Page 77 of The Hunter

Closing my eyes, I drew in a deep breath and exhaled, “Victor.”

The silence that followed was deafening as I waited for his reaction.

Would he believe me?

Or would it be like Victor had warned? That no one would take me seriously. That it was my word against his and he was too well-liked and respected.

“These marks here…” Henry skimmed a finger along my throat. “How did you get them?”

“Victor almost choked me to death because I spoke to you at the gala. It wasn’t the first time he did it. But it was the first time I thought he was actually going to kill me.”

Henry’s face twisted with something awful. Guilt. Rage. Regret.

“When did he do this?” He nodded at the letters branded into my skin.

“The first time? When we were married for about a month.”

His muscles tightened even more. “And the most recent?”

“The same night he choked me. Restrained me as he carved my skin. Then he forced me onto my stomach and fucked me like the whore I am, according to him anyway.”

He held up a hand like he couldn’t bear to listen to another word. “Did you agree? Tell him yes?”

“Why the hell would I wantthat?” I shot back incredulously.

He stepped closer, his gaze searing into mine. “Then he didn’t fuck you, Ariana. Herapedyou.”

A breath whooshed out of me.

I never allowed myself to think of what Victor did as raping me. He was my husband, after all. Somehow along the way, I’d been trained to believe that meant I owed him everything, including my body.

“Say it,” Henry pressed, his jaw tight.

“Say what?” I asked.

“The truth about what Victor did. That he didn’t fuck you. That he raped you.”

I swallowed hard. It shouldn’t have been this difficult. Itwasthe truth.

But it was a truth I’d ignored for years. It was easier that way. Allowed me to disassociate from the reality I’d been living.

“It’s okay. You can do it.” Henry wrapped his fingers around my hand, giving me an encouraging squeeze. “No one will hurt you here.Hecan’t hurt you here.”

I met his eyes, struggling to form the words. Henry remained a source of silent encouragement, giving me the space and time I needed in order to come to terms with this.

“Victor raped me,” I finally said, my voice barely a whisper. But once spoken, it echoed louder than a scream, wrapping around me. Around both of us.

“Now I want you to say it wasn’t your fault.”

“I don’t—” I began, but he cut me off.

“Say it, Ariana.”

I licked my lips, squaring my shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault.” My statement was soft, hesitant.

Years of training and conditioning had led me to believe everything Victor didwasmy fault. That being forced to endure his abuse was my penance for being the reason my father lost his life.

“Again,” Henry instructed.