7. Hunter

SEVEN

HUNTER

W hen we get to the spot where Winter should be, there's nothing more than a dead body being torn apart by a pack of wolves. They growl at our intrusion but scatter when we advance toward them in three SUVs.

By the size and shape, I know it's not her. And that's all that counts in this exact moment.

We landed at the nearest airfield that could handle the 767, which happens to be two hours from where Misha located the vehicle that took Winter.

Misha's detail stands behind the two vehicles in front of us, and I see our guys exit too. They suit up with the firearms they grab from the open trunks.

"Fuck," Leo mutters, pulling his phone up to his ear to talk to Rio back at Amelia Manor, who is tracking the vehicle along with Misha's tech guy. Out here in the forest, we're relying on our satellite phones to communicate with our home base.

The problem is, as we discovered when our plane landed, hacking into the vehicle systems has someone in their data security pretty upset. They keep plugging our access points and we have to find new ones.

My lips go numb. The fact that the vehicle isn't here makes me want to scream. Would we find pieces of it scattered through the woods? Is Winter nearby?

Did she escape?

Is she…?

I fling the door open.

"Wait a minute," Leo says.

"The fuck I will," I snarl. It's been miserable. Two hours on the plane plus two hours in the vehicle has caused my muscles to tense, pulling on my injuries. But none of that matters if I can get to Winter.

God, please. Please let her be alive. Please let her be okay.

I don't pray, but at this moment….

"H, let Misha's people secure the area. You don't know what you're walking into out there . " He waves his hand around to indicate the men wearing assault rifles. Leo's endless patience starts to wear thin. I can see it.

His phone pings and his eyes whip down toward the screen. I use his averted gaze as an opportunity to exit the car.

"Goddamn it, H," he practically yells through the open door, but I leave anyway.

I approach the dead body and feel a wild energy course through me at his mangled form. He hasn't been dead long. His body is still loose, but the wolves ate most of his face along with part of his torso. A thick nail affixes a broken plank to his forehead.

I rip the plank out.

And even though I had no doubt of the body's identity, the energy sharpens when I'm finally able to confirm it's Adam Collins.

White-hot rage pulses through me in time with my heartbeat .

"I'll instruct the men to start our search around the area," one of Misha's men says behind me.

I nod.

"Give me a handgun," I say to him. He gives me a strange look when I turn to face him but doesn't protest. I remove the safety with a sense of precise calm and point the gun at Adam Collins' face.

I shoot him.

Then I shoot him again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Over and over and over and over until the clip is empty.

Then, I spit on him. The grime of his splattered brain matter stains my legs and shirt.

I feel nothing. It's not enough.

You won't feel anything until Winter is back, Hunter .

She has to come back.

You will get her back.

I return the gun to the tall Ukrainian. I can tell by his expression that he understands why I did what I just did.

"We will take care of this," he says, pointing to Adam Collins' mangled body with the barrel of the gun.

The forest is quiet, near silent in the aftershock of the gunfire. Then a phone rings in the car I was just in. Moments later, Leo yells through the open door.

"We've got a signal! The car is moving."

The car is moving. The signal is moving. Could Winter....

When I round the car to get in the back, Leo throws an extra pair of pants and a shirt at my chest. I catch them before they hit the ground.

"First, change your clothes. Then we'll go get your girl."

We have less than an hour of daylight remaining when Veronica calls to confirm she's heard from Winter. It takes almost five minutes for us to understand what she's saying through her hysterical crying.

Luckily, Ella was right there, and she took the phone from Winter's best friend to explain.

Not that Ella was any less frantic.

Winter is here, in this old diner, almost a hundred miles from any major city.

As we draw up to the location, I note the Tahoe in front of the building. I swing the door open before the driver puts the vehicle in park.

"Whoa, wait—" Leo begins, but I'm already running toward the entrance.

Before I can open the glass door, a white-haired woman steps outside with a Remington bolt-action rifle pointed at my chest.

I pull up short, putting my hands in the air.

"What's yer' business here?" she drawls in a deep accent.

"Ma'am, I'm looking for—" I search for the right word to describe Winter. Calling her my girlfriend feels wrong, like it's too small a label to describe how she consumes me.

"I'm looking for my wife. She's a Black woman with long, curly brown hair. Her name is Winter."

The thought jolts through me that maybe she dropped the car here and went with someone else. I look through the windshield of the Tahoe. Empty.

"Have you seen her?" I ask. I pull out my phone to bring up a picture of Winter. My hands shake, and a bead of sweat rolls down my back. My chest and head hurt, and the pain pills I took before the flight are wearing off fast.

I land on a picture of Winter taken at La Maison on our first date. She ordered French onion soup, and I snapped a photo of her as she smiled at me. A long string of Gruyère cheese stretches from her bowl to the spoon near her mouth.

"Hmm," the woman says, gripping her shotgun tighter and ignoring my phone. She doesn't look at all afraid to light my ass up. "I don't reckon that I have," she says.

Leo walks up behind me, offering the satellite phone in his hand like a peace offering. "Ma'am, could you talk to the person on the phone? She'll explain who we are." She eyes him for three solid seconds, but when Veronica's frantic "hello? hello?" rings out over the phone, she reaches a slow hand toward Leo, accepting it.

She listens for a few seconds before she turns her eyes to the two of us standing at her doorway.

Then she steps aside.

"Winter!" I yell as I run through the entrance. I whip my gaze around the sum of the space, analyzing the empty diner.

"Winter, where are you, baby?" I spin around, going from booth to booth on one side of the restaurant. I'm about to check the bathroom when I hear a rustle. And then a sniff.

I turn and rush toward the sound. My muscles threaten to buckle where I stand.

It takes everything within me to not tear this place apart.

Winter is curled up on the bench of one of the diner booths. Her eyes are open, staring at the empty bench opposite her. Bruises mottle her face. One swollen eye has a cut over it. It's green and purple.

"Winter?" I whisper. I don't know what to do. I don't know whether to touch her or speak louder or what the fuck to do.

"Winter. Sunbeam." I can barely get the words out—they're low, choked. She shudders. Then, with agonizing slowness, her eyes meet mine.

The light is dead in her fathomless brown eyes. "Hunter?" she whispers. She trembles, and even though she looks right at me, I know she doesn't see me.

"I'm here, baby." She lowers her head a fraction. A nod. Then she lays her head back onto the plastic-covered cushion.

"Winter, I'm here to take you home. Can we go home now?" I kneel on the cracked linoleum, my hand inches from her head.

"Home," she whispers so silently that I almost miss it.

"Yes, baby. It's over. This is all over."

In fragments, I see her break. She weeps. Tears cascade down her cheeks, faster and faster, and her breathing turns erratic as her shoulders shake with sobs.

An inhuman keening sound comes from her gut.

I can't take it. I shake with her as I scoop her into my arms, pushing the free-standing table to the side and causing the opposite bench to screech against the floor. I place her on my lap as I take her seat.

She clutches at me, and grime and the dark brown of dried blood are embedded around her cuticles. I make a sound in my throat when I notice the nail on her left ring finger is missing—ripped away from the bed.

She fought. She fought him hard. Agony wells in my throat, trapped, unable to release because if I do—I'll break thoroughly. Completely.

Sunbeam. My Sunbeam....

I found her.

Burying my face into the riot of messy curls, I release a shuddering breath.

She's here with me. Right here, in my arms.

You did this to her.

The burst of guilt causes the room to spin.

This happened because of me. I put her in this position. If I hadn't drawn her into my life—this toxic, fucked-up swamp of depravity—this never would have happened .

I gave them the gun. But I'll make them pay for pulling the goddamn trigger.

I press my lips to the crown of her head and don't do what I want, which is to crush her to me.

Her body is so broken.

I look down at her wet eyelashes.

How can I help her if her mind is too?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"You're safe, Sunbeam," I grind out.

And if anyone tries to take her from me again, I'll usher them to hell myself.

We rock from side to side.

"It's over. It's over. I've got you. You're safe now. I'm so sorry. It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over," I say. My voice fractures.

I will not break. I will not crack.

Control. Gather control.

I vow to fight against total collapse. It's up to me to save us all.