12. Winter

TWELVE

WINTER

T he cartoon-clad clock my mom bought at The Disney Store shows that it's 3:34 a.m.

He is half an hour later than usual.

This room feels so different now.

My Barbie Dreamhouse still sits in the corner of my room. Except now, it's collecting dust.

Stapled pictures of Mom and Dad line the wall alongside pictures of Veronica and me and my Destiny's Child and NSYNC* posters .

Everything looks so much the same. But everything is different. Rotten. Cold. Dead.

I feel him move around the room after he closes the door with a quiet snick.

I know what he wants me to do.

I turn over and lay flat on my stomach. He doesn't hurt me as much when I make it easy for him.

The bed dips as he puts a knee on the mattress and pulls the blanket off my body.

His body presses against my back.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

"I'll be quick," he says. With a thunk , the heavy switchblade lands on my nightstand. I don't have to look to know that the blade is extended and ready to inflict quick agony.

I breathe in.

Wrong. Wrong. This is wrong. Everything buzzes, electrified. My eyes snap toward the wall and lock on the image of me, Mom, and Dad.

It was at my dad's promotion dinner when he was made Chief of Neurosurgery. Mom was in her second year as a U.S. Representative to our corner of northern Virginia, and the stress of the job was getting to her. I'd hear her talk to Dad about it when they thought I wasn't listening. She said she was over D.C. politics. She didn't feel like she could make a difference, that the system was set and there was no changing it. Daddy would rub her hand and kiss her cheek. Sometimes, they'd dance in the living room to Luther Vandross, and Daddy would sing to her off-key. He was a terrible singer.

I miss his singing.

Mom and Daddy look happy in the picture. Smiling. And I'm between them both. My smile is wide, gap-toothed.

Pain.

My mouth opens as if to shout. To cry out. To beg him to stop. But I don't dare.

"Princess," he says. "You are mine forever."

My eyes snap open as my constricted throat tries to pull in air.

I should be used to them by now. There hasn't been a night that I haven't had a nightmare in the month since my abduction.

Resentment and shame rushes through me. I should be able to get past this. I should be able to get back on track.

I've committed my life to healing trauma, and I know I can rationalize my way out of this. I am resilient.

If only it were that easy.

Step one: slow your breathing .

I focus on counting to eight as I inhale and exhale slowly. Breathing deeply still stings my ribs. One broke at some point while I was away, but the pain has lessened to the point where I only cry out when I sneeze or cough. I go slow with my breaths, both to calm my racing heart and assess the limits of my pain tolerance.

Step two: ground yourself.

I blink a few times and pick up on the things I can see.

Kitty in his bed. Sweater on the door. Curtains pulled across the window. Bed.

Step three: reset your brain .

The screen on my phone lights up from its face-down position on my side table. I know I shouldn't use it this late because I'll never get back to sleep, but I pick it up anyway.

A late-night reply email from Genevieve. One look at the subject line, which says, " Re: Continuing Therapy ," leaves a rock in my stomach.

I know better. I really do. I should be in therapy, working through this latest trauma with appropriate, evidence-based measures.

And yet, I can't bring myself to go. I can't bring myself to talk to Genevieve—to talk to anyone.

Talking about it makes it more real. I just want it to fade away.

Beneath the email are the three missed calls and five texts from Veronica. I ignored them when they came in, but I left the notifications on the lock screen. I don't know why I didn't swipe them away.

I get up from the bed and immediately slide my feet into my hard-soled, fuzzy slippers. It's bitterly cold, as late January in northern Virginia always is, so I'm grateful for the thick fleece pajama set Hunter gifted me when I arrived at Amelia Manor. I pull the lined hood up, tugging the drawstring so that it's tight around my face. Kitty lifts his head from the dog bed in the corner of my room.

"Sleep, Kitty," I tell him. He cocks his head, staring me down. I sigh .

"All right, you can come if you want," I tell him, leaving the room without waiting for him.

I walk to Hunter's ginormous kitchen.

Filling the electric kettle by the stove, I take a packet of Sleepytime tea from the basket next to the tea station, grab a mug from the open shelving above the stove, and turn around, leaning on the counter to wait for the water to boil.

Running a hand down my face and back into my hair, I finally say, "You are safe."

The clicking of Kitty's paws on the marble floors gets me to look down at him as he tilts his head to the side. You good, babe? is what his expression says.

I pick him up and cradle him close to my chest. Rubbing his velvet-soft ears, I say, "I'm all good, lovebug." He raises his nose to sniff at my neck and licks the side of my cheek.

The kettle clicks as the water hits a boil, so I set Kitty down and begin making my tea. After adding a few crystallized lemon packets and a heaping squeeze of honey to my mug, I shuffle over to the stool at the massive island. When I settle into the oversized high-backed chair, I kick off my slippers to fold one leg beneath me. I prop my other compression-wrapped leg on the opposite chair. Kitty trots off to explore but doesn't go far from his kitchen dog bed.

Yes, Hunter put a dog bed in the kitchen. And one in each of the three living rooms, the game room, and his office.

I look at the kitchen clock. It's three a.m. Fitting.

Adam is gone. I know he is gone, but it feels as if he will be with me forever.

That's not true, Winter. He's gone. You know he is.

A huge weight lifted off my shoulders when I met with Dr.Greene yesterday. She's a quick-witted woman with soft brown eyes and a skin complexion to match.

I didn't care who I saw when Ella set up the appointment. The only thing I needed was someone with a medical license to tell me that I still wasn't pregnant and all the STI results were still negative.

They are.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

I put my head in my hands.

"Hey."

I jump, knocking my tea mug off the counter and splashing myself with the hot liquid all in one movement. The mug crashes to the floor, and I suppress a yelp.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit," I say as my heart beats in painful, rapid crashes against my sternum. I rush to the paper towels on the other side of the kitchen.

In my haste, I don't think about stepping on the slippery floor or the broken ceramic.

A large shard pierces the skin of my foot, and I have a completely over-the-top reaction to it.

I shriek.

Trauma causes amplified pain responses, I recall from my studies. It seems that I'm education in real life.

Kitty's nails click on the tile at a furious pace, and in a second, he's next to me, tail wagging.

"Off-duty," I tell him. He doesn't move.

I fall back into the chair, bringing my foot up to inspect. I'm still breathing hard, but I can't look at Hunter.

"Off-duty," I emphasize to Kitty, and he drops to the floor, sitting. Tilting his head again, he gives me what I can only equivocate as a doggy sigh, and he moves to sit at the back of my chair.

I jump again when I feel a movement coming from my right. I bring my hands up to cover my head, bracing for an attack. I tremble, so close to panic.

"It's okay, Rio," Hunter says from beside me.

Rio. It's just Rio .

Still, I can't stop trembling.

As if I'm underwater, I hear Rio and Hunter exchange a few words and then it's just Hunter and me in the kitchen.

One.

One-two-one.

One-two-three-two-one.

The pressure in the air changes as Hunter takes a step in my direction. That snaps me out of my daze.

Suddenly, inspecting my foot for damage is the most important task ever.

"Did I wake you, Hunter?" I say, my voice at a more sedate volume.

I feel Hunter move around the kitchen, and with soft movements, he grabs several handfuls of paper towels before he grabs the broom to clean up the mess. When all is set to rights, I feel his heat as he stands near me at the island. I'm still looking at my foot, although I removed the ceramic quickly and the bleeding has already stopped.

He doesn't respond to my question.

"Can I see?" His voice is low, cautious. I curl in on myself, ashamed that I've distanced myself from this remarkable man, this man I love. I dip my chin and his strong hands circle my ankle. Then he kneels in front of me.

The stress of the evening—the nightmare, the messages—rushes to the surface.

"I don't think you need stitches," he says. He's already pulled ointment and a Band-Aid from the drawer, and in a few seconds, he has the wound cleaned and dressed.

Then, almost reverently, he kisses the sole of my foot.

"Hunter," I say, finally looking at him. There are so many warring emotions in his gaze.

Sadness.

Regret.

Pity.

Love .

"I..." When I don't fill the silence, he does it for me.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, rubbing my foot and still kneeling in front of me.

"Something like that," I say. He keeps rubbing my foot, then moves to my calf.

"I couldn't sleep either," he says. He continues to kneel. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"It's okay. You should be able to walk around your house without worrying about me."

"One, I will always worry about you. It's my job," he says, giving a rueful smile. "And two, this is your house too."

I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he briefly chuckles. "This is not my house, Hunter, just like I'm not Mrs.Brigham. " My words have no heat to them, but it is the truth. I'm a visitor. An uncomfortable visitor who is here only because I don't feel safe in my own home. And as for him telling people I'm his wife....

He squeezes my calf muscles, massaging the tense flesh, and I can't help the groan that slips out.

"The latter can be changed very easily, baby." He looks into my eyes. Even in the dim under-cabinet lighting, I can see the blue disappear as his irises expand. There isn't a hint of joking in them. He is all seriousness.

I begin to pull my leg from his grasp in slow increments.

"Don't," he whispers.

I close my eyes because I can't .

"We don't have to be like that right now, Winter. I just...please stay with me. We can talk about whatever."

I inhale deeply and force myself to open my eyes again.

His eyes plead for me to stay.

I want to. I so want to. But the thought of getting close to him chokes me.

I didn't always feel like pushing away from him since the incident. Physically, at least. There were days when all I could do was cry and scream and rage, and the only remedy was Hunter Brigham's touch.

But now, I feel dead inside. I feel like the rot from my soul will rub off on him somehow.

God, help me. I don't see how to break through. Maybe that's part of the reason why I'm avoiding Genevieve. Wading through the muck of all this shit...maybe it's too late for me.

I spin. I spiral. The room buzzes.

Suddenly, he stands up. "Come with me," he says as he holds out his hand. I don't hesitate to take it. It's an automatic reflex.

"Where are we going?" I whisper.

He smiles. It's a soft look. He kicks my hard-soled slippers from beneath my chair. "Put your shoes on."

I comply.

We make our way out of the kitchen and across the living room, and before we head out the double French doors to the veranda, he snags three thick blankets and grabs us each a coat. We slip them on.

"Can I show you my favorite spot?" Hunter asks as we move through the winterized garden.

"You mean the rose garden isn't your favorite place? I guess maybe it's your office."

He laughs. "No, although the rose garden will always hold a very special place in my heart." His eyes drop to my mouth, and I know he's thinking about our first kiss.

A tingle settles low in my core, heating me. I squash it immediately as fear and disgust follow closely behind.

He doesn't say anything else as he takes my hand again.

"Kitty, come," Hunter says, and I bite my lip. Kitty follows, sidling up to Hunter.

Well, I'll be damned. " Et tu , Kitty?" My turncoat dog tilts his head at me, shaking out all his limbs before sitting next to Hunter's leg .

Then he looks up at Hunter for further instruction.

We both start to walk.

It's a full moon, so I can see the path. I follow Hunter's sure steps as he walks us deeper into the manor's grounds. After a few minutes, we cross through the final pass of trees and come across the shore of a lake. The lake has to take up at least four acres, and the twenty-foot stretch of water from the shore is frozen thick. The silent beauty of the moon reflecting on the ice has me breathing deeply for what feels like...forever.

The stillness is the balm I didn't know I needed to calm my nervous system after the kitchen incident.

"Wow," I say, looking at the lake. The bank is sandy, with a few giant boulders scattered along the shore. All around the perimeter are tall trees—pines and different evergreens. Hunter doesn't release my hand as we walk parallel to the lake, and after a few minutes, he directs me toward a large log that looks carved out for people to sit on.

This is now my favorite spot in the world.

Hunter doesn't say anything when he sits me on the log and drapes one of the thick blankets over my shoulders. He sits next to me, slinging one of the blankets over his back like a cape, and spreads the third blanket over both our laps. He takes a deep breath—I think to inhale the smell of nature. I do the same.

"Play," I say to Kitty, and he bounds off to explore down the shore.

"Did you spend much time here in Amelia Manor growing up?" I ask him.

"Not very much time at all. I was sent to boarding school in Connecticut as soon as I hit kindergarten. My mom owned this property, separate from my father. It had been in her family for generations. Her great-grandmother was named Amelia, and that was my mom's name too."

"What happened to her?" A frog croaks in the distance .

Hunter's shoulders hunch over. His brows pinch together in a look I've come to recognize is one of his tells for when he's feeling things he doesn't want to feel.

"She died when I was a teenager," he says. There's no inflection in his tone. "I would spend part of my summers here growing up, and my mom would bring me and my sister down here to play in the lake." He nods toward the water. "It's pretty shallow at this part."

A few craggy rocks reflect the moonlight.

It's the most peaceful spot I've been to in a very long time.

"We're part of a fucked-up club, you and I. August too, I guess," I say with a small laugh.

"How so, Sunbeam?"

"The dead mother club," I reply.

He doesn't laugh.

"Wow, tough crowd," I say. I'm trying to be funny, I guess. I wasn't always this cynical. This morose. I wonder if this new attitude will be unattractive to him. If he'll get annoyed. If this will be the thing that causes him to walk away.

My heart squeezes at the thought. I don't want that...do I?

His hand grazes mine. Our pinky fingers touch in such a gentle caress that it could have been taken as an accident if I weren't paying attention.

"Tell me about your mother," he says instead. I give him a sad smile.

"My mother was my hero." I pull at the wrists of my sweatshirt, grateful that Hunter and I grabbed shoes and warm coats before leaving out the back door. "My mom worked a lot but tried her best to be there for me whenever possible. My dad was a doctor, so he worked a lot of hours, especially when I was really little. But by the time Mom was elected to the House, Dad was in a different position and didn't need to work so many crazy rotations."

His pinky grazes mine back and forth as he retracts and extends his finger .

"What's your favorite memory of the two of them?" he asks me. I turn my face to the moon.

"Hm. That's a hard one to answer. If I had to pick one, I'd say it was my ninth birthday party. I invited all the girls in my class to sleep over at my house, but no one showed."

"That's your favorite memory?" He lets out a small puff of air, a chuckle. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and try not to quake at the expression on his face.

There's so much love in his eyes that it hurts to look.

My mouth twists into a smile at the memory. "Yeah, it is. Around eight p.m., when no one showed, she said, ‘Well, can't let all this go to waste!' So we ate cold pizza and an entire sheet cake between me and her. Dad was not impressed because he was a pretty health-conscious guy, but he did help us build the most amazing pillow fort. It was epic. The pillow fort to end all pillow forts."

I smile for real this time, and I catalog that the muscles in my face feel tight. Are they really that unused to making this movement?

"So yeah, best memory ever." I finish.

"I love that memory," he says.

We lapse into silence again. It's comfortable.

Kitty runs back to me, a leaf sticking out of his mouth. I snag it from him, lifting him into my lap to cuddle close. He licks my cheek, and I breathe in deeply against the memories.

"What do you need from me, Winter?" Hunter's voice is so soft, so unlike the commanding man I've seen him as. He's using a voice reserved only for me.

He loves me.

I breathe deeply and turn on the log to face him fully. "I don't know, H."

He reaches a hand up to my cheek, and I still when he wipes away a tear.

I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows. "Do you want to talk about it?" His hand is warm against my cheek. I focus on that sensation instead of the dread that courses through me.

"I don't...I don't know if I can. If I should." More tears. Always with the fucking tears.

"I understand if you don't want to talk to me about it, but you should talk to someone. Veronica called me," he says, and the abrupt topic change startles me a little bit. "She said that your therapist contacted her. She hasn't seen you since before the attack."

I'm on edge at once. Veronica's my emergency contact, as has been the norm for the last near decade. But I don't want to talk to Genevieve right now.

I don't have a clear reason. I just...don't.

It's because you know what she'll say. You know what you should do, and you're not doing it.

"She cares about you. She's worried about you. All of us are worried about you."

I pull my face away from his hand, and he takes the hint and drops it in his lap.

"I'm fine," I say. I lie. "I'm dealing with things in my own time. In my own way."

He looks at me for a beat and then says, "I miss you, Winter."

I feel myself cracking, my anxiety rising. "I'm not ready for sex yet," I blurt out.

"I'm not talking about sex."

I talk over him. "I might never be ready for sex. I might never have sex with you again. And I know that's crazy, and I think you should find someone else because I'm a mess, and I might not ever be ready for anything?—"

He pulls me into his arms, holding me. Hugging me. Kitty is still between our bodies.

When he kisses the top of my head, something snaps within me, and hysteria rises in my throat. I know that if one more thing happens, I will break. I might never recover. I'm terrified I'll never recover.

"I will wait for you, Winter. I'm right here. I'm here to help you find your strength again. I'm here to help you navigate through this as you heal. I'm here because I love you, and I know that my Sunbeam is in there. You're hurt, but I'll wait for you."

He kisses my hair again, and I clutch onto his shirt.

"I don't need sex," he says.

I snort in response.

"I don't," he emphasizes. "Palmala Handerson and I are working out just fine."

And then, I push back from him, and I do the thing I haven't done since standing in that godforsaken bathroom with him on the night that changed everything. I laugh. A full-volume laugh. I toss my head back, and the sound echoes across the water.

He smiles, and his eyes twinkle. "There's my girl," he whispers.

I try like hell to hold on to his words.