Page 5

Chapter five

Hunter Devane’s Residence, London

Hunter

My house sprawls around me in all its empty glory—room after room of nothing but expensive furniture, paintings, and objects. The divorce papers sit on the coffee table in front of me. I’ve read them more times than I care to admit. She wants to leave me. Permanently.

I pick the contract up again, our proposed separation. Isabella hasn’t asked for any ongoing maintenance, only for her house to be transferred solely into her name. What she doesn’t know is that it already is. I prepared that paperwork and submitted it to my lawyer on our first wedding anniversary with explicit instructions she was only to be advised upon my death. I needed to be sure she would be okay whether we were estranged or not.

My mind wanders to how she plans to live after her allowance is removed. She has no other income, unless she has made an arrangement with her family. My relationship with the Espinosas is purely business. They don’t regard me as family, even though the paperwork says otherwise. But Isabella’s father and myself have made some lucrative business deals since I wed his daughter. She is never mentioned by either side.

A knock on the doorframe distracts me from the lines of drivel. More evidence of how differently my life has turned out from how I planned it would. By now, I expected to be overseeing my businesses from afar, at home with my wife and surrounded by my offspring. The nights holding knives to people’s throats are becoming stale; no matter how hard I push, it never takes away the pain of losing what I could have had. People say I’m unhinged, but in reality, I just have nothing to lose.

“Sir,” my security officer says after clearing his throat. “Harrison Waite is here to see you.”

“Here?” I ask, surprised. None of my friends or associates come to my home unannounced, ever. I keep its location quiet, and very few people know my address. Harrison steps into view around the man introducing him, and I glare at him for his intrusion on my pity party.

“Nice place you have,” he says, his tone dry.

“Never been?” He shakes his head, and his expression matches the gesture. I was sure he had visited before, obviously not. The fact emphasizes just how private I am. “What’s so important you have to gatecrash me at home, Waite?”

He walks across my living room, the soles of his Italian leather shoes echoing off the oak floorboards. After pulling his cell from his pocket, he taps the screen then hands me it, already open on the social media page of a local London-based whistleblower. Playing before my eyes is the CCTV footage from the gym where I held my blade to the throat of some idiot who annoyed me.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself.

“Yes, Devane. Fuck is the right word.”

“Should I be expecting a visit from our friends in blue? Has Damon…” I trail off as he holds up a hand.

“Damon is already on it. He’s called his contact at the police. You’ll be brought in for questioning, possibly cautioned, but he should be able to talk them out of pressing charges.” My friend sighs and throws himself down on the sofa beside me. “I’m more concerned about the public outcry this will cause.”

“Surely, no one we work with will take it seriously?” I say, but as the words pass my lips, I know I am lying to myself and him.

“I’ve already had calls.”

“Fucking two-faced bastards. Most men we have agreements with don’t keep their hands clean.”

“No, but they don’t get caught on fucking CCTV with a knife at someone’s throat, do they?” We both sit up straight and turn to face one another, glaring openly. The security guard who escorted him in appears briefly, no doubt intrigued by the raised voices. I wave him away without breaking my focus from Harrison.

“It perhaps wasn’t my best moment,” I concede.

“Hunter, you’re a single man in his forties, known for ruthless business moves and being a womanizer. Never mind the rumors of your underground shit that we’re constantly brushing under someone’s rug or burying at the bottom of the River Thames. You can’t be seen doing what you do.”

“I am not single,” I snap, furious that he’s written off my non-existent marriage.

“Of everything I’ve said, that is what you focus on. You’re not married beyond a piece of paper.”

The blunt statement sends my fury into overdrive. I pull my knife from its hiding place in my sock and lunge across the sofa at him. He ducks out of the way before grabbing my arm and twisting it mercilessly. Shit, I’ve taught him too well.

“Don’t fucking think about it,” he snarls. “If you hurt me with that damn thing, you’ll have my wife to contend with. And she’s hormonal; trust me, it isn’t worth it.”

I laugh out loud then sit back up before sliding the knife back into place. Harrison visibly relaxes, as do I. Sure, he’s game, but we both know I am the man more comfortable in combat.

“You know I’d never kill you, Waite,” I say, and he responds with a dubious look.

“I’ve seen your fury unchecked. You’re a wild dog, can’t be trusted when the body overtakes the mind.” I go to open my mouth to counter his suggestion, but his gaze moves to the papers on the table. “What are they? It looks important, and I haven’t seen it.” Always a fucking lawyer . My bloody lawyer .

“My divorce agreement.”

“Have you signed it?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t you want to?” My eyes flick from him to the papers on the table then back to my friend. “It’s been twenty years. If you were going to sort things out, do you not think you would have by now?” I shrug, unsure what to say. I thought the same thing all those years ago. It never happened, and I’ve never stopped loving her. She hates me. I understand why. But we were both put in an impossible position that night. Both of us got hurt.

I haven't discussed my relationship with my wife in detail with anyone, not even the men who have come to be my closest friends and comrades. The thought of her living without me makes my heart ache, and the fact that she chooses to is crushing to my soul. But she doesn’t want me. If she did, we would have reconciled by now.

Our wedding celebrations had come to an end, and the men retreated to the bar to continue swigging expensive whiskey. My mother approached Isabella and me before we retreated to the honeymoon suite.

“I am so proud of you both,” she whispered, placing her lips to my cheek then my wife’s. “I wish you both a long and happy marriage.”

Isabella’s fine hand slipped into mine, and we made our way to the curved staircase that led to the hotel bedrooms above. Our suite was located on the top floor, with a balcony that wrapped around the building and views over the city. I had come up here earlier in the night to ensure everything was perfect for my bride.

Isabella’s health condition meant that sex could possibly be uncomfortable, if not painful. Even though for years we had taken stolen moments here and there to be together, our interactions had never gone beyond a fumble over our clothes. Both of us were raised to believe in the sanctity of marriage. It’s a belief I still hold true to my heart.

The rumors of my multiple partners and girls who I’ve ravished have been handy to hide the truth. Women queue up to tell people they slept with Hunter Devane, that they’ve been in my bed. The truth is that none of them have. My years of celibacy have done nothing to halt my love for Isabella or the reality that she is the only woman for me. The thought of being joined with another woman physically, other than my wife, is ridiculous. It’s never crossed my mind.

At the threshold of our suite, I had opened the door then lifted Isabella into my arms before walking in. She gasped when she took in the vision surrounding her. The bed was strewn with petals as dozens of candles burned. Bouquets of red roses were scattered around the space. I leaned down and picked a single stem from the nearest bunch.

“For my wife,” I said, offering her the bloom. She took it and beamed back at me; the only emotion visible on her face pure joy. “I love the sound of that on my lips. My wife. Mrs. Hunter Devane. My wife .”

“Me too,” she replied before throwing her arms around my neck and rising on tiptoe to kiss me. The thorns on the stem of the rose grazed my neck, but I didn’t care; she was here and so was I. After years of loving her as a boy and now as a man, I had my woman.

Her arms dropped, and she linked our fingers. Eyes that were full of joy fell to between her feet. When her gaze lifted, there was a sadness there I hated to see. Her body deflated before me, and she trailed a bright red shoe across the floor.

“Bella, me wife, me heart. What is wrong? This is a happy day. The happiest.”

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her cheeks now flushed deep red. “What if it hurts? What if I can’t do what a wife needs to for her husband? It’s my duty.”

“And it’s my duty as your husband to care for you.”

Taking her face in both my hands, I pulled her lips to mine, kissing her deeply so she knew what I felt for her was much more profound than sex. If we had to take our time, we would. If we needed to seek different treatment for her to live comfortably, we would. Hell, if I needed to not have sex for most of my life, I would have done anything so she was comfortable, happy, and mine.

“We will face this together, Bella. You’re not alone in this,” I told her firmly. “I have never left you alone, and I won’t now.”

Over the past few years, she had opened up to me about her struggles with endometriosis. How each month was excruciating when her period arrived. We would sit on the phone for hours, talking or just being with each other as she sobbed with the pain. I hated being unable to reach out and hold her, but I hoped my presence helped somewhat.

Her mother showed little to no sympathy with her plight. Even after her diagnosis, she would pass her painkillers and a hot water bottle for Isabella to retreat to her room with. Isabella’s father had an aversion to his family taking unnecessary medication due to a family member becoming addicted to prescription drugs and dying of an overdose. It took years of calling the family doctor for Isabella’s difficulty to be diagnosed, no matter how raw it became. I promised to make this right now she was mine.

Now, on our wedding night, she was on medication. We hoped we could make love the way we wanted to, but the last thing in this world I wanted was to hurt her. So, if we had to wait, we would. Our first time needed to be perfect, and I wasn’t going to allow a date on a calendar to control that.

After releasing her, I walked over to the silver champagne bucket on the sideboard. The green bottle with a gold label sitting in the bath of ice glinted under the flicker of candle light, and I held it up triumphantly.

“First, we toast in private to Mr. and Mrs. Devane,” I said, and she giggled. Nimbly, I popped the cork and poured the bubbly liquid into the two waiting flutes before passing one to Isabella. We clinked the rims together then sipped. “We are lucky, Bella. So many people in our world experience this night differently. They’re married off to others they don’t know, never mind love. I am honored to be starting our new chapter.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek as the day's emotion came to a head. I took her glass from her fingers before placing both hers and mine down.

“And even if we don’t manage to have full sex tonight, Bella. I plan to relish every inch of you I can. Can I see what my bride has underneath the dress?” She had frozen momentarily, then white teeth had bitten into the plump flesh of her bottom lip as her cheeks flushed red. The tension in the room heightened as we both stood silently for a few moments, waiting for her response. She turned away from me, and my heart sank. Perhaps she wasn’t ready.

“You’ll need to unlace my dress, husband,” she said, her voice so husky, I could have shot my load in my boxers on the spot.

Stepping forward, I pinched the white silk ribbon between my fingers and pulled. The bodice unraveled in front of my eyes, opening wide to expose the lace of her corset beneath. I lifted my hands to her shoulders and helped her lower the sleeves from her arms. The dress fell in a pool of white at her feet. She stepped out of the fabric deliberately, turning to face me. Standing in the center of our honeymoon suite, Isabella grinned and placed her hands on her hips as my hungry eyes drank her in.

Her smooth olive skin and wide curves were accentuated by white lace. Long muscular legs were defined spectacularly by high-heeled red stilettos. Her hands lifted to the pin holding her hair and she pulled, shiny black curls fell down around her shoulders.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “You take my breath away. You always do, but tonight, Bella, you are my goddess.”

“Your turn,” she said, her tone more confident. She felt good, and I loved that. “I want to see what I’ve signed up for.”

Taking her instruction like a good boy, I shrugged out of my tuxedo jacket, removed my bowtie, then began to unbutton my shirt. She took two slow steps forward, her hands coming to land where mine were on the gold buttons.

“I want to,” she whispered, taking each of my hands and placing them at my sides. She removed my shirt, and then her unsure fingers moved to my trousers before slipping them off. We stood before each other, man and wife, in nothing but our underwear. Both so bloody happy and excited to see where the future took us. Neither of us noticed the camera or the fact the door was unlocked. Neither of us was ready for what would happen next.