in his eyes.

“Later,” he promises. “Any limits there?”

I pretend to think about it. “Nope,” I say, emphasizing the “p.” “I find that I really love to gag on your cock, and if you want to eat me out until I come on your face, I will never object.”

I shrug.

Hunter’s return expression is downright devilish. A quick glance at his pants lets me know he’s hard and fucking hell, I need him inside me.

“Anything else that’s a particular yes or a particular no?” He rasps out. I bite my lip and walk my fingers up his leg, aiming for his cock.

“I need to be awake when we’re having sex, so no somno stuff.”

Hunter nods.

“I don’t want to share you with anyone else, nor do I want to be shared.”

He makes a dark noise, and a glance at his face confirms his feelings on that topic.

“I want nothing to do with pee or scat,” I say.

“Definitely not my thing,” he replies.

“And I guess we don’t have to worry about this for another four and a half months, but, um…I’ll leave it up to you what we do during that time of the month,” I rush out.

But when Hunter makes a look that is absolutely primal, I’m quick to add, “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it!”

Hunter makes a rumbling sound deep in his chest and resumes rubbing his hand up and down my leg, getting closer and closer to where I really want him.

“This is all good to know, Sunbeam. I really only have two limits,” he says. His gaze flicks away from me, and he says, “I don’t do butt stuff. Receiving.”

I’m quiet. I understand why it would be off-limits for him. It doesn’t warrant picking apart, and I can tell he doesn’t want to dive into it.

“And the second limit?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath. “The second thing is that I won’t leave bruises or marks on you.” He looks back at me. “Seeing that handprint on your neck had me wanting to jump off a building. I’m serious, Winter. Even if you ask me to, I won’t do anything like that to that extent ever again. Hard limit.”

I put my hand over my heart and the other over my lips to prevent any words from spilling out. I didn’t love the sight of the bruises either, but I don’t hate him because they happened. But we hadn’t done what we’re doing now—talking about this stuff—so of course it feels huge and like a violation.

“You got it, H. Hard limit.”

He nods. After a beat, his face brightens. “All right. Enough talking about sex. Get over here and climb on my dick, Sunbeam.”

He lifts, pushing his pants past his hips. His cock springs out of his slacks, and I start to drool again, completely overwhelmed by all the possibilities of giving and receiving pleasure with Hunter Brigham.

“Yes, Sir,” I say. I don’t waste time. I lift my skirt, slide my panties to the side, and sink onto my husband’s hardness.

TWENTY-THREE

HUNTER

Winter’s eyes are reluctant to slide open when I sit on the edge of the bed. It’s barely sunrise, but we’ve been sailing through the night and now we’re at the place I’ve been dying to take her.

I just hope she loves it.

“Hunter, we’re on our honeymoon. A honeymoon is like a vacation. Vacations mean sleeping in,” she mutters, her face half-pressed into the pillow.

I chuckle, rubbing my hand down her back until I reach her ass. I give one of her juicy cheeks a squeeze and she jerks.

Looking adorably disheveled with her hair coming out of the braids she put them in, she frowns at me, emitting a growl. Not even the hot buttered biscuit and coffee I present her with seem to cheer her up.

“Where are we going?” she asks, taking a bite of the baked good. Her face falls slack for a second before brightening with the taste.

“They’re good, right?” I ask.

She hums in agreement. “The question? Where are we going at the ass crack of dawn?”

I cup her cheek, using my thumb to wipe away a crumb.

“It’s a surprise,” I say. She raises her eyebrow.

“I dunno, H. Your surprises lately have been a little sus. Like handing me over a duffle bag full of cash, sus.”

I chuckle, leaning over to grab a light bite of her thigh. She squeaks before saying, “Okay, give me ten minutes.” She punctuates the sentence with another bite of her food.

When we reach the top deck, I lace her fingers between mine, navigating her toward the Bell helicopter that I’ve prepared for flight.

“Okay, so we’re leaving the boat. Are we going far?” Winter asks as soon as both of our headsets are on. She settles into the seat, pulling on the seatbelt and stretching it out so that it pins her to the chair when it snaps back into position.

“Can you not just be surprised?” I ask with mock annoyance. I smile to soften the words as I flick on the controls.

“No, I cannot. I require prior information to digest. It’s all part of my anxiety, I’ll have you know.” She folds her arms across her chest.

I grimace, chagrined. “Of course, baby. We’re going to an island about thirty nautical miles away. It’s developed, so don’t worry about getting some rare, random tropical disease,” I say.

She blinks, staring out the glass in front of her seat.

“I wasn’t concerned about that until just now,” she says, her voice flat. I grab her hand.

“I’ve got you, Sunbeam,” I say, enunciating the words so they’re heard clearly over the hum of the rotary wings.

She squeezes my hand in return. “I know, Hunter. And I’ve got you. Always.”

With one final kiss to the back of her wrist, I lift the skids and point us due west.

The helipad for the island is several yards from the main house by design. So when I circle the cay in preparation for landing, I take a few extra moments to fly around the shore of the island. It’s ten miles wide, so not the biggest land mass, but the structures comprising my island estate are the only buildings here.

Well. Our island estate. Really, it’s Winter’s land.

“Wow,” Winter says on a breath. Her awe is plain in her words. “This place is stunning, Hunter.”

I smile and say, “Welcome to Winter Island.”

She snaps her head toward me. “Winter Island? Did I hear you correctly?” Her jaw drops and she looks from me down to the palm trees below and back to me.

I smile. “Yes. What other name would fit better?”

She gapes for a moment before saying, “You bought an island? When did you purchase it?”

I start my final pass around the land before tilting us toward the landing zone.

“I bought it five years ago,” he says. “I was looking for an island that I could use to get away from everyone. I was feeling particularly moody when I got it. But then, a little over a year ago, I met this wonderful, amazing, beautiful woman, and I knew she would love this place. So I named it after her and got it fixed up.”

She doesn’t say anything to that. In fact, she’s silent until we’re skids down on the pad and the rotary blades have stopped spinning.

“You named an island after me,” she says as if in disbelief.

“Yes, I did,” I say. “This will be my first time staying here too.”

She gives me a soft look that’s full of love, and it makes me want to pull my heart out and place it in her hands.

It makes me want to fight off every demon that dares to try to touch her.

It makes me want to weep.

“So I get one of your first times, then?” Winter asks, brightening.

I nod slowly. “Wanna check out our new home away from home?”

“You bet your sweet dick I do,” she says, and we both let out robust laughs.

On one side of the main home on the island, there are at least a hundred steps leading from the house to the shore. It’s a lot of fucking steps, but this was the best vantage point to build the structure. There are 360-degree views of the ocean once you’re inside. Winter Island is a beautiful place.

The architect and designer I hired presented a few ideas for the primary dwelling that looked exactly like what one would expect from a billion-dollar estate and entirely too similar to Isla Cara. All of the prominent elements they suggested—the veranda, the close jaunt to the beach, the massive entertaining space and ballroom—were axed without thought.

The only other direction I gave the architectural team was that I wanted glass everywhere, as many clear sightlines as possible.

It would be hot if I didn’t have the right UV coating on the windows and appropriate air conditioning, but money can buy anything.

I wanted a house where anyone could see in. No places to hide any secrets.

“Wow, this is wild, Hunter,” Winter says when we crest the path from the helicopter to the home. “Do you have staff here?”

“Not full-time in the house itself. I do have staff that maintain the island and an environmentalist who does quarterly checks to make sure we’re taking good care of the natural vegetation, but other than that, the island just sits.”

I turn to her, blocking her view of the inside and say, “But this is all yours. So you can come here whenever you like.”

“What do you mean it’s mine?” she asks, her thumbnail going to her mouth. I grab her hand and wind my fingers between hers, gripping her tight.

“I mean, what’s mine is yours, yes. But I got this for you. I just didn’t know it when I bought it five years ago.”

She smiles, and it’s luminous.

“I have another surprise for you, though,” I say.

“Another one?” she asks, her voice going higher.

We’re at the main entrance now. The lights are on, as per my instructions, along with soft music that pipes through the outdoor speakers.

I don’t respond to her question. Instead, I open the door to the foyer.

She gasps when she catches sight of what’s inside, but she’s otherwise speechless. Fresh roses adorn every visible surface—there have to be at least a thousand roses of all different colors on the counters and on the floor, all leading to the massive living room that overlooks the other side of the island.

“Hunter,” she says, her voice wispy.

“How did you…? When did you…?” she stammers.

It took a lot of effort and coordination to get this right for Winter. She deserves all this and more.

She deserves what I promised her.

“I couldn’t give you everything I wanted to give you, but I could give you this,” I say.

She puts her hand on my chest. “I don’t want things,” she tells me. “All I need in this life is you. Our family.”

She kisses me—a sweet, gentle caress of her lips against mine.

“Will you show me our bedroom?” she asks, her eyes darkening.

I pull on her hand. “With pleasure,” I reply.

“WHAT DO you think they’ll be like?” Winter whispers in the darkness. We’ve made love for the entire day, dozing off and grabbing meat and cheese plates from the fridge when our stomachs started to growl.

I made sure to feed Winter more frequently and nuked any cold cuts, which she despised. She further resisted my attempts to provide her with food because, as she proclaimed proudly, she could survive on dick and dick alone.

I run my fingers against hers, trailing up her palm until I hit her wrist and reverse directions. The bed we’re in is as comfortable as the one back home.

Home being Amelia Manor. But where the bed at our home estate is solid wood, this one is a breezy metal canopy bed with gauzy curtains pinned back to the four posts at the corners.

The sound of the ocean comes through the open patio doors. I probably should close them now that the sun has gone down, but there really isn’t much that appeals to me more than laying here in this bed with my wife.

My. Wife.

“I think they’ll be human,” I say.

She sucks her teeth. “Be serious!” She pats me on the chest, a ghost of a slap.

“I am being serious. Our baby will be a human, which means that as they grow, they will do human things like learning concepts, trying new things, and making mistakes.”

Winter hums at that.

“I think I felt the baby move yesterday,” she says. “I couldn’t be sure, but it felt like what Veronica described when she was pregnant with Summer.”

Her voice turns sad.

“You never told me what happened when she left,” I say.

Winter turns quiet.

“I’m an asshole,” she says, and when I sit up to protest, she says, “No, let me finish.”

I snap my mouth shut, waiting.

“Veronica is my best friend—my sister by all accounts—and I love her so, so much…but I also want her to let me live my life a little. She worries so much about me, and I’m grateful that I have someone who cares enough to want to interfere in my life. And yet, I find myself overwhelmed by how smothering she can be sometimes,” she says.

I see. “What was so smothering in your last interaction?” I ask.

Winter blows out a breath and turns her head toward the open doors.

We have a full moon tonight, and it’s brighter and bigger than in the city by a wide margin. I can see Venus with my naked eye, the sky is so clear.

And because of that brightness, I see it when a tear trails down her face and across her nose.

“Sunbeam,” I say, trying to comfort her.

“I am an asshole,” she repeats, adding more emphasis. “Veronica was very, very concerned about what happened in the shower.” She inhales and exhales, her voice stuttering. “She brought up her concerns to me and they were legitimate…and I all but attacked her for it. She wanted me to leave you, and I couldn’t handle that.”

She starts to cry in earnest when she utters the last truth, and I pull her into me so she can cry until she feels better.

Until she lets all this grief out.

“I miss Veronica, and I am so embarrassed right now. How can I tell her that I loved what you and I did together with a straight face? How can I explain it to her in a way that doesn’t make me look like a brainwashed victim?”

I think about that for a moment. “You are allowed to set boundaries with Veronica. Healthy boundaries, baby. And maybe you two have been so close for so long, it’s hard to grow up. But growing up doesn’t have to mean growing apart,” I say.

She smiles, laughs. “When did you become Dr. Phil?”

I shrug. “I’ve been hanging out with you a lot. It was bound to happen.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, and she curls into my side again.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says, but she stops herself before she finishes her sentence.

“What have you been thinking, baby? Don’t leave me in suspense,” I reply.

She chuckles a bit, but it’s a shy sound. “I’ve been thinking about your need for control in the bedroom.”

Immediately, my chest tenses. I knew asking her to dive into the dark side with me was way too out of her character. She’s only doing this for me. She doesn’t really like this. I’m hurting her—

“Hey,” she says, putting her hand on my jaw. “Relax. It’s not anything bad.” She tilts her face down to kiss me right above my nipple.

I try to release my locked breath.

“I was wondering…have you ever given up control when having sex? Like, a power exchange?”

I try not to snort, but the look I give her must telegraph my response.

“Okay, I’ll take that as a no,” she says. She puts her cheek on my chest again, looking up at me for long moments.

“What do you think about trying something new with me?” she says, not moving her eyes from mine.

Something shifts in my chest, a niggle of apprehension.

“Like what?”

She smiles slowly. “What if we were to have sex,” she says.

“Sold,” I interject.

She purses her lips and rolls her eyes. “What if we were to have sex, and instead of you being in the driver’s seat, I am?”

I search her face for clues as to what that would look like. “Give me a little more information, baby.”

She bites her lip, and I pull it from between her teeth. “Stop distracting me and say what you were going to say.”

She gives me a smile at that.

“How about when we fuck, you couldn’t touch me?” she says, her tone neutral.

“Like tying me up?” I ask, and she nods. The idea causes sweat to bloom on my back.

“I don’t know, baby,” I reply.

“You could safeword at any time, H, and I’ll stop. But I know your limits and I won’t do anything I know you won’t like,” she rushes to add.

“Why do you want this?” I ask, my voice a rasp.

She sits up, and the sheet drops from her chest. The moonlight shines on the tips of her breasts.

“I feel like this is something we need to balance our relationship,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about it and as hot as it is when you go all caveman on me, I think there’s something really important that can happen when you trust me to take care of you.”

She pulls the sheet away from her waist and she’s completely naked, bare, before me.

“I think…when we first got together, so much of our sex life was about making sure that I was safe. You wanted me to feel empowered and safe and in control. And after Adam—”

I can’t suppress the growl that comes from my chest.

“After Adam,” she says, pressing her palm to my chest, over my heart, “it became your mission to make sure I found that safety again after it had been so violently wrenched from me. You were patient and made sure that I knew that I was in control of when and how we reconnected. And when we made love in the sitting room for the first time….”

She releases a shaky breath, before continuing, “People search their entire lives for the type of connection we experienced in that room.”

She’s right. She’s so fucking right. When she gave herself to me—gave me her raw, painful honesty—in that sitting room, everything shifted for us. We allowed ourselves to come home to each other. We were no longer Hunter and Winter, separate entities. We became one.

Maybe that’s why I was so dead set on calling her Mrs. Brigham way before we made it official.

“These past few weeks since the raid, though, things have been…” she pauses. “You know how things have been between us.”

My heart squeezes in my chest, and I clear my throat before saying, “Yes, I do know.”

Winter straightens, pulling herself to sit upright.

“You can say no, H. But if you want to know my goal with this, it’s to let you know it’s safe to trust me with everything. Even your fears.”

She puts her hands in her lap and waits.

My mind spins through the instances I don’t want to think about—the times I don’t allow myself to entertain.

What would happen if I were to have new memories, safe memories to replace the ones I loathe?

“Okay,” I say, my voice low. She smiles and leans over to kiss me.

It’s a messy, heated kiss, and I drag my hand from her neck to over her nipple, where I bring the hard point between my index and middle finger. She shudders, moaning into my mouth. I skate my hand from her breast down to her pussy, groaning when I land on her soft, dripping folds.

“Sunbeam,” I growl, chasing her mouth when she pulls back.

“Wait here,” she whispers, leaving the bed.

She returns a minute later with soft fabric in her hands.

“I don’t think it’s necessary to bind your legs,” she says. “But how about I use these to tie your wrists to the headboard?”

I squint at the material. “Are those your swimsuit tops?” I ask.

She sucks her teeth. “I had to improvise, okay?” she says. But then she smiles when I laugh, and the tension within me evaporates like a popped balloon.

“No judgment here, baby,” I say, and she raises her eyebrow.

“Are you cool with this?” she asks.

I swallow and look at the headboard. The metalwork across the back of the bed is intricate but sturdy. A dozen black metal bars span the width of the frame, about half an inch apart.

Looking at the material in her hands, I tell her, “Tie them there and there.” I point to the first and last individual post in the design at the center of the headboard.

She nods, and then her face gets serious. I put my left hand near the corresponding post. She uses one bikini top to tie around my wrist in a loose knot, and then she moves to the other and does the same with the remaining top.

“These are quick-release ties,” she says. “If you pull on them hard enough, they’ll unravel, but they’re not too delicate that they’ll fall apart if you twitch your biceps too hard. Is this okay?” she asks.

I nod. Now that I’m tied, a thread of stress weaves down my spine, but I shut it out. I give an experimental tug; the knots don’t slip, but I know even if she tied them tight, I’d be able to break the relatively thin bars on the headboard easily.

Breathe, Hunter.

I am here. I am here with Winter.

“Good,” she says, then she pulls the sheet from my body and climbs on top of me. My dick rests between her pussy lips, and when she leans over to kiss me, the movement causes her to rock against the underside of my cock.

“I love kissing you, Hunter. I know I don’t have a ton of reference to draw from, but you’re really good at it,” she says. For some inexplainable reason, that causes me to flush.

“Happy to oblige you, baby,” I tease. She giggles, and it’s a bright sound I’ve rarely heard her make. Releasing my lips from hers, she kisses her way down my chest until I feel her breath over my dick.

My hands clench into fists and my thighs tense. She must notice the shift because she runs her hands over my tense quads, pressing her thumbs into the muscle.

“I love your cock, Hunter,” she says, then she licks the underside of me from root to tip. Her hands never stop their movements on my thighs.

She follows the movements my dick makes as it twitches from her caresses and slips the tip of me past her lips without using her hands.

The moan she releases reaches a primal part of my brain.

Taking me deep into her mouth, she pops off and says, “People pay good money to see cock like this.”

I bark a laugh at that. “You think so?” I mean, how would she know?

“It only makes sense,” she says, her tone very serious. I want to dive into that more, but then all thoughts fly from my brain when she moves her hands from my legs to my balls, tugging them down as she pulls me to the back of her throat.

“Fuck baby, you are so fucking good at that,” I rasp.

She pops off my dick. “Really?” she asks, her voice bright and just a little vulnerable. “You’re not just saying that?”

I want to touch her face, to reassure her that I love everything she does. “Grade-A head, baby. High-quality top, if I say so myself.”

She grins, her eyes narrowing as she cheeses at me, pleased.

“Let me see if I can beat my personal best,” she says. Then she starts sucking the soul out of my body as if her life depends on it.

Just when my eyes start to roll in the back of my head, she pulls off me again, and I try not to shout at her or force her head back onto my cock.

“You get to choose. Do you want to come in my mouth or my pussy?”

She starts to lick the base of my hard-on like an ice cream cone, teasing me and edging me like a motherfucker.

I think about it.

“Get your cunt over here,” I say, my voice a hard rasp.

As she scrambles over me, she says, “Good. Because I’m so fucking wet from sucking you off, it will take me like thirty seconds to cooooo-me.” She moans the last word as she sinks onto me, and I jab my hips up so that my pubic bone hits her clit.

“Fuck, that’s cheating, H,” she says, “I’m in the driver’s seat.”

I am very conscious of relaxing all the muscles in my body. “Well, drive then.”

She puts her hands on my chest and uses them and her knees as leverage to grind against me.

And then she starts to really fuck me.

“You’re an amazing man, Hunter Brigham,” she says, making a figure-eight with her hips. I stare down at where my dick disappears inside her, ignoring her words.

“You are so brave. You’re a great example of how people can grow. August and I are so lucky to have you,” she says, her tone going a little breathless.

“Sunbeam,” I choke.

“I’m the luckiest girl in the world. You think you’re lucky to have me. Well, I’m so fucking lucky that I have you. And not because you’re a kajillionaire. You could be broke as hell and I’d still want you. I’m lucky because I have someone who gets me and understands me. I can be myself with you, and a lot of people don’t have that.”

My chest starts to get tight.

“Winter, fuck,” I burst out.

“We’re going to do life together, Hunter Brigham. You and me and our family. Because we deserve this happiness. We deserve what we have right now.”

My head tilts back on the pillows, and I am seconds away from ripping my hands from the bonds and grabbing her hips, but I let her be in control.

I let her be in control.

I surrender.

She leans down and presses a bite to my pec, and that little edge of pain is enough to get me to come.

“Fuck, Winter,” I grind out, and she clamps onto me as my cock jerks, releasing hot cum deep inside her.

She lets out a rich moan, her eyes squeezed tight as she comes on my cock, rocking harder and faster to chase her completion.

When we’re both finished, I’m boneless, and the knots give way on their own. She collapses on my chest and then asks, “Was all that okay?”

I don’t know why, but the moment causes my eyeballs to burn. It’s a mix of emotions—heavy, heavy emotions. But I look down at the love of my life, and instead, I say, “I loved every minute of it.”

TWENTY-FOUR

WINTER

“It’s giving sexism, Hunter.”

I stand with my arms crossed on the balcony overlooking the dense jungle of trees that separates us from the shore. The wind whips my skirt around my knees, making it difficult for me to tap my foot like I want to. There’s cloud cover today, which I’m grateful for, and I enjoy the sharp breeze against my skin. I’m wearing a two-piece bikini—a first for me—and for once, I’m not covered in sweat despite being outside at the height of the noon sun.

We’ve been on Winter Island for a full week, and it’s been the most peaceful, love-filled week of my life. The highlight was yesterday morning. The baby kicks all the time now, and when I woke up that morning with the sheet bunched low around my hips, I stared as my belly jiggled with their movements.

Hunter woke to my sobs, and he immediately became worried, cautiously wiping my tears.

This is the thing he’s the most repentant about: getting me pregnant. Having a baby changes the game for both of us in massive ways. I’ll never say that he forced me to get pregnant because I do know how babies are made.

But the bitter pill we’ve both had to swallow is that I shouldn’t have made major life decisions at that point in time, so fresh on my healing journey from everything I’d gone through with the abduction.

Lucky for both of us, we’re happy with the outcome.

“I love our baby, Hunter,” I said, placing his hand over my bump.

He stuttered out a breath. “Me too, Sunbeam. You have no idea.”

But now, the tenderness of that moment has evaporated as I approach the outdoor table that Hunter has turned into a workstation. Hunter sits there with the guards—strangers—that Misha sent to meet us for protection. The guards make it a point not to address me directly, which both irritates and sets me on edge. As a result of their avoidance, I don’t know their actual names.

So I’ve taken to calling them SpongeBob, Squidward, and Patrick.

Early this morning, Hunter received a message from Misha that caused him to hole up in the airy pseudo-office in the mansion’s east wing with all three guards to devise a plan. Apparently, Max was also correct that the code on the rings related to the anagram Leo received.

With the new discovery comes the increased need for protection and Hunter’s attention.

Him needing to work out the news isn’t the problem. The problem is he left me in bed to “rest,” and when I came down to talk with him a few hours later, he ushered me into another room to eat breakfast and then to the deck to relax in the hammock.

“Why is it that everyone else can know what’s going on, but I can’t?”

The guard I’ve taken to calling Patrick looks over to me when I speak, but he quickly returns his attention to his comrade, Squidward, before looking back at his computer. Patrick is a tall, stacked man with what looks like a permanent flush to his face and short-cropped, dark hair. His eyes seem a little wild, like he’s done a bunch of coke but is trying really hard to not show it.

Squidward, on the other hand, is also tall, but lithe, and he always has a serious expression on his face, if not an outright scowl. SpongeBob, the short, bulky blonde, moves outside the room.

The three new arrivals spent most of the morning dealing with the massive shipment of provisions that arrived at sunrise. They’ve been milling about taking inventory and talking with Hunter in hushed tones.

And as I hover around Hunter like a bee, his frown is back in full force.

Hunter sighs, and I see his thoughts spinning through his brain—the fight within himself not to simply demand that I go take a nap until he’s done.

Instead, he says, “Come on, let’s talk.”

He puts his hand on my elbow, steering me to the kitchen. I sit on the stool, and after washing his hands, Hunter opens the refrigerator, pulling out the components to make a Cobb salad.

“What do you need, Sunbeam?” Hunter asks, tossing the pre-washed romaine lettuce into a large wooden mixing bowl.

I open my mouth, prepared to provide a litany of tasks that I wish to undertake, but then my sense returns to me and I realize that I don’t actually want to do anything concerning The Legion.

Not really. I’ve had enough action and adventure over the last year. I don’t need to add “face down a cabal” to the list. Still, I just want him to include me.

“I don’t want to be set aside,” I tell him, tapping my fingers on the counter.

Hunter hums as he drops the chicken, tomato, avocado, and chopped red onion into the bowl. “Do you think we’re setting you aside? You know I value your opinion. I love that beautiful brain of yours, remember?” He smiles at me before opening the container of blue cheese. He momentarily pauses, then closes the container and sets it aside. He returns to the fridge and pulls out a container of shredded parmesan.

“I know, H…” I release a sigh.

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a total ass from the 1950s, but it would make me so happy if you could relax and not worry about this stuff.”

He adds the new selection of cheese and ranch dressing to the bowl and tosses it with two large serving spoons. I purse my lips, waiting, as he plates the salad and puts the sliced eggs on top. He slides the dish in front of me with a fork.

I give him a skeptical look. “Not worry? Not worry about people trying to kill my husband?”

He rounds the counter to stand next to me. His smile grows and he looks damn near radiant.

“What?” I ask, ticked off.

“You called me your husband so easily then. It just—” He pulls me into him and one of his hands goes to the curls at the base of my neck. It seems to be one of his favorite places on my body.

Well, one of his favorite non-sexual places.

Well, husband,” I say, drawing out the word. “It’s a very big ask to request that I not worry about this.”

He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger, rubbing the strands with his thumb for a moment before letting it spring back near my eyebrow.

“I know.” He gives me a light kiss on the lips. “I just want you to be happy, to make the most of this time where things are relatively calm to just enjoy being alive. All I ever want is for you to be happy. Blissful.”

He kisses me again.

“Can you understand where I’m coming from?” he asks, his tone gentle. He punctuates his sentence by picking up the fork and putting it in my hand.

Oh. Well.

“I understand, H,” I say, subdued.

His shoulders relax.

“But with that in mind, maybe we can make a deal.” I put the fork down.

He sighs but then grins, kicking his mouth to the side. “A deal?” He folds his arms, ready to negotiate.

“I want to go to shore today. We’re near Martinique, and I want to do some shopping.”

The look he gives me would be absolutely comical if I weren’t so serious.

“You want to go shopping?” His voice sounds strained. He leans a hip on the counter.

“Yup!” I say, my voice bright. “And I want it to be a surprise, so I want you to stay behind. You know, so you can ‘work’ with Misha.” I make air quotes.

He exhales as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.

After staring off for a long moment, he says, “Okay. But here are my conditions.”

I mirror his cross-armed pose, still seated, but swing to face him. “Okay, Mr. Brigham. State your requirements.”

He grins again, then his face turns serious.

“You go with all three guards. You’re gone for no more than three hours. That’s an hour to get there, an hour to shop, and an hour to come back. You spend as much money as you want. I will keep your tracker up on my phone while you’re gone, and if you deviate off the main street at any point, I’m coming after you. Do you agree to the terms?”

Holy hell. The way he commands me to do all of these things, including spending his money, makes me stupidly hot. There's a lot to unpack with his stipulations, but I can’t really focus on any of them. My nipples tense against the fabric of my bathing suit top.

“Out of curiosity, if I agree but violate any of the terms, what will happen?”

Heat flashes in his eyes and my cooch clenches in an involuntary flutter.

“What do you want to happen, Mrs. Brigham?” He runs his thumb over my nipple. Of course he’d zero in on the fact that I’m turned on.

“I think you’d have to punish me,” I whisper. He steps into the space between my parted thighs and drags me to the edge of my seat. Our faces are so close; our bodies are so close. I feel the heaviness of his erection against the vee of my legs, and I’m tempted to lift my skirt so he could shove my swimsuit bottoms to the side and impale me on his cock.

I’m turning into a nympho.

“Don’t tempt fate, Sunbeam,” he says, sliding his hand into my bottoms. I grip his tense biceps as he finds my clit, rubbing the nub in a familiar and highly efficient pattern before dipping down and sliding a long finger inside my channel.

When I start to moan, he brings my face to his, crushing our lips together in a punishing kiss. He knows my body so well now, and in some ways, he knows my body better than I do.

So when he has me on the edge of combustion with a few expert twists and thrusts of his hand, I can’t help the cry that releases from my throat.

I’m so close. I’m so, so—

“Wait!” I yell, but it’s no use. One moment I’m seconds away from coming, the next, Hunter is two feet away from me, smiling like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland while he licks my cream off his fingers.

“I’ll punish you, baby, and I promise you’ll hate it as much as you love it.”

“Ass,” I say with a trembling smile, gripping the chair and sliding back to keep upright.

“Yes, but I’m your ass,” he says with a shrug. “Do you agree to the terms, Mrs. Brigham?”

Composing myself despite the wetness in my bottoms or the fact that my breasts are practically aching, I say, “I have counter-terms.”

He folds his arms before tilting his chin down. “State them,” he intones.

“I will take one guard; however, you may choose which one. I don’t feel good about leaving you here unprotected.”

Hunter’s smile is slow to appear. “You think I can’t protect myself, baby?”

I roll my eyes. “I know you can protect yourself, H. But what if something happens? What if you get overrun by pirates? What if you fall down the hill and into the ocean? What if you—”

“I get the picture, Sunbeam,” he says with a laugh.

Hunter rubs his upper lip with the back of his thumb, thinking. A moment later, he sticks his hand out. “Two guards.”

I nod my head from side to side, contemplating and ignoring his outstretched palm. “I want SpongeBob and Patrick. You can keep Squidward.”

“Who?” he presses, completely baffled. He drops his hand, and I bust out laughing at the confused look on his face. My cackles trigger his own spiral of hilarity.

“I don’t know their names,” I stage-whisper as I hold my chest to calm myself down, “Do you know them?”

Hunter sucks in air and wipes his eyes to remove the tears. Pulling me close to him by the back of the neck, he presses a firm kiss to my forehead.

“Never change, baby,” he says when he pulls away a fraction. He ghosts his cheek against mine and turns his head to whisper in my ear. “Who’s SpongeBob?”

I keep the same low tone. “That’s the short and stout one. The blonde.”

His breath fans against the shell of my ear. “That would be Walker.” He kisses the space behind my ear. “Which one is Squidward?”

“Um,” I say, marching my way up the mountain of arousal once again. “That would be the tall, lithe one. The one who looks like Benedict Cumberbatch if he were an Olympic swimmer.”

He switches sides, kissing my neck and pulling the skin into his mouth with a firm suck. Releasing me, he says, “His name is Keegan.”

I run my hand down his chest, sticking the tips of my fingers beneath the waistband of his boardshorts. “And what’s Patrick’s name?”

I slide my hand lower, lower, lower.

Bingo. I grasp his cock in a firm grip, which forces him to release the most deliciously masculine groan against my lips.

He gives me a kiss so dirty that if I weren’t already pregnant, I totally would be.

“Maybe we could take a break?” I ask, pulling his hand down to return to its rightful place between my thighs.

He groans again, covering my pussy with his palm and pressing our bottom halves together in an intimate embrace.

“I wish, baby,” he says, slowly pulling away. I blow out a breath.

Straightening, I say, “Okay, Mr. Brigham. I accept your offer. But you owe me like four orgasms when I get back home.”

I press my palm to his, shaking his hand firmly.

“Deal,” he says, grinning.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” I throw back, matching his tone and expression.

“I’ll be sure that your transportation is ready within the hour.”

“Thank you,” I reply, mustering every ounce of professionalism I can.

“Now, eat your food,” he demands.

I comply because one, I’m hungry, and two, this salad looks delicious.

And I guess three—because he made it for me, and I know he made it with love.

When I’m halfway done eating, he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” I reply.

“Happy. Carefree,” he says. Then he presses a kiss on my left hand.

“You never told me Patrick’s name,” I say, pushing the salad bowl away when there are only a few bites left.

The sides of his eyes crease at his laugh lines. “It’s Patrick.”

“I know, what’s Patrick’s real name?”

“Patrick,” he replies.

I bark a laugh. “No shit?”

“Nope,” he replies. Giving me a brief kiss and heading back toward his office, he says, “They’ll forever be known as SpongeBob, Squidward, and Patrick in my mind, though.”

We both start snort-laugh when Squidward and SpongeBob enter the room.

GETTING to the island is a bit more complicated than anticipated. I don’t know why I thought it’d be simple to go from our island to the larger one, but it definitely isn’t.

First, SpongeBob, Patrick, and I—or, I guess, Walker, Patrick, and I—take the motorized Catamaran toward the south shore of Martinique. So we can avoid having to check in with customs, we travel around the backside of the island and dock at an old fishing alcove that looks abandoned. Winter Island is under twenty nautical miles from Martinique, so with the motor at top speed, it takes us less than an hour to get there.

When we arrive, however, a Jeep with the doors taken off idles on the dirt road, and after one of the guards secures our boat transportation back home, all three of us hop into the vehicle and ride in the back of the 4x4. Walker is a short and stout man, a solid block of muscle, so when the three of us try to squeeze into the backseat with me in the middle, I reconsider whether I actually want to get Hunter a gift after all.

Our chauffeur speaks English fairly well from what I can tell, but he isn’t a stunning conversationalist. Thirty minutes after we dock, we arrive at the seaside village of Les Trois-Îlets. Our driver drops us at the end of the line of shops.

The buildings are colorful and scream, Westerners came through and put a ton of money into making this place look island-y yet Americanized. It reminds me a bit of Key West, Florida. Still, getting on solid, dry land and smelling the various plants and trees does something to my soul.

The guards exit the vehicle and assess the area. The square is quiet, barely anyone around.

Still, I’m uncomfortable. On edge. I fidget with my thumbnail. “I won’t be long,” I tell Patrick when he takes up space beside me. “I just wanted to stop at the jewelry store.”

The man tilts his chin down in acknowledgment.

I trail behind Walker as we follow the signs further into the market. Patrick follows me closely, so I’m covered from the front and behind. Another shout comes from my consciousness, repeating that this is probably a really bad idea.

It’s just a small stop. It will be fine. Take a chill pill.

For the first time in several days, I wish I had Kitty with me to soothe my nerves.

Within a few minutes, we’re saved from the Caribbean heat when we run across an elaborate store that appears to cater to wealthy Americans daily.

“May I help you?” comes a bored, accented voice when we step inside. The fair-skinned woman looks at me with a pinch of annoyance. I look down at my casual outfit.

I don’t appear to be the epitome of wealth in my simple sundress and woven sandals, and I suppress irritation that if I looked differently, this woman would likely have a more welcoming attitude toward us.

Nonetheless, I square my shoulders and address the shopkeeper. “Yes, I would like to see your men’s wedding bands. I’m looking for something to complement this.” I stick my left hand out toward her over the counter, and I take immense pride as both of her eyebrows go up.

Then she pulls out a jeweler’s loupe to analyze the gems, and I try not to suck my teeth at her clear assumption that my stones are fake.

After waving over her partner, who also takes a look at my diamonds, both of them share a glance before breaking out into beatific smiles.

“Yes, of course!” The man scrambles to round the counter, meeting Patrick and me on the other side. “May I get you some refreshments? Champagne? Sparkling water?”

I can see the dollar signs spinning in the dude’s eyes, and his female counterpart reappears with a chilly bottle of Dom Perignon in one hand and Perrier in another.

“No, thank you,” I reply good-naturedly. “What bands do you have that have rose gold or platinum? Ideally, I’d like both metals, but we’re on a time crunch, unfortunately.”

The woman jumps again, headed to the back of the store while the other man says, “Of course, madame. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll present you with several options. Forgive me, may I ask your name?”

“Yes, it’s Winter B—”

“Mrs. Ventura,” Patrick says, cutting me off. I’m almost as startled at the fact that he’s actually speaking words directed at me as I am that he punted a new name my way. “Just a reminder that we have your next appointment in fifteen minutes or so.”

I turn back to Patrick, who wears an unreadable expression, and then it dawns on me that I was about to give this stranger my whole legal name as if supervillains aren’t chasing after us. No wonder Veronica left. I really am too stupid to live sometimes.

“Right, thank you, Patrick,” I say, and the guard lifts an eyebrow, amused.

“Mrs. Ventura, thank you. Just a moment,” the man says.

When out of the man’s earshot, I open my mouth to speak to Patrick, but he shakes his head a fraction. A definitive “no.”

I snap my mouth shut.

“Mrs. Ventura, how about these?” The woman returns with a tray, seven rings evenly spaced for my assessment. “This is the…” she drones on about the different classes of rings and the types of diamonds embedded in the band.

I hum as I assess each one, aware that the guards are keeping time behind me. When the clock strikes 12:45, I frown at the shopkeepers.

“None of these are quite right,” I say. I look to Walker, who watches the male jeweler as he moves over to the main entrance.

“We will be closing for our midday break shortly,” the man says, turning the lock on the door.

That immediately sets me on edge, and when Patrick’s face hardens, I trip over the precipice into panic.

“You know, thank you so much for showing me all of these. We must be off now,” I say.

But then the woman grabs my wrist, which has me looking at my security, terrified.

Please, God. Please don’t let me die here.

Walker is the closest to me, and he pulls his gun out in a smooth motion, pointing it at the woman. But she’s fast. I’d be impressed at how quickly the female shopkeeper moves in any other scenario, but in this one, as she flicks a blade at Walker and stabs him right in the abdomen, all I can do is scream.

The shorter guard falls to the ground with a pained, wet roar, lifting his arm to shoot. The woman falls when his bullet pierces her skull.

Move, Winter!

I shuffle backward, finding the nearest wall and putting my back on it before dropping to the ground in a crouch. As soon as I land on my ass, our other assailant shoots Walker in the neck.

My change in position allows me to see everything that I don’t want to see—one guard on the ground, the other guard standing with his hands up as the male shopkeeper points one gun flush to his temple and another at me. Even though I’m on the floor, the shopkeeper has a clear sightline to where I sit.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my voice quavering and body shaking with fear and regret.

The man sneers. “For The Architect,” he says, but before he can finish the last syllable—before he can pull the trigger—a round hole appears right between his eyebrows.

I stare at the sight, confused, even when the man drops to the ground. Patrick rushes over to his comrade.

“What are you doing here?” Patrick says, his voice full of menace but his attention focused on his unconscious partner.

No, not unconscious. Dead.

And that’s when I know there are more than myself, the guards, and the two dead shopkeepers in this room.

“I’m saving your goddamn life,” a familiar voice intones.

And as soon as I register it, I spin around, narrowing my eyes.

“You,” I hiss. Blind with rage, I launch myself toward the man who tried to destroy my life all those weeks ago.

TWENTY-FIVE

HUNTER

Iregret letting Winter go as soon as the boat leaves my line of sight.

But because Winter needed the freedom and I’m unable to deny her anything, I gave her what she wanted and sent her off to explore.

This is an exercise in releasing control.

Sitting on the deck with Misha and Amelia on a video call, I allow myself to fall into a state of hypervigilance as my gaze flits between the tracker app I have on the encoded phone Max prepped and the horizon.

She’ll be back within the hour. Breathe.

“Are we boring you, Brigham?” Misha asks. His tone is both amused and exasperated.

I shift in the seat, looking at him and my mom on the screen.

My mom.

She smiles brightly, and I note that her nose is a little red.

“Have you been spending time in the garden?” I ask her. She looks a little taken aback by the question, but still, she says, “I have.”

“Are you wearing your sunscreen?”

She smiles even wider. “Isn’t that my line?” she asks, and I chuckle.

Any time I went to Isla Cara, Mom would give me a tight hug and tell me to wear my sunscreen every day. It was our thing.

I shrug. “Maybe it’s time to re-apply. You’re getting a little burned,” I tell her.

With a tsk and a good-natured eye roll, she leaves her seat, going out of sight of the camera.

It’s just Misha and me on the line, and the wind is my only companion.

I return my gaze to the shore.

“Plan on living, Hunter.”

I turn toward Misha’s image, giving him a wry look. “Pardon?”

He chuffs, the sound close to amusement for the pakhan. “You have a bit of martyr in you, Brigham, but don’t throw yourself into the shark-infested waters just to absolve yourself of guilt. Plan on living to be an old man with your wife and your kids by your side.”

Misha paints a pretty picture, one I desperately want—and more than anything, I want peace.

Peace for Winter. Peace for August.

Peace for me.

But I’ve been so focused on how I’m living on borrowed time that I haven’t dared to dream of a life where I live it to the fullest.

“I don’t know if you’ve taken a look lately, but tomorrow is especially not promised for any of us,” I say. “You know, seeing as The Legion is hellbent on annihilating me and my family.”

Misha gives a slow, thoughtful nod. “I do see your point, Hunter, and still, who is to say we won’t prevail?”

“Statistics?” I throw out.

Misha laughs and it’s the first time I’ve heard him give a true, deep laugh.

“Don’t be so quick to give up. Life and your luck will always surprise you,” he says.

I flick my eyes over to the smaller screen, expecting to see the dot indicating Winter’s location.

Except it’s not where it’s supposed to be—on the main street in Forte-de-France.

It moves quickly in the wrong direction.

“Gotta run,” I tell Misha, distracted.

But when the alert buzzes on my phone, indicating that Patrick has sent up the distress signal, I run from the table.

I’m not even sure I hung up on Misha.

I bellow for Keegan, the remaining guard from Misha’s team as I race through the house, but since he got the same signal I did, he’s already got the helicopter ready to take off.

I blink and I’m in the pilot’s seat.

“I got a message. Winter is unharmed, but there are two civilian bodies to deal with and Walker is down. Patrick has Winter covered.”

Fuck. Fuck!

Winter may be unharmed physically, but I know the sight of more death is going to impact her.

All she wants is peace.

I nod, lifting the skids on the helicopter so we’re airborne in minutes. I think through where to land. I turn off the helicopter’s transponder and we stay under the radar, hovering only a hundred feet in the air, so that we’re not caught by air traffic control.

Still, I push the Bell 407 to its limits.

“Aim for Les Trois-Îlets,” Keegan says, tapping on his tablet. He jolts after a second, pulling out his phone. He stares at it, frowning, for several beats.

“Who is it?” I ask. He turns the phone to show me it’s a call from his partner.

“Well, fucking answer it! Patch it through the system,” I command into the headset microphone.

Keegan connects the phone.

“Patrick,” he says, his voice a snap.

“Not Patrick,” a voice I want to strangle says over the line. “Although you should be ecstatic that it’s me you’re talking to and not someone else.”

“Marcus Law,” I say, and his name is a curse. “If you hurt a hair on my wife’s head, there won’t be a place in Hell that you can hide from me.”

“Yeah, yeah. Save all the alpha bullshit. I’ve got your man and your girl. Meet in La Savane Parc in thirty to get them.”

Marcus hangs up the line. Wait, he’s just…handing them over to us?

My neck muscles tense as I prepare myself for a confrontation.

A trap. A trap. A trap….

The helicopter is silent except for the hum of the rotary wings for several minutes as we approach the bay. When we pass over downtown Forte-de-France, I land the helicopter on a grassy yet flat patch of land on the park’s far side. It looks like several helicopters before me have used it as a landing pad, and there’s a crude path leading toward the line of shops through the trees.

I throw my headset on the seat and jump out of the aircraft, leaving Keegan to handle the shutdown. I blink a few times and then I’m standing among the shoppers and street fare hawkers that line the edge of the park and the beach on the other side of the main road.

I keep my panic firmly locked behind a steel door in my psyche, afraid that if I allow even a sliver of it out, I’ll start raging. But just when I feel myself starting to slip, I catch sight of curly hair piled high on a dark head.

Winter.

I resist sprinting so I don’t bring any more attention to myself, but as soon as I’m up on the group, I nearly collapse in relief. Winter and Patrick sit at a wrought-iron table at a French outdoor cafe. It dimly reminds me of La Maison, one of the places Winter and I went on our first date.

Patrick looks around with a vigilant stare, and because I know where he keeps his gun, I know he palms his pistol beneath his linen shirt.

Winter looks pale, petrified, and as soon as I’m close enough, I pull her to stand, crushing her into my arms.

“Shit, baby, what happened? Where is Law?” I mutter into her ear. I feel feral when I feel her tremble.

“He left,” she says, her voice just as low.

“What do you mean he left?” I say a little louder.

“Brigham, let’s get back to the island,” Patrick says, standing. He casts his sharp eyes around the area. “We’re not safe here.”

That’s all he has to say to get us moving to the Bell and back into the air.

Twenty minutes later, we touch down on the helipad on Winter Island, and the guards hurry out of the aircraft, leaving me and Winter behind.

I sit in silence, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to access the tools Winter’s taught me over the past several months. What was it she said at the beginning of our trip? Opposite action?

So what’s the opposite of wanting to unload a clip in an invisible enemy?

Winter tries to speak, but I shake my head, not wanting to say something that would hurt her. She says she can handle anything I need to release, but that still doesn’t mean I want to unleash all the shit that’s bubbling beneath my skin on her.

The exact opposite, in fact.

“I need to access some Zen for a few minutes before I’m ready to talk, baby,” I grind out, looking out at the ocean.

Winter is quiet for a moment, but then she says in a small voice, “I understand.” She exits the helicopter but pauses with her hand on the door.

“I’m sorry that things happened like this today. I know you’re upset…I’ll be ready to accept my punishment when you’re ready to give it.”

When she says the last sentence, I snap my head toward her. A smile plays on her lips, in direct contradiction to the haunted, tired look in her eyes. She rubs a hand over her stomach absently, and I force myself to fight back the insane panic that starts hammering my consciousness like a battering ram.

“Right,” I tell her, my voice flat. “I’ll find you.”

With a sharp jerk down of her chin, she spins on her bare feet to leave but only makes it a step before turning around to face me again. Her watery eyes plead with me, and I realize that she didn’t tell me that for me.

She told me that for her.

Oh, I see, Sunbeam.

“Stop,” I say through gritted teeth, my tone deep.

Winter freezes.

Speeding through the post-flight checks to secure the helicopter, I exit the cockpit and stand directly in front of her.

“What do you need, Sunbeam? Speak clearly,” I say.

I don’t want to fuck this up.

“I need—” she swallows, and I watch her throat move with the action. “I just saw two people get their brains blown out. And they were trying to kill me. I feel—I feel so outside of my body. I need you to help me find it, H,” she whispers, her words halting.

I put my fingers into the curls at the base of her neck, contemplating her words.

“Are you ready, baby?” I say, pulling her close with slow movements to whisper close to the shell of her ear.

She nods, her actions restricted by the firm grip I have on her neck.

“Good,” I say, then I slap her hard on her right ass cheek. The crack is loud, and I know it smarts from the way she jumps in the air.

But instead of a howl of pain, she groans, a choked sound, and leans into me, her hands flying to my shoulders. I rub soothing circles over the assaulted cheek.

“I won’t punish you, Winter. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She makes another sound in her throat, but this time, it borders on a lost cry. I bunch her skirt in my fist, raising it inch by inch to reveal her shapely thighs.

“But I will help remind you that you’re alive.”

She shudders at that, releasing my name with a breathy sigh.

“Hold this up. Don’t let it drop,” I order when her skirt clears her ass.

Her hands fly to grasp the fabric in tight fists.

Once my hands are free, I grab her bikini bottoms and shove them down to pool around her ankles.

The muscles in her thighs twitch with a fine tremble as she stands with her legs slightly spread, naked from the waist down.

A year ago, she would have been totally scandalized, terrified at someone seeing us—seeing her in this way.

But now? Now she widens her stance, and the wetness on her trimmed pussy hair glistens, calling for me to get a taste.

“Do you want me to use you? Do you want me to fuck you so hard that you’ll feel me long after I’ve left my cum in your body? It’ll be my reminder that you’re still here.”

She nods, her curls bouncing. “Yes, Hunter. I want that. I need that.”

“Good,” I say. “Now get on your knees.”

She doesn’t stall, she just drops to her knees, her hands going to her thighs. The sight of her staring up at me with her wide eyes and plush lips makes me go from hard to steel in a heartbeat.

“Put my cock in your mouth,” I dictate. She puts her hands on my waistband, knowing not to go too slowly with unbuttoning the pants and pulling my dick out.

She strokes me once, twice, and I feel my balls draw up, and my eyes start to roll back.

“I said, suck my fucking cock, Winter,” I spit out, and she jumps into action, bringing the head of my dick to her lips. She looks at me with an unwavering, trusting gaze and kisses me on the tip. One, two, three—then, she gives me a long, hot, wet lick up my shaft.

I groan deep within my chest, an involuntary action. She wants to feel this, so I put my hand on the back of her head, forcing her to take more of me into her mouth. Her lips stretch wide, servicing my cock with a tight, long suck.

She pulls off me for a breath.

“I promise to keep myself safe, Hunter,” she vows, her voice desperate as she whispers the words along the shaft of my dick.

All I can do is growl at her admission.

“I’m sorry for being reckless. I just wanted to get you something like you got me. I want the world to know you’re taken.”

A gust of wind comes through and the rotor blades spin in a slow wobble behind me. I’m acutely aware that we’re in the middle of the helipad in plain view of the house.

Winter steals my thoughts when she rolls her lips in to suck me down until I bump the back of her throat.

Then she damns me to Hell when she swallows against me.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so good at that,” I bite out. She preens at the praise, and using her hands and mouth, she works to keep breathing while taking me down her throat.

She does so good for several minutes before she overwhelms herself. When she gags, I pull out of her mouth, and a string of spit suspends between us when I take a step back.

Winter. My wife.

I surprise her when I pull her up with more gentleness than she likely expects, and kiss her. It’s hungry, angry, hard, but passionate. I return her energy, trying to tell her, show her, that I’m here. I’m with her.

And she’s here with me too.

Breaking off our kiss, I guide her to the open door of the helicopter. The simpler position would have been to take her from behind, bending her over the bottom of the threshold.

Instead, I say, “Get in,” and she scrambles to enter the helicopter at the rear. I follow behind her, shutting the door.

Her chest rises and falls as she takes in big bellows of air, and I put both of my hands on her cheeks.

“You’re okay,” I say. I mirror slowing my breathing, and she does as I do.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She nods, biting her lip. She releases a sharp sound in her throat, a sob.

“You’re okay, Sunbeam. Feel me.” I put her hand on my chest where my heart thrums against my breastbone.

“I’m okay,” she repeats. Her fingers flex against my flesh. “I’m okay.”

I bring her lips to mine, kissing her with everything within me, channeling the fact that I’m freaked the fuck out too.

“You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” she chokes.

I put her hand on my hard cock. “Feel me,” I say.

“Fuck me,” she replies. She shifts to the edge of the seat, spreading her legs wide. She looks like a goddess positioned like this. Her stomach is swollen with my baby; her cunt is dripping from arousal that I stoked within her.

“I know I keep saying it, but I am the luckiest man on the entire planet, Winter,” I say, running two fingers up and down her slit.

“How did we get this way?” she says, her words turning into a moan.

“Maybe to make up for all the bad shit we’ve gone through in the past. Maybe it’s just our time to be happy.” I press into her inch by inch, reveling in the hot, wet clench of her around me.

“So let’s be happy, H,” she whispers.

I kiss her in agreement.

My strokes pick up speed until I’m pistoning in and out of her and she scores her nails in the flesh over my biceps.

“Hunter!” she yells, and her thighs tense around me. She comes and comes as I rub her button in the way I know gives her the most pleasure.

“I love you so much,” she says, cresting for the second time, strangling my cock.

“Always. Transcendentally,” I rasp out. She squeezes me once more, and it’s game over. I blow inside her, pressing deep so she gets every drop.

In the quiet aftermath, we stay connected. Our lips remain pressed to the other’s while my softening dick rests inside her.

It’s like neither one of us wants this moment to end.

“I just want shit like this to stop happening, Hunter,” she says, her eyes closed. The soft honesty of her words still lands like a hammer.

“I know, baby. I know,” I say. And no matter what, I’m committed to making that happen.

I LEFT Winter to sleep in our bedroom with the balcony doors open to let in the afternoon breeze. She says the crash of the waves settles something within her, and I hope it will help calm her frayed nerves.

When we got back into the house, she started to hyperventilate, but she said it was “only a small panic attack.” I disagreed and encouraged her to take her emergency anti-anxiety meds, but she declined, worried about the baby. I didn’t want to press and send her into another episode. A call to the doctor at Misha’s compound confirmed that a hefty dose of Benadryl should knock her out and help her calm down without endangering the baby.

I need to ask Winter specifics about what happened at the shop, not necessarily because I distrust Patrick but more because I don’t know him.

But Misha trusts his crew, so I’ll extend them a sliver of acceptance.

Still, Winter is in no condition to rehash the events of the last few hours, so while she takes the option to bring herself down with some antihistamines, I make it my mission to find Patrick and Keegan.

It takes me a minute to cross the house in search of either of them, but when I don’t find the two guards, I follow the trail down to the security house at the base of the hill.

The lights are on, and Keegan’s dark hair is visible through the window.

But when I hear Patrick shouting, I freeze.

“And why the fuck should I trust you?” Patrick roars, his voice loud through the open window.

I’m acutely aware that I don’t have my gun, and I curse myself for being so stupid. Even though we’re on a deserted island, I should be ready for any fucking thing to happen.

I contemplate how I can get to the cache of weapons in the security house when Keegan swings the door open.

“Come in, enjoy the party,” he grouses, opening the door wider. He seems completely unsurprised that I’m here.

I slide into the room but stop short when I see Marcus Law seated at the head of the table, looking like the king of the island.

Patrick looks agitated as he rocks from foot to foot with his arms crossed while Keegan stares hard at the interloper.

“Somebody wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?” I ask.

Marcus’ face is like stone, his gaze never wavering from me.

“Law decided to pay us a visit,” Patrick spits. “Despite coming in like the Angel of Death and then dropping us in the middle of a crowded shopping center, he has more business to discuss, apparently.”

“Listen, I saved your asses. The Legion got the drop on you and sent me to clean up the mess. Don’t underestimate the level of personal risk I’m taking,” Marcus says.

“And for what reason do you care?” Keegan throws back.

That causes something to ghost over his expression.

“I ask myself that question every fucking day,” Marcus replies, his tone flat.

When Marcus Law rises from his chair, dusting off his cargo shorts, I’m prepared for many things.

Except for him to punch me in the face.

Wiping blood from my split lip with the back of my hand, I chuckle at the sight. Then I return the jab, hitting Marcus in the nose.

His head snaps back, and Patrick chuckles, clearly enjoying this ass-beating. I’m unsure who he’s supporting, though.

I land one more punch, and Law gets me in the ribs.

“I’m going to fucking kill you for what you did to my family,” I growl, rolling over to pin him to the ground.

“Not if I kill you first, motherfucker,” Marcus says with just as much heat.

He hits me with a kidney punch, and the pain causes me to lose ground. He flips me over, and in the process, I grab his shirt, prepared to choke him with it.

Instead, the fabric rips, baring his chest.

I freeze.

One heartbeat. Two. Three.

Ominira.

Emblazoned across his chest in bold script is the single name that has haunted my dreams for decades.

“Ominira,” I say, my voice barely above a strangled whisper. My speech must infuriate Marcus because he rears back with a primal yell that signals his intent to smash my skull in.

But if not for Patrick, who grabs his arm, halting his progress, I’d be a bloody mess on the tile floor.

“You need to chill,” Patrick says, releasing a long-suffering sigh.

With one final hard look, Marcus lifts off me, jerking away from us and pacing toward the far wall of the small structure. I rise and take two big steps toward Marcus.

“Who was she to you?” I ask. I try to keep all emotion out of my voice.

Ominira was someone who mattered to Marcus. And I killed her.

Marcus laughs darkly.

“Do you care?” he mutters back. For once, he isn’t smiling, and with his serious countenance, I can see every weathered, tired line on his face and the hardened set of his jaw. The jovial asshole who shadowed Winter whenever I met her at her apartment is all hard edges and vengeance.

“Yes. I care very much,” I reply.

Marcus turns to face me, leaning against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other. He folds his arms and says, “Ominira Adichie was my sister. When she was six years old, she and my mother traveled from Accra to the United States on a visa lottery. My father came to the States earlier and was finally able to bring our mother and one sibling over. Except when they landed in New York, instead of meeting my father, they were taken. I have never found my mother, but she is expected to be dead. My sister, however, was raised on your father’s island.”

I stand there stunned, looking and feeling like an idiot. Ominira and I were not friends, but I saw her often when I visited Isla Cara. She was kind to me.

And I killed her. I could rationalize it and say it was a mercy killing because I know that if I hadn’t done it, someone else would have, and they wouldn’t have given her nearly as much dignity or compassion as her life ended.

But to her brother, none of that matters.

I know that if I were in his shoes and Ella had been the one murdered, I wouldn’t care about the reasons.

I’d just want revenge.

I don’t know what to say, not that there is anything I could say.

“Law, you’re lucky I didn’t shoot you on sight,” Patrick says.

Keegan doesn’t move, instead choosing to continue leaning against the wall.

The guards Misha sent are an interesting bunch, although I haven’t made an effort to know any of them.

The one I’ve spoken to the most is Patrick, which is why I felt confident in sending him along with Winter. Keegan is usually silent—a man of few words. I think we’ve shared maybe thirty words with each other, and the most conversation we’ve had was in the helicopter a few hours ago.

But Patrick…he’s a hot head.

A hot head with secrets, apparently.

“Or is this like some kind of special ops family reunion?” Patrick grinds out, giving Marcus a look that would be lethal in most circumstances.

“Anyone want to fill me in?” I say.

I’m ignored.

“Long time no see, Law.” This comes from Keegan, who finally speaks. I raise my eyebrow at him.

So they all know Marcus?

“Yeah, well, that was the plan, right? I stay deep underground, and you pretend like you don’t know me.”

“Well, what brings you to this part of the world?” Patrick says, folding his hands behind his head. I note the thread of tension that causes his biceps to bunch.

“Probably for the same reason you are,” Marcus replies cooly.

“You’re a long way from the CIA headquarters, though,” Patrick says, rubbing his chin. “And you haven’t answered the question. What are you doing here, Law?”

Marcus sighs. “If I wanted to kill any of you, I would have done it by now, right?” He passes a look around the room, his eyes lingering on each of us for a moment longer than is comfortable.

“Start talking for real,” Keegan says in a measured tone. He pulls out his gun but doesn’t point it toward Marcus. Leaning further against the wall, he crosses his ankles and wrists, casually pointing his firearm toward the ground as he holds it with one hand over the other.

Marcus rasps a hand over his short fade. “How secure is this room, O’Brien?” Marcus asks, talking to Patrick.

Patrick grins, but it’s not a kind look. He presses a button on the wall nearest the exit. With the action, the blinds close over the single wall of windows, and the low hum starts around the room as the noise-canceling technology fires up.

A Max thing.

When he’s sealed the room, Marcus gives Keegan a heavy look, and the man places his gun back into his shoulder holster.

With a deep breath, Marcus begins to speak.

“I believe the Agency has been compromised. I got a signal from one of my people. They’ve cut the program, so I’m out here ghost.”

I try to keep up.

“So you think that Winthrope found you out?” This is from Keegan, who wears a serious expression that’s even more grave than usual.

“It’s likely, but not clear at this point. But I don’t particularly care to sit around and find out.” He blows out a breath, straightening. “Listen, I just came to warn you: There’s some serious shit about to go down on Isla Cara.”

“Isla Cara?” Technically, the property belongs to Ella and me, so if something were going down, we would know about it...right?

“Yep,” Marcus says, emphasizing the word. “Isla Cara is a very important place, if you haven’t figured that out yet.”

I nod, rubbing my thumbnail to my upper lip and thinking.

“Okay,” I draw out. “But we know about the big event coming up. The Hunt,” I reply.

“No,” Marcus snaps, not looking at me. “Yes, The Hunts are still happening, but there’s something even bigger about to happen and I don’t know exactly what it is. What I do know is you all need to either shit or get off the pot.”

Translation: We need to make a move or forget the whole thing. Except stepping back means mass devastation.

“Do you know who The Architect is?” I interject.

Marcus doesn’t physically acknowledge the inquiry, but he does reply, “No. I don’t.”

So much for that.

“When Benjamin was…dispatched several weeks ago, those who were on his side were given a choice: declare allegiance to the current Architect or be executed.”

“And I’m guessing no one took the execution route?” This is from Keegan.

“Nope, but that test of allegiance is essentially a fight to the death. Survival of the fittest is one of their core ideologies, so it makes sense.” Marcus shrugs. “They’ve done this before.”

“So let me get this straight,” Patrick says, “all these old asses are gonna go fight gladiator style? Won’t they all just kill each other with one hard push to the hip?”

I chuckle but keep it under my breath.

“You’d think, right?” Marcus says. “But of course they wouldn’t put themselves on the line. Well, not directly. They’ve stolen people to go in as their proxy.”

Marcus delivers this line so simply that it takes me a moment to understand what he’s saying.

“Wait,” I blurt out. “So the people they’ve trafficked are going to Isla Cara to fight to the death in their place? How many people are being tested?”

It takes Marcus several heartbeats to decide to reply.

“From what I could gather, there are at least a fifty Designers who need to prove their loyalty.”

That means they’re bringing in at least as many bodies to hunt as there are Designers. If not more.

“Listen,” Marcus begins, “I’m on my own here. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna get doxed pretty soon, so I’m trying to extend my time on this planet a little longer, you feel me?” Marcus says this as if it’s no big deal. “So I can’t stay with The Legion for long before I go off the radar for good.”

I nod, understanding.

“Do you know when this is happening?” Patrick asks.

Marcus replies, “It’s the climax of this week’s events—The Hunt on steroids. It’ll be bloodier than ever before.”

“Bloodier than before, but there will be more people than before too.”

My brain spins. This could be our chance. If hundreds of Designers will be there, it’s even more likely the higher ups will be on Isla Cara too. Maybe even The Architect.

We could actually take them out.

We could end this.

A sharp ringing from the landline on the desk causes my heart rate to spike. Patrick answers the call, listening for several seconds. I count my heartbeats.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Ba-dum.

Patrick looks at me. “It’s Misha,” he says, still holding the phone and my gaze.

All of us are silent for several moments.

With dread and acceptance filling my chest, I say, “What do we need to do?”

TWENTY-SIX

WINTER

It’s surprising that I managed to sleep, especially for six hours, seeing as my brain has been running a mile a minute since Marcus Law showed up at the jewelry store.

Marcus-Fucking-Law.

Of all the people I thought would show up, he was the last person I expected or wanted.

When I lunged at him, he caught me easily around my chest, taking care to avoid my baby bump. But when I started yelling profanities and swearing how I planned to murder him with my bare hands for harming August, he slapped a hand over my mouth.

A second before I could bite down on the flesh of his palm, he hissed in my ear, “If you want to live, shut the fuck up and come with me.”

His words were like a gong in my brain, but given that there were two, now three, dead bodies on the floor and Marcus had managed to take out the one who had a gun pointed toward me, I felt compelled to listen.

But it wasn’t until Patrick stood up and rushed toward us saying, “Listen to him and let’s get back to safety,” that I accepted that I needed to trust Marcus Law.

How did this all become so, so complicated?

When hasn’t it been complicated, Winter?

When I pad out of our suite and down to the living room, I’m met with a flurry of activity.

Patrick and Keegan hover over a computer screen, and Misha’s terse voice echoes from the speakerphone on the table next to them.

“What’s going on?” I ask. Patrick looks at me over his shoulder, and his face is grave.

Sharing a look with his partner, he says, “Brigham’s sister is missing.” Keegan stands, rushing out of the room with a laptop in his hand.

“What do you—Ella? Ella is missing?” I ask Patrick, and he waves me off, agitated.

“Hey!” I yell, putting my hands on my hips. “I don’t know what stick crawled up your ass, but you can’t treat me like trash. I deserve basic human respect and you’re talking about my sister-in-law,” I say in a measured tone I don’t feel.

Patrick sighs just when Hunter walks into the room. He looks tense but focused, his movements tight.

“Ella has decided to hand herself over to The Legion,” Hunter says. Each word presses through his tight jaw.

“What? Why the hell would she do that!” It’s my understanding that once we found out the clues about Isla Cara from the rings, the plan to offer Ella up as bait to draw out The Architect took a pause. We don’t need to go that route, so we reserved it as the nuclear option. We have Plan A—Misha and the rest of the team will infiltrate Isla Cara, find The Architect, and get rid of as many Legion members as possible at the same time.

Ella was on board with this plan...right?

Her moodiness at our wedding clearly was a red flag.

Oh, Ella, what are you doing?

“Fuck if I know,” he mumbles, looking away from me. “Patrick, we’re out of here in five minutes.”

Then he spins and walks out the door.

Wait. What?

I rush to follow after my husband. “Where are you going?” I say, each word rising in volume.

“I’m going to get my sister,” he throws over his shoulder as he follows the path to the helicopter.

“Wait a minute, Hunter!” I say, struggling to keep up with his fierce clip with my bare feet. “You can’t just go running off. Don’t you need backup?”

“Keegan dispatched a drone to fly over Isla Cara. There are very few people on the island from what we can tell. Less than ten. I can handle that. Plus, Keegan and Patrick are coming with me.”

My head spins.

“Wait, what? What about The Hunt? I thought… Wait. Hunter, please don’t—” I swallow my words. Because can I really tell him not to go after his sister? Can I really demand that he stay here where it’s safe?

He spins around when we’re a yard from the helicopter. It hums with the beginning stages of the startup sequence.

He crashes his mouth to mine, bringing me close so that our bodies are flush.

“Sunbeam, I’ve been running from this shit for my whole life. It’s time I stopped running and faced it.”

“I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I whisper, and tears make my vision blurry.

“I know,” he says. He runs a thumb beneath my lower eyelids. “But there isn’t another option that I can really live with.”

My eyes slide shut. He’s right, of course.

He has to go.

“Go to the safe room, Sunbeam. Stay there until someone gets you. Misha and Leo are on the way to Winter Island. They’ll be with you if I’m not.”

I want to wail and throw up and fall to the ground.

Hunter looks back at the helicopter when Patrick and Keegan begin to load it with massive amounts of firearms.

“I’ve got to go, Winter. I love you. I’ll be back before you know it,” he says. And from the steel in his jaw and the way his eyes blaze, I know he means it.

“I love you too, Hunter. Keep yourself safe and come back to me. To us,” I say.

He puts a hand on my belly, kissing me again.

Right at that moment, the baby decides to give a firm kick right where Hunter’s hand is.

I gasp. “Did you feel that?” I say, awe lacing my voice.

Hunter’s smile is wide.

“We gotta roll,” Patrick yells from the co-captain’s chair.

“I did feel that. And I’ll feel it some more tonight. I swear it.”

With one final kiss, Hunter steps onto the helicopter and flies off a few minutes later.

I stare after the helicopter until I can’t spot it anymore. The sun is low in the sky, and we have a few hours before it sets. The image before me would be beautiful to witness at any other time. The clouds cast a pink and orange highlight as the clear blue skies make way for the night.

Resentment is a sharp knife in my chest. We’re supposed to have this time for us. The world is scary enough back home, and we’re going to face some serious shit when we return stateside.

And yet, this time is supposed to be for us.

I let the tears fall as I turn to head back to the house.

We aren’t that far from Isla Cara by aircraft, only a hundred nautical miles away. I don’t know what it means that Hunter bought an island so close to his father’s.

I’ll have to ask him about it later.

If he comes back.

I put one foot in front of the other, but when I step on a bramble, I shriek. It’s a totally overblown response, but I can’t stop the sound from exiting my lips. Leaning on a boulder placed on the edge of the path, I remove the object from the sole of my foot.

When blood wells up, the spinning gets worse.

I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack.

I grab my chest, looking up at the house. I just need to get into the house.

Slow your breathing, Winter.

Inhale. Step. Exhale. Step. Get to the goddamn safe room.

I repeat and repeat the mantra until I reach the covered landing to enter the house, but then my hands start to shake, and an icy shot of adrenaline causes my face to tingle. I hold on to the walls, making my way through the back of the house toward the kitchen.

I need Kitty.

I need my meds.

I need Hunter.

Hunter is gone. Hunter is gone. Hunter is off on a suicide mission.

I grab the glass of water left on the kitchen counter. I need water. I need water, I need water, I need water—

I bring the glass to my lips with a shaking hand, and it’s a miracle that it doesn’t all spill on my shirt.

I swallow—one, two, three—gulps.

But the water balls in my tense esophagus, mingling with a sharp, unpleasant taste of bile, and the discomfort sends me into a new panic.

I realize I’m crying, sobbing, when I land on my knees next to the stools, trying to bring air in through my nose. My clogged nostrils bring a resurgence of terror, doubling my misery.

Get to the safe room, Winter!

I lay on my side, letting the cool marble floors ground me.

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

I close my eyes even though the action causes tears to roll into my ears.

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

Inhale. Exhale.

Oh, my god. Please bring him back to me. Please don’t let him leave me to battle this world without him.

As soon as the thought comes, I’m barreled over with nausea.

I throw up on the tile, lifting myself onto my palms at the last second.

God, if you see it good, please return my husband to me. And Ella, too. And help her get some sense knocked into her. But please, not literally knocked into her. Amen.

Distantly, I hear the sound of footsteps tapping on the floor. I’m immediately on high alert because I’m supposed to be alone.

Someone is in here with me, and they’re walking toward me fast.

I pull myself to my knees, but the movement causes my brain to swim, and everything tilts to the side. Slipping. I’m slipping.

“No,” I slur, struggling with the words I want to say. I straighten my upper body, slapping my palm on the countertop. The action causes the water glass to tip over and crash to the floor.

You’re gonna keep yourself safe. Right, baby? Hunter’s words from before the raid when things were simpler whisper in my ear.

“Hunter,” I choke out, moving one knee and then another.

But it’s too late because darkness engulfs my vision.

WHEN I COME TO, the first thing I realize is that the ground is rocking beneath me. Having spent a week on Hunter’s yacht, I can tell that I’m out in the ocean, and that thought terrifies me.

I don’t know how to pilot a boat, and swimming in the shark-infested Caribbean waters simply isn’t a good idea.

I crack an eye open, aware that I’m lying on my side on the floor. With my hands tied behind my back, I try to take in some of my surroundings without alerting anyone who might be around me. I’m bound by zip ties, and the plastic grates on the skin of my wrists. My legs are also bound together at the ankles.

Just then, the baby does a full flip in my womb, and I try not to choke on the sob that I feel trapped in my chest. At this moment, my baby is here, kicking around.

Breathe, Winter. Slow, deep breaths.

When I open my eyes again, the first thing I see is a pair of shoes and the legs of a chair near my feet. I’m unsurprised when I trail my eyes up and it’s Marcus Law sitting there.

“Good, you’re awake,” he says. He scrolls on his phone and the blue light from the screen highlights his bored expression. I don’t respond to his observation.

Instead, I choose to open both eyes all the way, taking in the room. It looks like I’m in a stateroom on a boat of some kind. The porthole windows give it away, along with the movement beneath my body.

We’re sailing, and we’re moving fast.

“You couldn’t have put me on the sofa over there?” I grouse.

Marcus doesn’t look at me when he replies, “Just be grateful that I had them put you here rather than the locker under the foredeck.”

I keep my face neutral, even though the idea of a dark enclosed space causes tremors of anxiety to bloom across my body.

He powers down the screen on his phone, putting it in his breast pocket.

“Hang tight, we’re almost there,” he says, settling back into his seat.

I make a deep, agitated sound in my chest. “I thought you were on our side?”

He raises his eyebrow and runs his hand back and forth over his low fade.

“Why would I ever want to help Hunter Brigham?” He draws out the sentence.

“What did Hunter ever do to you?” My chest gets tight with anger.

That question causes Marcus to sit forward on his chair in a flash of movement. “He killed my sister,” he spits. “He was there while she was used over and over on Isla Cara, and then he slit her throat on the beach. He left her there to rot like a dead whale.”

I hold my breath to keep from reacting.

“How do you know this to be true?” I say, not caring that it’s a completely insensitive question. The man has me hogtied on the floor for fuck’s sake.

He smiles and it’s grim. “I have my ways.”

I test the strength of the zip ties again, holding in a wince.

“I’m sorry about what happened to your sister. Hunter tried his best to help the people kept there—”

“Hunter Brigham ain’t do shit for nobody but himself,” he fires back. “I’m just so fucking sorry that you got caught up in all of this. You seem like a nice girl. You could have met someone not as flashy, maybe an accountant or something. Then you could have had a safe, boring life, but now you’re tangled up in all this. It’s a shame.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxed, as if he weren’t just spewing vitriol at me for the last minute.

Shrugging, he says, “Oh well,” and picks up a glass of brown liquor.

I don’t reply to his statement because what the fuck is there to say? Nothing. Nothing at all.

So I close my eyes and wait for the next terrible thing to happen.

And I hold on to hope that Hunter will save me this time because I don’t know that I have the strength to save myself.

TWENTY-SEVEN

HUNTER

“Ihate lying to Winter,” I say to Leo as we gather in a room full of other members of The Resistance.

When Misha called to say that not fifty, but a hundred trafficked people, were delivered to Isla Cara as sacrifices in The Hunt, there wasn’t any way I could live with myself if I didn’t intervene.

So, the plan we’ve been working on for the last two weeks took a quick pivot. Instead of Winter and me returning to the States and then executing our plan from afar, we have to get messy. In total, we need to extract about a hundred and sixty people from Isla Cara—servants and the enslaved—and ferry them to safety. Then we can take out every Legion member on the island.

Even though I had to keep the update from Winter and lead her to believe that I’m running off to save Ella, it was necessary. She never would have let me go otherwise.

The plan is bold and risky and, if we succeed, catastrophic to The Legion. But like Misha said yesterday: I plan on living.

“Everyone is clear on their task?” Misha’s voice brooks no argument as he addresses us in his yacht’s massive meeting room.

There are at least twenty soldiers from The Resistance present, along with Leo, Jared, and me.

And Ella, who somehow couldn’t be convinced to stay behind in the States with August and Mom.

“I want to help with the extraction,” she says for the twelfth time, but before she can finish her statement, Leo is there with a fierce rebuttal.

“Ella, you’re not going to step a single foot onto that island,” Leo shouts, exasperation lacing each word.

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

“Ella, if you stay here on the yacht, you can help the others figure out who these people are and where they’re from. That way, we can have a chance of getting them back home. That’s a vital job,” I say.

She lifts her eyebrow before moving to stand in front of Misha with her arms crossed. “You’re really gonna make me stay on the boat, big bro?”

Misha winces. “Ella—”

Ella throws her hands in the air before slamming them back down on her hips.

“Then what has the last month of training been for?” Her voice is calm in the delivery, but her eyes show how pissed she is.

Misha gives me a look that shares the briefest glimpse of helplessness. In his gaze is the message: What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

“Ella, be serious!” Leo stands and grabs her by the arm to spin her to look at him. He breathes hard; she breathes hard.

They stare at each other.

…what the fuck?

“You’re not going, Ells.” Leo’s voice is low as he speaks to Ella, and I look around the room to see if anyone else is watching what I am. I catch sight of Luna who looks at the pair with a smirk, but when I catch her gaze, she looks away from me.

Guilty.

Sucking in a deep breath, Ella whirls around to face Misha. “Fine,” she grits out, and she leaves the room.

“Again, everyone knows their position?” Misha brings us all back to the pressing issue at hand as soon as she clears the doorframe.

“Keegan and I will set the bombs while you and Luna get the servants and slaves out,” Patrick says.

“It’s ‘the enslaved,’” Luna corrects, tapping at the iPad in her hand.

“And we’ll meet you in the middle and take out any Legion fuckers in the way,” This comes from Keegan.

Misha nods and looks at me.

“I’ll find Morris Winthrope,” I say. Find him, get information about The Architect, kill him.

The pakhan, my brother, nods.

“Excellent. We begin in five.” And with that, he grabs his wife by the arm and escorts her from the room.

The other soldiers begin to move around, gathering weapons and bouncing energy off each other. There’s a quiet thrum in the space—like everyone knows that some big shit is about to go down and we’re ready for it.

“You sure you want to do this, H?” Leo’s voice comes from behind me, and I think about his words.

My greatest desire is to burn Isla Cara and all the depravity that comes along with it to the ground, but am I ready?

I look at my hands, seeing the blood of the dozens I’ve killed on them.

“I’m ready for this to be over,” I say and turn around to face my best friend. From the bags beneath his eyes, he looks tired, but there’s a flash of energy in his expression. For all I’ve experienced on Isla Cara at the hands of my father and his friends, Leo has gone through his own version of Hell there.

What could our lives look like on the other side of this bullshit?

Sighing, Leo claps his palm onto my shoulder and says, “Well, let’s fucking go.”

“Not so fast,” Luna says, popping back into the room and halting our progress to the boats. “Leo, you’re on Ella.”

When she says the words, Leo lets out a strange, choked sound. “Excuse me?”

She smiles, beaming. “You’re on Ella duty. Make sure to keep her on the yacht so she doesn’t run off to get herself into danger. Think you can handle her?”

The silence is awkward, and the longer it goes on, the more ideas start spinning in my brain.

Ideas that I don’t like one fucking bit.

“No problem,” Leo says. Turning to me, he says, “Keep yourself alive.”

I can’t form words because I know I’ll either choke on them or lose my shit, so I nod instead.

Keegan, Patrick, and I split up into three separate speed boats and head to the shore of Isla Cara. We dock at the deep alcove that’s used for all the island’s deliveries, including human beings, several yards from the beach entrance to the veranda that’s seen so many horrors.

In the west, the sun has passed the horizon, casting a deep purple glow as the stars come out.

It’s a dry, breezy night. Perfect in so many ways.

Dimly, I’m aware that we’re near the spot where I ended Ominira’s life.

It’s a fitting type of poetry when I think about it.

“Everybody ready?” I call out.

Patrick sounds slightly manic when he says, “Let’s get these fuckers.”

Let’s fucking do this.

We all head off in different directions—Patrick goes to one end of the mansion with the chain of bombs in his arms, and Keegan goes to the opposite. All of the servants should be heading to the yacht so they can escape to safety, alerted to the plan by Misha’s people on the inside.

Finally, I can give them a way out—an actual way out.

I head deeper into the alcove toward the underground crypts, calling on my fuzzy memory to bring me to where I need to be. There aren’t any maps of the underground matrix, but I’ve been here more than once, even if that time of my life was a haze of drug-induced amnesia. I may lack confidence in some of the details around Isla Cara and my time on this island, but if I know anything to be clear, it’s this: if Morris Winthrope is anywhere, he’s in the crypts below.

I push open the rusty door embedded into the rock face and jam it open with a few palm fronds. Clicking on my headlamp, I take cautious steps toward the center of the maze. Although there likely aren’t very many people down here, I know that there will be at least a few guards.

Not all The Legion members are here tonight, but enough of them are to make a difference—just around seventy people. Judging from the moans coming from the direction of the main ballroom, one of the infamous fuck-offs is happening.

I guess my father being dead doesn’t matter too much to them.

Still, it’s the week of The Hunt, and in the memory of Luna here all those years ago, I remember the gathering of men and their murmured whispers.

The Architect was there. I know it.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll be here now.

Something skitters across the ground, and in my attempt to sidestep it, organic matter squishes beneath my foot. The space is dark and dank, heavy with the smell of moisture and mildew, and I bite back a curse as an unseen animal hisses at me.

Get this done. Get back to Winter. Get this done. Get back to Winter.

I repeat the mantra for the next several heartbeats until I hear two separate voices near the center of the caverns. From memory, I know that right past them is the main meeting area—the one where I saw Luna all those years ago.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I lift my weapon just as a familiar scream rents the air—everything within me crashes into the other as pure terror skates down my spine.

Winter. Winter is—Winter is here.

With a strangled breath, I face the guards, popping off two bullets in the time it takes to blink. They drop to the ground with a near-silent thud.

I spin in the center space where five different tunnels come to a juncture—turning, turning—and then another scream rents the air.

“Fuck, Winter,” I rasp, feeling like I’m dying.

Not this time.

Lifting my gun again, I prepare to slaughter anyone who stands in the way of me and my wife.

I sprint down the corridor that I know leads to the meeting area, which also is the direction Winter’s voice comes from.

Hold on, Sunbeam….

Reaching the entrance in under a minute, I assess the tall, metal door, pulling on it before slamming my shoulder into it.

One more scream.

Another.

Another.

And then I hear the most terrifying sound of my life: the rapid pop-pop-pop of gunfire on the other side.

Fuck this.

I point the gun at the lock, blasting it apart with one bullet.

“Winter, where are you!” I shout, scanning and screaming and not at all caring about any of this shit if Winter is here and in danger.

My only goal is to get her out of here and never leave her side ever again.

I shouldn’t have come.

I think about all the innocent lives we’re saving tonight, and all the evil we’ll stop. I try to latch onto it—let it fuel me.

But nothing tops the horror, rage, and pure terror I feel knowing that Winter isn’t safe.

I skid to a stop when I reach the center of the meeting area. It’s unchanged from when I was last here decades ago, and the dark platform in the center of the room provides a clear view of the theater-style rows of seats surrounding it.

A single spotlight illuminates the round stage, and I step toward it.

“Brigham.” My head and gun snap up, searching for the voice in the darkness. After a few invisible footfalls, Marcus Law comes into view.

His face gives nothing away—completely flat. So I keep my gun trained on him as he comes to a stop five feet away from the end of my firearm.

“Where is my wife,” I grit out, my voice like rough asphalt.

Law just stares at me hard, his face unreadable, and then he hums…and what feels like a hammer slams into the back of my skull.

The rifle falls to the ground, the chest strap slides from my shoulder, and everything spins as pain blooms bright in my head. I’m aware of the sticky warmth running from behind my ear and down the back of my shirt.

Stay awake. Find Winter. Kill them all.

I turn over from my place on the ground and blink several times to zero in on the face above me. Just as it comes into focus, the press of cold metal against my forehead makes me freeze.

“You’ve really fucked up, Brigham.”

Morris Winthrope’s voice doesn’t sound as cultured as it usually would, and I feel a sick sense of pride at his messy hair and the rivulet of blood running down from his temple, pooling in his ear. He must have been caught in the battle Patrick and Keegan are waging above us.

Marcus Law comes closer with his gun pointed at my face, and he stares at me with hard eyes. Anyone can see the deadly intent in them. After spotting my rifle on the floor behind Winthrope and Law, I shift my gaze back to the man who likely will become the next president of the United States.

“I’ve fucked up? What makes you say that, Winthrope?” I say, and he takes one step back while keeping the gun trained on me.

Then he smiles.

“Because I’m so going to enjoy torturing you,” he replies.

My wrist twitches, inching toward the blade at my hip.

“Ah-ah,” he says with a tsk. “You won’t want to do that.” I pause again, assessing my situation.

Winthrope has a gun trained on me, but he’s slow and soft, and it will be easy to disarm him and end his life.

Luna’s voice floats through my mind. “Serum or not, there’s no coming back from a headshot.”

Get Winter. Get Winter. Take out this fucker in front of me.

“So what? It’s out with one king and in with the new? If so, sorry about your castle.” My voice is raspy, but I know I have to keep him talking—just for a moment longer.

“You think your father was anywhere good enough? I can see the future. He can’t. Not anymore.”

I try to understand what he’s saying, but Winthrope barks out a loud laugh, his face getting even redder.

“And you, you fucking pussy. All you had to do was follow the plan. But no. You had to go and fuck everything up.” His smile turns gleeful. “But I get to see you suffer, and that almost makes up for it.”

Winthrope nods at Marcus, and Law steps back into the darkness for several heartbeats. He’s gone just long enough for me to get my hand a fraction closer to my knife, but when he returns, I want to start a massacre.

Marcus Law drags Winter, gagged and bound, into the spotlight next to me.

When she falls onto her hip, Marcus casually points his gun at her head, stilling all of my thoughts of throwing my knife into his eye socket.

Oh, fuck.

Winter looks at me with watery eyes, and I struggle to stay still and not pop off and get both of us killed.

There’s Marcus Law with a gun, Morris Winthrope with a gun, and me.

My hands shake as I come up with different scenarios to get her to safety and leave the other men beneath the mansion dead, but the facts that remain are:

1. I never should have trusted Marcus Law.

2. Winter will get out of this safely, even if that means I don’t.

Winthrope keeps talking as the world spins, spins, spins out of control.

My eyes flick to the man holding my wife by the upper arm.

“Ah, see, I’d planned on doing this from afar—sending some men to your island and filling her with bullets for you to find, but Marcus convinced me that the revenge would be much, much sweeter if I witnessed your pain firsthand.”

My eyebrow twitches at that statement, and I resist the urge to look at Marcus Law.

Winthrope looks thoroughly unhinged as he speaks, so I take a moment to assess Winter in the dim light. She looks drugged, listing to the side a fraction, but she’s alert, and that’s what’s keeping my heart beating through the agony I’m battling.

I love you, Sunbeam.

I transmit the words and every ounce of love and care and protection I have for her in my expression.

“What’s your end goal, then?” I nod my head to indicate the mansion above us that will soon start to deteriorate.

Winthrope sniffs, and I zero in on the shake in his forearm. He’s getting tired of holding the gun.

One more minute, Sunbeam.

“It’s time for The Legion to rise up and claim our rightful place. We’ve wasted decades—decades where your father got to have his fun but got nothing done. You think Benjamin Brigham was a king? Of course, you’d think that, but your father was a weak fool. He thought he had what it takes to see our divine mission completed. But in the end, he failed. Just like you’ve failed.”

“Divine mission?” I ask. But instead of answering, he gives me a broad grin.

Keep him talking.

He shifts his gun’s aim to Winter, and Marcus takes a step back, positioning himself behind Winthrope.

My vision narrows on Winthrope’s hand holding the gun that’s pointed toward my wife.

My everything.

I give the older man a smile that’s just as sick as his.

“All this for The Architect?”

Something flashes across his face. “No, everything is for me.” I see the intent in his gaze, but the moment I’ve been waiting for finally comes.

With a loud boom, the first chain of bombs goes off on the far side of the mansion. It’s still close enough that the blast causes the walls to vibrate and groan, and Winthrope jumps, giving me the split second of distraction I need.

He drops the gun a fraction, pointing it away from Winter just enough for me to throw the high-carbon steel toward his chest, and with a meaty thwap, the blade hits the target of his heart.

Winthrope drops like a rock to the stone floor, a strangled noise slipping from his throat as he tries to grasp for the knife.

I stand over him, pulling the secondary gun out of the holster at my back and pointing it at his gaping mouth. He coughs, and blood spews from between his clenched teeth.

“Who is The Architect?” I yell, my hoarse voice grating in my ears.

Winthrope coughs again, sucking in a failed breath before sputtering on my shoes. Then he laughs.

“You’re asking the wrong questions,” he says. “You may kill me, Hunter Brigham, but we will never stop hunting you. Your cunt wife, the bastard in her stomach, your son, and your sweet sister—we will have her. Nothing stops The Architect.”

I allow the rage and vengeance to take over, filling my cells and overriding my senses. I pull the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again until his face is nothing more than bloody pulp.

And then, silence.

Nothing stops The Architect.

Except me.

Winter makes a sound in her throat, and I whirl around and exhale as Marcus removes the tape from her face in a violent jerk.

I rush to her, falling onto my knees as I grasp her cheeks. Talking to Marcus, I say, “You couldn’t tell anyone about the change in plans?”

Marcus slides a blade between Winter’s wrists and the zip tie, and when she’s freed, she wraps her arms around my neck, and I hate myself greatly for the distress I’ve caused her.

“It was either let her be killed or take her with me,” Marcus says with a shrug. “You’re welcome.”

“What did you give her? If she or our baby are hurt—”

“Calm down, asshole. I gave her a little midazolam. Just enough to knock her out, but it’s not gonna hurt her or your kid. They use it in hospitals for pregnant people and kids all the time.”

I gape at him for a heartbeat.

“Hunter, what the fuck,” Winter slurs, trembling so badly that I pull back from her to make sure she’s not having a seizure.

“No time for lovey-dovey shit. You two need to go ‘cause this place is about to blow.” Marcus helps Winter stand, and I pick her up despite her protests.

“I’ve got your six,” Marcus says, and I take a beat to assess if I can trust him.

I don’t have any choice, do I?

Hefting Winter into a better position, I run back down the corridor to the alcove where I docked the boat.

The control panel of the speed boat blinks, a notification from Misha and the rest of the team to get the fuck out of there. Settling Winter in, I talk to Marcus over my shoulder as I fit her with a life jacket.

“Come with us,” I say, but he gives me a strange look and then looks off toward the flames currently consuming the island.

A shockwave causes the air to vibrate, accompanying a bright flash much closer to the mansion.

Lights flicker in the mansion, and even from a distance, I hear shouting, which makes me want to smile. I can imagine the gilded elite running around in a panic, trying to escape from where they’re trapped in the massive playroom, herded there like cattle by the attendants assigned to see to their every need.

They’re locked in their new prison, awaiting their death by fire.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replies. Swinging into the boat, I turn back to him after checking Winter’s position on the bench. “In fact, forget you ever saw me tonight…but don’t forget that you owe me one, Brigham.”

He takes a few steps away from the shore before spinning back to me.

“See ‘ya around,” he says before tipping his chin down and walking into the burning jungle.

“I’m letting you off easy right now, but you’re gonna hear me yell when I get back to a hundred percent,” Winter mumbles behind me as I start the speed boat.

“I look forward to it, Sunbeam,” I say, the drop in adrenaline causing everything within me to shake. I jet us off into the ocean, and after we’re nearly a mile away from the island, I angle us to witness the island’s death.

“What are you doing?” Winter asks, sounding more alert.

In three, two, one—the remaining chain of bombs detonates, and flames consume the entirety of the island.

“Watching this motherfucker burn,” is my final response.

TWENTY-EIGHT

WINTER

Before I open my eyes, my first thought is: I don’t trust Marcus Law.

When I woke up on a boat and saw him sitting casually in a chair while I was hogtied on the ground, I contemplated how I could murder him with any appendage I could manage to free. But then when two goons that I later learned came from Morris Winthrope’s crew came to grab me, Marcus pulled me up and whispered in my ear to do everything exactly as he said. And I, for some reason, trusted him.

In the caves, he told me to scream so that Hunter could find us, and I did so without question. Now, in the cold daylight, I realize I probably shouldn’t have trusted him so freely.

Granted, he did end up pretty much saving all our asses at the end of the day, but he also participated in drugging my water, dragging me out of my home, and just generally scaring the shit out of me.

Now that the kind-yet-terrified Martinican doctor has finished assessing me, I’ve heard the baby’s strong heartbeat with the Doppler that I kept pressed to my stomach for several hours, we’ve consulted with the doctor back at Misha’s compound and I’ve finally been given clearance for a three-hour call with Genevieve, I’m able to think beyond my terror.

The main thought I have—behind my curiosity about what kind of illegal acts my husband facilitated to see to my care back on Winter Island—is that Marcus Law is not to be trusted.

“Knock, knock!” Ella’s voice is bright as she peeks around the door to the primary bedroom where I’ve been sleeping on and off for the last several hours. The disruption in my sleep pattern wasn’t because of what I’d just gone through, but rather because Hunter had the two nurses who accompanied the doctor check on me every thirty fucking minutes.

“Come in,” I say, trying to hide my weariness as she pushes into the room before I grant permission.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, bouncing over to sit on the bed next to my hip. The sun is out, and a quick glance at the clock on the bedside tells me it’s late in the afternoon.

“I’d feel a lot better if I could be left alone,” I grumble.

Ella lets out a small laugh that turns into a grimace.

“H wants to leave tonight,” she replies. I nod at the news. We have a full house—well, the house isn’t full since it’s massive, but there are a lot of people here. Misha, Luna, Leo, Ella, and Jared are here, along with a few dozen soldiers from The Resistance.

I’m conflicted because a big part of me really wants to go back home. But home is Misha’s place right now, and what I really want is to go home home—back to Amelia Manor.

I scoot up higher on the pillows, situating myself to face her and placing my hands over my bump. The baby kicks my palm, and my heart trips over itself.

We’re here. We’re safe. The other stuff doesn’t really matter.

“How is everyone?” I ask, changing the subject. Hunter has been annoyingly silent about the aftermath of everything except to say that Isla Cara burned to the ground and Morris Winthrope is dead.

Ella smiles, but it’s sad. “The people we rescued have a long road ahead, but Max is working with us and other organizations to get everyone back to their homes.”

My throat burns. If there’s one thing that makes any of the last twenty-four hours acceptable, it’s the fact that Misha and Hunter’s intervention saved more than a hundred people—not just the people The Legion trafficked, but the others who were imprisoned on Isla Cara too. But if there’s a long road ahead of the survivors, there’s a long road ahead of us too.

Even though Morris Winthrope is gone, we still don’t know who the leader of The Legion is.

“So I didn’t just come here to check on you,” Ella says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She bites her lip and traces a pattern on the bedspread. “There’s someone who is here to see you.”

My stomach does a somersault as I think of who it could possibly be—who I hope it could possibly be.

“Oh?” I say again, but this time with actual tears spilling forward.

“Sunbeam.”

I blink away the moisture and find Hunter standing in the entryway, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed.

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

With a deep, put-upon breath, he says, “In her excitement, Ella let it slip on a video chat last night about everything that’s happened. So I got a call from Rio not too long ago that he was in Martinique…along with Veronica and Summer.”

I let out an unladylike snort to clear the snot, which makes my nose feel even more full. My silent tears turn into outright sobs.

“Really?” I squeak.

Hunter nods. “Veronica would really like to see you, Sunbeam. Is that okay?”

I nod because words are especially impossible right now, and he takes a step back into the hallway outside our room and waves toward the opening.

The first person I see is Rio, and he’s holding Summer. She’s grown so much even though she’s been gone only a short while, but when Veronica comes into view, I shift my gaze from my smiling niece and toward my friend.

I pray she’ll be my friend again. Veronica and I stare at each other for a long, long while. She looks…good. Like she’s slept more, and her skin is tanned with an overlay of gold to her naturally dark brown complexion.

When Ella stands and motions for Veronica to sit on the bed, I finally blink and I’m relieved that my best friend is still there, rather than a figment of my imagination.

“We’ll leave you alone,” Ella says, turning to Hunter. When she’s out of the room, Hunter mouths, She loves you. Just talk.

I nod and return my gaze to my hands where they wind and unwind in my lap.

The door snicks closed and after a few heartbeats of me staring down, a Kleenex box comes into view inch by inch. The staggered appearance of it is so funny that I can’t help the giggle that escapes when I pull a tissue from the container.

The honk from blowing my nose is loud in the spacious room.

Get it together.

Finally, I look up at my best friend, my sister.

“Veronica, I…” I search for the words to start with even though I know all the things I want to say are a jumble in my brain, but before I can pull out what I want to say first, Veronica launches herself at me and hugs me fiercely.

That causes a fresh wave of tears to appear.

“Fuck, Winter,” she says with a stifled sob. “Are you okay?”

For once in the last near day, I don’t resent the question.

“Physically, yes. Emotionally?” I suck in a breath and her familiar scent. “I’m so fucking sorry, Veronica,” I say. She tightens her hug for a long moment before letting go.

When she leans back and opens her mouth to speak, I stop her, putting my hand out between us.

“Let me say this,” I start.

Veronica hunches inward a fraction, putting one arm across her chest and lifting the other to bite her nail.

A new habit.

“I said some really shitty things to you, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said them, I didn’t really mean it, but my intent doesn’t erase my impact. I know I hurt you, and I am so, so sorry,” I continue. Her face moves through different emotions, but she stays silent, likely knowing that I need to spill all of this before I can move on.

Before we can move on.

Veronica is your sister. You can mend this.

“I know that all you’ve ever wanted was for me to be happy and healthy and whole and loved. And I know you fear for me in all of those areas because you’ve seen me when I was absent of all of those things.”

A tear falls down her cheek, and she wipes the moisture away with the heel of her palm.

“These last several months…I know you’ve seen a side of me that’s unfamiliar, that’s not at all the Winter you know. But the truth is, you don’t know the real me because up until now, I didn’t know who I was. I was moving through life, pretending, but I wasn’t really…me. Whatever that actually means,” I say, and I feel myself starting to ramble, so I take another breath to center myself.

“I can understand that. Really, I can,” she says, her voice soft. But she gives me the floor again.

“I’m a complicated person. I mean, who isn’t, right? Humanity, living, is complicated. I know you think that Hunter has changed me, but he really hasn’t. What has changed, though, is that all the shit I’ve been through since Adam took me has given me a new outlook on my life and what it means for me to live.” I pull another tissue from the box just to give my hands something to do.

“My life with Hunter is messy. We’re both very broken people, but we’re healing on our own, and we’re healing together.”

I stop speaking, assessing if there’s more I want or need to say, and Veronica fills the silence.

“I know he’s complicated, but I wouldn’t say you two are broken, necessarily. He told me…a lot of what he’s gone through. As a kid, you know?”

I startle, sitting up straighter. “What did he tell you?” I whisper, and Veronica’s face turns sad, empathetic.

“He told me a lot that lets me know that you and he are not so different at all.”

I stay silent at that admission.

“The bruises,” I begin, but she waves me off. “No, let me get this out.”

I take a deep breath.

“The bruises, what Hunter and I did that night…it freaked him out to see me hurt because he never wants to hurt me. I really am safe with him, Rons. But…I’m learning that I, um, I like that stuff.” My eyes flick to the tiled floor and I know I’m turning into a tomato with how hot my face feels.

“I see,” she says, amusement full in her voice. I look back at her, and at her expression, I suck my teeth. She gives me a broad smile, and I feel some of the tension leave my chest.

“Do you see?” I reply.

“Yep. Not only do you clearly have a breeding kink, but you’re into pain play too. But you know what? Who am I to judge? I won’t yuck your yum, babes.”

I bark out a laugh, and it feels so good when she joins me, the tension cracking into several pieces. As we sit on the bed together with tears streaming down our faces from laughter and the release of sadness, it feels like maybe what comes next won’t be so unmanageable after all.

“Can I talk now?” she says, wiping her eyes.

I nod at her and say, “Sure.”

She straightens and repositions herself more fully on the bed before huffing a sigh and kicking off her shoes to sit cross-legged on the mattress.

“You weren’t wrong to say that I’ve made you my life. I’ve…I’ve had some help to realize that I’ve been so overbearing and overprotective of you and why. And....”

She trails off.

“And?” I add.

Taking a deep breath, she continues, “And it’s because I felt like I was responsible for not saving you the first time with Adam.”

When she finishes her sentence, I stare at her with my mouth agape.

“Veronica, what the hell are you—”

“Listen, just...just listen, okay?”

I snap my mouth closed.

“I have perspective on it now. I started replaying all the moments we had together and all the signs of abuse that were obviously there but that I missed.”

I suck in a breath. “Veronica, I didn’t tell anyone what was happening. I tried really hard to hide all the signs. It’s not your fault that you didn’t see them.”

“That’s the thing, Winter. I did see them. I didn’t fully get the picture at the time, but I saw that Adam was too close to you, and I didn’t intervene because—”

She stands and wipes a hand over her lips as she walks to the open balcony doors. After a moment, she turns and faces me with such a guilty expression that I want to jump up from the bed too.

“I was jealous of you then,” she says finally.

My brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

She clears her throat and says, “I was jealous of the attention Adam was giving you, of the looks he’d give you when he thought no one was watching. You are so beautiful, Winter. You were so beautiful then too. When your parents died, you got even more attention, and I was nothing more than the ugly friend.”

I know my face must look alarmed and confused because that’s a hundred percent what I am.

“Ugly friend?”

Her sigh is short. “Yes. You were the light-skinned, naturally smart girl that everyone wanted to be around. You didn’t see it, but boys were drooling after you back then. It was effortless for them to be attracted to you. But with me? I was the athlete, the dark-skinned sidekick who was funny but not really that smart, and who was one of the guys. I wanted to be desired, Winter, even though I didn’t call it that back then, but no one was clocking for me at all, and here you had this older guy who I thought was hot lusting after you, and I couldn’t take it.”

I couldn’t be more shocked at this moment, at the confession. Veronica’s feelings that she’s revealing right now were nowhere on my radar back then, but then again, I couldn’t see anything outside my pain.

I’ve only now started to be able to do that, despite all my years of therapy and education.

“I don’t blame you, Rons. I don’t hold this against you at all. I love you,” I say because that’s all I can come up with: the truth.

“Once I knew what was happening, I felt like I’ve been a horrible person to you for thinking that way. What he did to you was about power, I know that. But at the time, I didn’t…I wasn’t able to see it that way. I think my way of atoning has been to keep you safe for as long as there’s breath in my body. Because I really do love you, Win, and I’m uninterested in doing life without you as my family.”

Right then, the baby decides to give me a swift kick in the ribs, so I take the signal and go to her, grabbing both of her hands in mine.

“Veronica,” I say with all seriousness. “Please don’t make me start singing The Cheetah Girls at you because we are sisters, and we stick together, okay?”

I start humming along to the main theme song from the first movie, and that causes Veronica to cackle before sobering and looking at me directly.

“Winter, I am sorry. You’ve already apologized too. And there’s so much more you don’t know—but nothing like me harboring secret jealousy as a child. Just…other stuff. I don’t want there to be any more secrets between us.”

I nod along, agreeing with her.

“Well, except for what you and Brigham do in the bedroom because y’all are on some freakshit, and I really don’t need to be all up in that situation.”

She delivers the lines so simply that it takes me a moment to register them. When the words land, I let out a full-throttled laugh that’s so loud that Hunter peeks his head into the room to check on us.

“Everything’s fine, baby,” I say, pulling Veronica back on the bed. “Now have someone go get us some snacks. I have a lot to catch up on with my sister.”

Hunter tilts his head and exits the room with a content smile, and Veronica squeezes my hand.

When the latch catches, I say, “Now, don’t think I didn’t recognize Rio holding my niece, so bitch, you better spill the tea, and please tell me he’s fucking your brains out.”

Veronica’s mouth pops open in an O, and when I drop my head to look at her beneath my lashes, her face cracks into a guilty smile as she flushes.

“You so are! Girl, tell me everything!”

Veronica pulls in a breath with a wince.

“Well, let’s see….”

WHEN WE GOT on the plane, Hunter wanted to stay up and create a plan with Misha and the rest of the team, but I bullied him into lying down.

He zonked out as soon as his head hit the pillow. It’s been three days since everything went down on Isla Cara, and Hunter has been working non-stop with the rest of them. Most of their time has been dedicated to getting all the trafficking victims home, but another big part of his focus has gone to The Legion, The Architect, and what the fuck happens next.

“Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s rude to stare?” Hunter speaks without opening his eyes, and I chuckle, lifting my hand to rest my head on my palm.

“It’s not my fault. No one told you to be so good-looking,” I reply. He lets out a long, put-out sigh.

“Yes, I guess this is my cross to bear, isn’t it.”

I laugh when he releases a puff of amusement. Slowly, he cracks one eye open and then the other. I settle back into the pillows, and we simply look at each other.

“What were you thinking about, Sunbeam?” he says with a yawn. It’s very early for us, five am East Coast time, and we’ve been in the air for two hours at this point. But where he’s understandably tired, I’m wired for some reason.

Second trimester energy surge, for the win.

“I was thinking about two things,” I begin. “One, we need to gut this entire room. It reeks of cheap sex with rachet women.” I give him a significant look, and he has the good sense to look chagrined.

“You got it, baby,” he says, wisely choosing not to pick apart my statement.

“And two, I was thinking that I don’t know what to make of Marcus Law,” I say. No one has heard from or seen Marcus since leaving the island. Hunter told me not to expect to see him around anytime soon, if ever, but he’s stuck in my mind. I’m trying very hard not to make it an obsession and to avoid perseverating, but….

“Some people are complicated. Law is a complicated man,” he says.

I raise my eyebrow. “So you’re Team Marcus? Despite all the shit he’s done?”

Hunter gives the approximation of a shrug. “And I killed his sister,” he says, his voice lacking all humor.

I slide down to get closer to him.

“You were trying to save her from a worse fate,” I tell him. He gives me a long slow blink.

“What makes you think that?” he says.

I smile. “Because I know my husband,” I say.

He blinks again, but this time, he smiles for a brief moment before it fades. “It was horrible what I did, but the alternative was even worse for her,” he says.

“It was mercy,” I reply.

He hums in response and we both go silent again, our palms touching as we trace each other’s fingers.

“We got lucky again, my love,” I whisper, burrowing into his side. “I’m so grateful we’re here.”

He breathes in, slow and deep. “You have no fucking idea how happy I am about that too, Sunbeam.”

When I look up at him, there’s such a serious look on his face that I can’t do anything but kiss him. The touch of our lips together is sweet, soft.

Unhurried, which feels especially poignant at this moment in time.

But like it usually is with us, what starts out sweet turns spicy, and I find myself with my hand down his soft, casual pants, and he has one of my tits in his hot palm.

A rapid knock on the door causes us to pull apart, breathing hard.

“Maybe if we ignore them, they’ll go away?” Hunter mumbles, but I snort in response when Misha’s voice booms through the door.

“You can fuck later. Get your asses out here. This is important.”

With an eye roll from me and a serious face of concentration from Hunter, we exit the back room and meet the rest of the passengers near the forward galley.

“What’s up?” I ask the crowd, and Misha, Luna, Leo, Ella, Jared, Rio, Veronica, and Summer all turn to look at me with varying expressions of excitement.

Or, at least, I hope it’s excitement.

Rio is the one who acknowledges my question, and he says, “Watch. It’ll be on any minute now.”

Habit forces me to prepare myself for the worst, so when the newscaster begins to speak, I find myself holding my breath.

“Addison, without a doubt, it’s the biggest scandal of this decade, I’m sure of it.” The male newscaster speaks with a grave look on his face.

The screen shifts, and a wan-looking Addison appears on the screen side-by-side with a familiar correspondent. “It truly is a travesty, Justin. For those of you tuning in, please be aware that the topic of tonight’s segment is shocking and may be disturbing to many viewers.”

She pauses for a beat.

“Earlier this morning, the network received an exclusive first announcement of the death of presidential hopeful Morris Winthrope. Mr. Winthrope’s untimely death is clearly shocking in its own right, but the reasons behind his departure from this world are downright horrifying.”

“That’s right, Addison. Earlier today, we received reports that Morris Winthrope, candidate for the president of the United States, died from a self-inflicted injury in a murder-suicide plot.”

I suck in a breath at the news, but the rest of the group is still as we all stare at the screen, transfixed.

“This is simply shocking news, but what’s even more stunning is the information coming to light about Mr. Winthrope. I recommend that you escort children from the area if you have them in the room with you.”

Addison pauses again, and the camera switches as she turns in her seat dramatically.

“We have exclusive, first-view access to a letter written by Morris Winthrope detailing the torrid affair and grooming he enacted on his daughter, Blair Winthrope. In the letter, he also admits to murdering Blair in a fit of jealous rage surrounding her engagement to Hunter Brigham. Additionally, we have learned from key sources that said engagement was broken off months ago, but to save Blair’s character, the Brigham camp chose not to announce the separation publicly.”

The male correspondent stares at the camera, nodding every few words as Addison speaks.

“These are truly appalling revelations, but that’s not the end of it. In the letter, Morris Winthrope admitted to orchestrating the Chevy Chase bombings as part of his revenge plan against Hunter Brigham. I have to tell you, Addison, I am not a psychological expert, but these seem like the words and actions of a madman.”

Addison nods. “This is a developing story, and as we get more news, you can be sure that you’ll hear the latest here first.”

“Addison, I will—”

Misha turns off the television and spins in the captain’s chair to face Hunter.

“Max did good, right?” Luna says with pride in her voice.

I realize that I’ve been staring with my mouth open when I snap it shut. “Wait, Max planted all of that?”

Leo nods. “Yep. And with no one around to refute it…” He lifts his hands, shrugging. “We get to control the narrative.”

Giddiness swells in my chest. I sink into a chair, stunned.

This is…huge. By all measures, Hunter’s name is clear. Sure, there are still some loose ends to tie up, but the big stuff?

We’re controlling the narrative.

“What about The Architect?” Hunter says, looking at Misha and Luna.

The two share a long look, but it’s Misha who speaks.

“We’re still looking for them. Many things are at risk right now with The Legion, but we’ve put the heat on them. With how things are positioned, they won’t be able to make a move right this second, but by the time this dies down, we’ll be close to catching The Architect and rounding them all up. We’ll go back to Isla Cara and search the island. There’s something there that will lead us to The Architect. I just know it.”

Misha’s face is serious, intense.

Luna nods along with everything he says.

I inhale, holding my breath to the count of three before releasing it.

This is good.

This is…great.

We can live, even if it’s just for now.

“Go rest, Winter. You too, Hunter,” Luna says, her voice soft. “There will be more to do tomorrow, but for now, be at peace.”

Rest. Peace. We can have that now.

“I think we’ll do that,” Hunter says, his voice thick. I rise from my chair, and together, he and I move toward the back. I pause, turning on my heel to take in the group of people…my family.

“Thank you. Thank you, all,” I say, but I turn to follow Hunter again before any of them can reply.

I slide the door closed and put my back to it. Hunter is silent as he leans over the bed with his hands flat on the mattress.

I watch as he thinks through the bomb just dropped on us.

“We’re free, baby,” I whisper, the words muted but still audible over the hum of the engines.

The baby chooses that moment to kick me, and I want to believe it’s their silent agreement.

Rubbing my belly, I take a step toward Hunter. When I press into his side, he straightens and in a fierce move, grabs my face, cradling a cheek in each palm.

“We’re free,” he says, and the only way to describe his voice is “awed.”

He looks lost and disbelieving and…happy. Carefree.

For once.

I put his hand over my stomach where our baby is doing somersaults.

“And we’re gonna live every day to the goddamn fullest,” I reply.

He leans forward then, not removing his hand from where our child dances, and kisses me again—just a simple press of his lips to mine.

And as we breathe each other in, I allow myself to feel an emotion that’s been firmly set aside for so many months.

I feel hope.

“Let’s rest, Sunbeam,” he says, breathing against my lips.

I don’t acknowledge his request with words. Instead, I crawl into bed with my husband and fall into a deep sleep all the way back to the States.

EPILOGUE

HUNTER

Spring started late, but we’ve managed to catch a day that’s a perfect temperature for the end of March.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this!” Winter says, clutching onto me. She practically vibrates with nerves, and Kitty lets out a quick yip and paws her leg to be picked up.

“Right,” she says, talking to Kitty. Still shaking, she says, “Hold this.”

She unceremoniously drops our six-month-old daughter into my arms.

“Well, hello, ‘This,’” I drawl.

August comes from my left to say, “Her name is Dawn. Why are you calling her ‘This?’” He scrunches up his face and scratches behind his ear.

“Joking,” I tell August, and all he says is, “Oh. Okay,” before pulling away from us to get closer to the view. Winter bends over to pick up Kitty, and she immediately plunges her fingers into his fur. She’s clearly having some moments of distress, but the wide smile on her face seems to win out as the prevailing emotion.

The annual Cherry Blossom Festival starts today, and Winter debated which day to go during the weeklong celebration.

She thought if we went at the end of the festival, there would theoretically be fewer people around. But then she feared that she’d miss the blooms at their peak since the festival’s scheduling isn’t an exact science.

When she decided we should go on day one, she did so with the caveat that we would go at the asscrack of dawn and only stay for a maximum of thirty minutes.

“Pull whatever rich boy strings you have to make sure we can get in and out without having to wade through a sea of people,” she told me as she wrung her hands at the kitchen island where we’d discussed the plans.

“For you, Sunbeam? Anything,” I’d responded

Dawn lets out an adorable raspberry that transmutes into an indelicate squawk.

“You wanna see the cherry blossoms too, baby girl?” I whisper to my daughter. I tickle the side of her neck, and she releases a laugh that hits me in the solar plexus every time.

Looking at Dawn is like looking at the galaxy. It’s overwhelming and awe-inspiring and thoroughly unbelievable. I can’t believe that she’s here in my arms. She inherited Winter’s face—her cheeks, lips, and eye shape—but she got my eye color. And while she’s fair-skinned, she has enough of a natural tan that people know she’s mixed.

Not that I let people anywhere close to her. Winter says that I eventually need to ease up.

The jury’s still out on that one.

“I just want to walk the circuit and then we can leave,” Winter says at my side. Sticking my arm out for her to link through, I say, “This is your show, Sunbeam. You lead the way.”

Once we’re on the wide bike path lining the Basin, the smell of the blossoms hits me, transporting me to a different time. In my memories, I’m back in the garden at Amelia Manor as a child, my mother dancing around me while she picked roses.

It’s a bright scent, and a perfect complement to this moment.

“Wow, H…” Winter tilts her head back, spinning slowly to take in all the trees. “It’s everything I ever imagined.”

Something in my soul shifts to see her in this moment.

Winter’s dreams, realized.

With a sigh, Dawn curls into me, nestling into my chest with her thumb in her mouth. I put my chin on the top of her head as I watch Winter reach up to touch one of the blossoms.

“Take one,” I tell her.

“Isn’t that illegal?” She sounds appalled.

I lift my eyebrow. “Really? You’re worried about the legalities of taking a flower that’s going to fall from the tree and die in a few days?”

She purses her lips, straightening her back into a prim pose.

“There are rules for a reason, Hunter.”

“And rules are made to be broken,” I reply. Scandalizing her, I reach for a low-hanging branch and snap a twelve-inch section from the tree.

She gasps. “Hunter James Brigham, you can’t do that!” she whisper-shouts.

“Well, baby,” I say, grinning. “It looks like I just did.”

She tries to look angry when I push the limb toward her, but with a look to her left and right, she hides the broken twig in the lower inside pocket of her jacket with a smile.

“I can’t with you,” she says, shaking her head.

“Anything for my babies,” I say, shrugging.

August lopes over to us. “I have seen everything I wanted to see. Can we leave now?” he asks.

Spinning one more time and inhaling deeply with her eyes closed, Winter says, “I’ve seen all I need too, Augs.”

Her smile shines bright like the sun.

Once we’re back in the Tahoe and headed back toward Amelia Manor, we fall into a tired silence. It’s only six a.m. but seeing Winter’s face was well worth it.

“Where to now?” Winter asks.

“Well, we’re going to Amelia Manor first,” I say.

“First?” she asks.

I glance at August who starts to fidget excitedly. I’ve had him help me keep this secret for three weeks now, and I promised him that he could spill the news.

“August, you want to explain?” I say, leaning back in the seat. Dawn’s car seat is between where Winter and I sit in the backseat. August sits in the passenger seat while Patrick, August’s new regular guard, drives.

August lets out a happy sound and begins to type frantically. Dawn reaches up and grabs my finger, holding onto it while she sucks the thumb on her other hand and looks toward Winter’s window.

“You will drop me off at Amelia Manor where I will stay with Aunt Ella and Uncle Leo,” August says. “Then you will go to the airport where you will board a plane to Charles DeGaulle Airport. That is in Paris, France.”

Winter’s brows go up. “We’re going to Paris?” she squeaks.

“Yep,” I say, looking at her with my peripheral vision as I fix my gaze on Dawn.

“But…we have kids. We can’t just gallivant off to Europe like that!” she says, turning to face me more fully. Her gaze ping-pongs between me and our son.

“Well, August is staying here. August, do you want to go to Paris?” I ask.

“I have no desire to go to Paris. Plus, there is a big convention this weekend that I want to visit,” he says. I take note that his cheeks get a little pink when he says that. I’ve caught him chatting with a friend online a few times, and he mentioned that he would meet with his friend group at the con.

“Put a pin in that, August,” and he scratches his head, so I clarify. “We will talk more about that in a minute. I need to convince your stepmom that she’s going to France.”

“Hunter, please, be for real,” Winter says, pouting.

“First of all, Sunbeam, we’re rich,” I say.

As is her usual response, she says, “You’re rich,” and stares out the window.

“We are rich. Which means that we get to travel however is most comfortable for us. And, if you can believe it, I’ve secured all the details. Dawn will be cared for the entire time.”

“You want to leave Dawn behind? I’m breastfeeding,” she says, folding her arms beneath said breasts.

I have to force myself to focus. Her tits were large pre-pregnancy and bigger while pregnant, but milk-heavy Winter is a completely different experience. I’m just so glad she lets me have a taste.

“Well, luckily, we’re not leaving her behind,” I say.

“So we’re going to cart our six-month-old around the planet? Hm,” she says.

“Nope, we have the best travel nanny in the world.”

“Who?” she presses.

“Why Grandma, of course.”

“Amelia is coming?” Winter brings her thumb to her mouth to bite the cuticle but stops before it makes it there.

I nod. “She’ll stay in the guest suite beneath our flat and will take Dawn whenever we want alone time.” I cut my gaze to August and back to Winter. Alone time has been a rare experience for us now that we have a new baby. The reality is that I desperately need to spend an entire day inside my wife.

And I want to do that with the doors to my balcony open and the sounds of angry Parisians below.

“Additionally, she’ll have her aunt Veronica and her cousin Summer to entertain her as well.”

“They’re all coming over to Paris?” she asks, a little startled but finally showing deep excitement. Veronica and Winter have since mended their relationship to something even better than before, to hear her tell it. But when Veronica decided to move to Europe with Summer permanently, Winter was devastated. They left a few months after Dawn was born, and even though I know that Winter has put on a brave face, she misses her sister and niece terribly.

“Yep! My third point is that we need to celebrate your re-entry into your doctoral program. It’s been a long, long road to get to this point, and we need to honor it with your dream vacation. Also, it’s important to get adequate rest before beginning a new semester.”

She purses her lips, thinking. It took a lot for her to feel ready to go back to finish her degree. She was convinced that she’d lost the chance to go back to school, but that was her anxiety talking.

While she is required to start at the beginning of her practicum hours, she’s still able to get the accommodations needed and will be finished in a few years after completing her research.

As we round the bend to enter the gates of Amelia Manor, she says, “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” She looks between me and August.

“As a heart attack,” I reply.

She releases a big breath. “Well, I need to pack,” she says, and I give her a heavy look. “Let me guess, you’ve already packed for me.”

I smile in response.

“Hunter Brigham, you are too much,” she says, brightening.

“Last call. Are you in or out?”

Dawn’s eyes slide shut as the SUV rocks over the country road.

“Oh, I’m in. I’m in forever.”

THE END

Want more Winter and Hunter? Join my newsletter for bonus scenes, character art, and more from our favorite couple.

www.AngelMShaw.com/newsletter

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Reverie, the conclusion of Hunter and Winter’s story. This book was the one that broke me. I knew that this would be Hunter’s story, but even I was surprised by the depth of trauma he experienced in his life. I’m glad he got his redemption in this book. Don’t worry. This isn’t the end of the Devils saga. Veronica, Leo, and Ella will get their books soon, and Hunter and Winter will make cameos in many other stories.

I get questioned about why I decided to write dark romance or why I write about things like mental health, disability, and sexual assault. The simple answer is: I’ve lived it. I’ve survived childhood sexual assault. I live with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Panic Disorder. I love several neurodivergent someones.

And these stories deserve to be told because I am not alone in this. According to RAINN*, 1 in 6 women will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime. 1 in 10 rape victims are male. Ninety-four percent of SA survivors develop some form of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) following their assault.*

Every sixty-eight seconds, someone in America is sexually assaulted.*

These stories should be told—not to titillate. Not to sensationalize. Not to create trauma porn. But to highlight that while these characters are fictional, their stories are very, very real.

My hope is that you’ll leave Hunter and Winter’s story motivated to learn more about how you can contribute to stopping sexual assault and supporting those with mental health challenges and disabilities. It’s my hope that you will take the time to speak with the people in your life who are impacted by these issues. It’s my hope that you will be a voice and speak loudly for those who are so often silenced.

Writing this story was the best way I could do that. So I hope that you’ll share this story too.

XO,

Angel

P.S. Let’s stay connected. Find all my social media links at: http://social.angelmshaw.com

* RAINN. n.d. “Victims of Sexual Violence: Statistics.” Accessed September 17, 2024. https://rainn.org/statistics/victims-sexual-violence.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am so thankful for everyone who had a part in this journey. The biggest thank you goes to my editor, Wendee. Dee, you (nearly physically) held my hand through writing this book, and I would likely still be staring at the screen if I didn’t have you to lean on as I wrote. I am so fucking grateful for you. Thank you.

To my beta readers, y’all are amazing as always. I’m always biting my nails to the quick when I send a draft off to y’all, and the fact that you all love this story gave me the confidence to press “Publish.” Y’all are AMAZING, and I appreciate you so much.

To my therapist, who I am blessed to have worked with for a decade now. My mental health would be in the gutter without you. Thank you for encouraging me to write, despite the messed-up narratives I still have to fight in my brain.

To my husband and soulmate, Mr. S., I’m so glad I get to do life with you. I love you, babe. Thanks for believing in me and making it possible to write full-time and follow my dreams. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

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

ALSO BY ANGEL M. SHAW

The Devils in D.C. Saga

The Shadowplay Trilogy

Shadowplay

Oathbreaker

Reverie

Winter in Paris: A Holiday Novella (November 19, 2024)

A Deal with the Devil Duet

Veronica and Rio (2025)

The Sweetest Sin Duet

Leo and Ella (2025/2026)

The Tidewater Chronicles

One Last Chance (March 18, 2025)