Page 30

Chapter thirty

Hunter's Residence, London

Isabella

Silence. The never-ending sound of nothing. It’s all I’ve heard since Ronan brought me home from the disaster of a New Year’s Eve gala that was meant to be the new beginning for so many of us. The journey home was laden with unsaid conversation. I wanted to ask my bodyguard what he knew, what had happened, what he heard, but the distance between us now is so vast. There are no blurred lines between employee and friend.

Upon arriving home, I had been escorted to Hunter’s room and requested to stay here until his return. I half expected the house to be filled with men, running around attempting to bring some sense to what had happened. The idea was ludicrous as they were all still at Clarion House searching for whoever had fired the shots.

I’ve been home around an hour, and it strikes me as odd Kasia hasn’t made an appearance. She may only have been in my employment a year, but she always has the uncanny ability to appear when I most need it. After slipping out of my dress and into my pink silk pajamas, I grab my robe and go in search of her.

When I leave the bedroom, the hallway is cast in darkness, only a single light at the end to lead my way. I try to step silently along the creaking wooden floorboards but fail miserably. Within a few moments, Ronan stands facing me at the other end of the hall.

“Can I get you something, Miss?” he asks, forever the gentleman.

“Kasia,” I reply simply. “Is she around?”

“Miss Kasia is unavailable at present. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Unavailable? Where is she?” The explanation makes absolutely no sense; Kasia is always here. The only time she has left in the past months is to attend personal appointments, and I find it hard to believe she is needed somewhere at almost two in the morning.

“Miss Kasia is in the process of helping Mr. Devane with some inquiries.”

“Inquiries? What inquiries? And where is Hunter?”

“Miss Isabella, please return to Mr. Devane’s room. He said he’ll explain everything when he returns. Until then, I’ve been instructed not to say more.” Ronan gives me a small reassuring smile as he steps toward me, and places a large hand on my elbow attempting to turn me around. “Please, Isabella. I can’t tell you anymore; it’s above my pay grade.”

I look into the eyes of the man that was my biggest supporter before all this started, and I believe him. Ronan, in his own way, is attempting to tell me something without endangering himself. For once, I take someone else’s advice and return to Hunter’s bedroom to wait.

The room feels colder now, or maybe it’s just me. The silence of earlier is no longer peaceful; it’s an ominous sense of unease. A sense that there is so much more going on tonight than I can imagine, and it’s my husband pulling the strings. I wrap my robe tighter around me as I sit on our bed and wait.

I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear tires on the gravel drive. On instinct, I move toward the window just as two cars pull up to the front door. The engines cut in unison, and I watch as the driver of each step out and open the rears doors.

Hunter appears from the front vehicle. From here I can see the tension in his body as he climbs the short incline of steps to enter the house. My heart clenches. Even from here, with him silhouetted in the dark, I know something is wrong. His posture is awkward, his shoulders locked, jaw clenched, one hand stuffed in his pocket by his side.

Behind him, two men step out of the second vehicle, a smaller figure restrained between them. It takes me a moment to realize who it is. Kasia walks, head bowed, looking at nothing but her feet.

I don’t wait. Barefoot, I run out of the room and down the hallway past Ronan, who doesn’t try to stop me. He simply nods and steps aside. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, Hunter is at the bottom step looking up. But tonight, he is a man I don’t recognize; gone is the suave, sophisticated leader of the Irish Mafia of hours before, and in front of me is a warrior who can only be described as dangerous.

There’s blood on his shirt. His hands. Even the knife he slips back into his pocket when he sees me watching. Our eyes lock, and his mouth opens to speak. No sound comes out.

I take a step, starting my descent slowly. The sound of my bare feet on wood, the only echo in the night. I don’t speak. There is nothing for me to say. I need to know which man he is tonight. The man I love, or one I should fear?

As I reach the bottom step, we are a millimeters away from each other and only aware of us. His men holding Kasia appear behind him, and I glance over Hunter’s shoulder to the woman I trusted with my world. Confused, at a loss, but confident that her being held captive is necessary, one look into Hunter’s eyes tells me there is so much I need to know.

“Take her to the holding room,” Hunter says simply, without so much as a glance. “I need to speak to my wife.” We stand silent as the group of three disappear out through the house toward whatever the holding room is. I’ve lived here for weeks now, and there is so much of this place I haven’t discovered, so much I don’t know.

“What happened?” I ask him.

“I’m fine,” he says, his voice raw. “It’s not mine.” He gestures to the blood on his shirt.

“That’s not the reassurance you think it is,” I whisper.

He doesn’t smile. There is no hint of the light side of his personality which usually appears when times get tough. He reaches for my hand, then turns me around and leads me upward, not stopping until we reach the bedroom. The door closes behind us with a thud, and for a long moment we stand, unspeaking.

“Hunter…” I prompt, unsure how to start the conversation we so desperately need to have. He looks lost standing in front of me. “What happened after I left tonight?”

He doesn’t look at me when he replies, merely takes off his jacket and blood-stained shirt, throwing them to the floor.

“I nearly fucking ended him, Bella. Came that close, I did.” His hand lifts, his fingers almost pinched together in the air.

My heart stutters. “Who?”

Eventually, he looks up, dark eyes locking with mine.

“Greyson. I nearly killed one of my own.”

With that, he walks off toward the en-suite, and I hear the shower turn on. I look from the bed, to the blood-stained clothes on the floor, to the shower where my husband is about to wash away the evidence of the night.

Tonight, I have a choice to make. This is him, the full raw version of him that makes him as much intriguing as it does dangerous. I could demand he tell me how tonight transpired. I could demand answers before I give him what he needs, but one look in those eyes and I already know they are filled with confusion and pain. So I do the only thing I can, and I give him me. Answers can wait. Right now, he needs me more than I need the truth.

The shower runs steady behind the closed bathroom door, a soft hiss of white noise that fills the silence left in his wake. I stare at the blood on his shirt. On the floor. A drop on the wooden boards near the bed. It’s not his, he said. Thank heavens it’s not his—the idea of losing him now isn’t worth considering.

But that doesn’t make it better. It’s proof of something broken. Something is spiraling out of his control. He’s always been known as an unpredictable man, a dangerous one. But the man that came home to me tonight was frightened, his actions enough to instill fear deep within himself.

I move slowly, not rushing. Not thinking too hard. I strip off the robe, then my pajamas. I let them fall to the floor in a silken heap. My bare feet carry me across the room, one step at a time, until I’m standing in front of the bathroom door. I take a pause, time to collect myself before I open it.

Steam rolls out into the bedroom, curling around my skin like fingers. Hunter stands under the spray, his back to me, hands braced against the tiled wall. Water runs in red-tinted streams down his arms, his spine, pooling at his feet.

He doesn’t turn when he hears me. He doesn’t have to.

I step inside, silently sliding back the glass door. Quiet. Deliberate.

“Bella,” he says, low, rough. Almost inaudible beneath the sound of the water splashing on his skin and the tiles surrounding him. The rainfall shower soaking both of us.

I press my body to his back and wrap my arms around his waist. He’s solid beneath me, every muscle tight, wound like wire. His breath catches, his body tensing under my touch.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I say. “I want to.”

His head drops forward as I press my lips to the skin between his shoulder blades. He lets me. He lets me touch him like I’m something clean in a night of filth. Like I haven’t seen the blood. Like I am unaware of the horror he has witnessed and created in the past few hours. I hold him like the tray of the shower isn’t splattered with vengeance and his life isn’t the collage of darkness tonight has highlighted it clearly is.

I move around to face him. His eyes are dark, hollowed out with exhaustion and something close to self-loathing. He hates himself, I can see that as clear as day. The water runs over his face, mixing with the tears from his eyes.

“You look at me like I’m not a monster,” he whispers.

“Because you’re not.”

“I almost killed one of my own men tonight.”

“But you didn’t.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. I reach up, trailing my fingers through the damp strands of his hair, then down the side of his face. The young man I fell in love with all those years ago warring for dominance over the creature he has become through the life he has lived due to birth.

“You came back to me,” I say. “That’s all that matters right now. You’re here with me, and we will face this together”

Then I kiss him. It starts slow, tentative, as if we’re relearning each other, but quickly deepens, the heat unfurling between us. His hands find my hips, gripping too tight at first, like he’s afraid I’ll vanish along with his sanity.

I press closer, parting my lips for him, letting his tongue slide against mine. He groans into my mouth, the sound low and broken. And that’s when he lifts me, no words, no warning, and pushes my back gently to the shower wall, the spray cascading between our bodies.

His hands are on my thighs, spreading me for him as my legs wrap around his waist. His mouth trails down my neck, over my collarbone, between my breasts.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

“No. I need this. You need this.”

He growls both deep and guttural and slides inside me in one desperate, aching thrust. My back arches against the tile, my cry echoing off the walls. He thrusts again, deep, deeper than he’s ever pushed before. His cock demands I open for him, him wanting every inch of me.

We don’t speak.

We don’t need to.

This isn’t gentle, but it’s not rough either. It’s real . It’s him pouring out everything he can’t say. It's me taking all his fury and guilt, giving it somewhere to land.

He slams into me again and again, head buried in my neck, hand fisted in my hair. I hold on, arms around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, and let him. I let him use me how he needs to, giving him full control of my body to comfort his own. For once, I submit to my husband, and I fucking love it.

“I need you full of me,” he grits out, words laden with want. “I need to know you're mine…completely.”

My heart aches, not only for his war with himself but also the uncertainty that this isn’t already what he believes. After everything, I’m still here and he still doesn’t truly believe I’ll stay. Deep down, my husband doesn’t believe he’s worthy of love; tonight has proven that.

“Then take it,” I whisper. “Take everything. I’m yours.”

He groans, harder now, thrusting deep, possessive.

“I want you pregnant, Bella,” he breathes. “I want you carrying my child. No one touches what’s mine…ever again. You’re my family, and we will create our own.”

I gasp, the words hitting something deep inside me. Something primal. Something that says yes. Up until now, I’ve gone along with his moments of wanting me pregnant, enjoyed the idea of us having a family, me being a mom. But now, tonight, I know this is what we both need, some sort of normality amongst the chaos that is our lives.

“Yes,” I moan. “Yes. Give me everything.”

He falters, hips stuttering, and I feel him start to unravel. His eyes close as they do each time he is close to his peak. His strong body holds me against the cool tiles as his hips find their rhythm once again, slamming harder with each thrust, chasing his own high.

“Let go,” I tell him. “Let go with me. Give me our baby.”

He does.

He comes with a deep, strangled moan, hips jerking, mouth crushed against mine. My back slams hard against the wall as I follow seconds later, trembling around him, heart pounding against my ribs.

For a long time, we don’t move. The water runs over us, rinsing off the sweat and the sin, but not the weight of the night. Eventually, he sets me down gently and rests his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard, eyes closed. Our bare skin moving together is rhythm as we catch our breath.

“Thank you,” he murmurs.

I run my fingers down his chest, loving his skin slick with water beneath the tips.

“Next time,” I say softly, “don’t come home covered in blood.”

He chuckles. A quiet sound. A broken one.

But it’s still laughter. And for tonight, that’s enough.

“Home,” he whispers. “From your lips, that is the best sound a man can hear. Wherever you are Bella, I am home.”