10. Hunter

TEN

HUNTER

T he heat of the sun presses against my eyelids as I wake up on a pile of pillows. I’m under the awning that covers a fourth of the veranda from edge to edge. It seems the storm that promised to wash the land bypassed us all together. The sea is calm for once, and Isla Cara seems like the most peaceful place on the planet.

It’s a lie.

The cloudless sky and silent surf seem mismatched when compared with what happened last night.

I woke up because of a noise: A gasping suck of air. Pained. I find the source and turn away to throw up on the pillows.

On the marble bar top, my mother lay with her arms hanging over the sides. Her eyes are closed, but the gnarled, raw flesh seeps and drips onto the floor beneath her. Blood streams from so many cuts on her body.

A man stands close to her.

“Clean this shit up, Hunter.” Father’s voice comes from behind me, and I scramble to sit up, tearing my eyes away from Mom. He kicks the furniture I’m on, and I pull a beach towel from the basket provided for guests to wipe at the mess of my vomit.

“What are you going to do with Mom?” I say with eyes downcast. When he’s silent for too long, I risk glancing at him.

Father is still, a peaceful smile on his lips. Then with snake-like quickness, he grabs me by the throat, pulling me up and over the back of the lounge sofa until my face is inches from his.

He breathes in. And out. And the seconds tick on.

Then he says, “Don’t ever mention her again.” His words are a low vow.

I nod a fraction as I choke.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Hunter.”

Movement comes from the side near the entrance of the house. Standing in the doorway is a man I hoped to never see.

It’s one of Father’s most vile friends, Alistair, and two other men surround him. Father squeezes my throat harder, and sparks of light flash from the sides of my vision.

“You’ll remember that I own you, Hunter,” Father says. Tighter. Tighter. I fear I might pass out. I look toward Mom, willing her to open her eyes. To look at me and to save me like she vowed.

To save me like she vowed when she found out the true extent of my father’s hatred of me.

With one last punishing squeeze, he releases me, and I collapse back on the cushions, drawing in air as if on the brink of death.

And I am. I am always on the brink of death when Benjamin Brigham is around.

He leans over me, blocking out everything except his eyes and his demonic gaze.

“This will serve as your punishment and your reminder.”

He stands over me for one more moment as the three men move beside him.

I know. I know, I know, I know what will happen.

Not again, not again. I can’t do this again. This can’t happen again.

So I allow myself to show the weakness he so detests. I allow tears to fall.

“Please,” I beg. “Don’t let them hurt me.”

He smiles, and it takes on a sick edge. He flushes, and his eyes sparkle.

“Keep begging, Hunter. Beg while they destroy you.”

Then he steps back, and both of my arms are bound as I’m flipped to my stomach, zip ties locking my wrists together behind my back.

“Please!” I shout into the pillows.

Father laughs, and it’s loud, ringing — clanging — in my ears.

One man grabs my left leg. Another grabs my right.

“Pl-ease!” I cry as my tattered shirt is ripped off me. All of the cuts and bruises on my body pulse and ache and sear. “Please, God. Help!”

With that, he laughs louder.

“Hunter, don’t you know?” he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut as my hands flex against the hard plastic, grasping for anything, as someone rips my shorts from my body.

Once I’m naked and trembling, he leans over me to whisper into my ear.

“I am your god.”

“Hunter, wake up!”

Cold and pain shock me from my nightmare as I come to consciousness on the floor.

A drop of icy water drips from my nose, and I suck in air in deep bellows as I get my mind and body to accept that I’m conscious.

Winter stands on the other side of our bed with an empty glass in her hand, trembling.

It was just a dream.

“Let’s breathe,” Winter says, still not moving from her spot. “In for three, out for three.”

She does the count first, and I do it as she commands. I count to three as I inhale, holding the air in my lungs for another three before releasing the stream for another three beats.

“Hunter, are you fully awake now?” Winter’s voice is low, even though a wobbly undercurrent laces it.

I draw my eyes from her face to her hand and back to her face.

There’s so much in her gaze, but there are also things I don’t want to see.

Pity. Understanding.

“Fuck, did I hurt you, Sunbeam?”

I run my hand down the side of my face, refusing to look at her again.

“No, H. I’m okay.” She grabs my hand, passing it across her cheek and down both of her arms. When we reach her wrist, I circle my fingers around it. “See?”

I look at her, and Winter shrugs in the pale ambient lighting. She really does look like an angel.

I am ruining her.

I clear my throat and close my eyes against the painful thought.

“Yes, I’m awake,” I say. “And I’m okay.” Another lie. Another fucking lie.

It’s been weeks since my blowup in the war room, and my temperament has been insufferable, even to Winter. I know it, even though she’s never said so outright. I think the parts of her that will make an excellent clinical psychologist recognize that I need space, not smothering.

Even though I never want her to see me as weak, I know she sees my pain.

“Mmhmm,” she says in an even tone. After a beat, she says, “That must have been some nightmare, H. You were screaming.” I feel her move, and the closer she gets, the tighter I screw my eyes shut.

She puts her hand on my jaw and tilts my face up, not letting me avoid her gaze, so I slide my eyes open. Even though she tries, she can’t hide the concern in her expression.

With gentle movements, she gingerly lowers herself to the ground across from me.

The silence between us urges me to command that she say something. Anything. But also, I want her to say nothing at all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Is this a session, Winter? Should I pull out my Amex?” My voice is harsh, and I watch as her lips tighten.

Get a grip.

Inhaling, I say, “I’m sorry, Sunbeam.”

We’re silent for a few seconds, but then she says, “I forgive you.” Then she nudges my thigh when I shift into a more comfortable position on the floor. “This time.”

I grab her hand and kiss the back of it.

After a moment, she sighs and says, “I’m ready to talk to you.”

I look up, quirking an eyebrow.

“About our fight back home, before you left to meet Misha,” she clarifies.

I bite the inside of my cheek before saying, “I wasn’t aware we were fighting.”

She gives me a droll look. “Yeah, okay.” She pulls her hand away.

We’ve been laying low for three weeks. I fully expected Morris Winthrope to try to break into Misha’s compound as soon as the time was up on his demand, but things have been eerily quiet.

He didn’t show up with a tank to take us down like Misha did to his people who invaded Amelia Manor. There weren’t any drone bombings.

Not even a blip on the radar.

So as the days have rolled on, I’ve felt the ticktock of the countdown to our doom getting louder and louder.

The quieter my surroundings get, the more it feels like I’m losing control.

Control.

“Hunter,” she begins, “I know you’re hyper-concerned about my safety. I get it—especially given everything that’s happened over the last several weeks. Or, I guess, the last several months. The year?” She straightens her back.

“But you cannot ever lock me away ever again. You cannot shut me out. You have to let me be a partner in things that impact not just you but me too. The rest of our….”

She waves her hands in the air before lifting them in a hopeless shrug.

“I think the word you’re searching for is ‘family,’ Sunbeam.” I lean forward, cupping her cheek. “And I’m sorry that I upset you.”

But I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it again if given the chance.

“You’ve got to let go of control, baby. You’re only hurting yourself by trying to orchestrate the direction of life,” Winter says.

She puts a palm on each side of my neck. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in my decade-plus of therapy and classes, it’s this: You can’t control the future. There’s no such thing as a guaranteed outcome. You just have to do the next thing that feels right and keep moving forward.”

Her words cause my chest to tighten, and my breaths start to feel short.

She looks at me, and she shows everything in her gaze.

“Why does that scare you, Hunter?”

I have to change the subject.

“I’m not sure what to do about Amelia,” I say.

She sits up straighter and tilts her head to the side. I can tell the moment she decides to let me back away from the present topic.

“Do you want my help to think through it?” she asks, using her therapist voice.

I grin. “Sure, Doctor Vaughan.” Soon to be Doctor Brigham if I have my way.

The idea of Paris flashes through my mind. In my fantasies, we’d get married beneath the cherry blossoms at the Tidal Basin and honeymoon for a month in Paris. We’d do touristy things during the day, have romantic candle-lit dinners at night, and make love whenever we wanted to.

I want to give her that and so much more.

Winter smiles at me. “Can you name the emotions you feel right now about your mother? Not necessarily about her actions, but about her being here, alive.”

She waits patiently and brings her legs around to sit with them folded in front of her.

I allow myself to really think about that question. How do I feel about my mother being alive?

I’m angry. I’m hurt.

And beneath the anger and hurt, I’m…grateful.

She’s lied to me, hidden herself away from me, and allowed me to stay trapped in that world with my father. And even knowing all that—having all that happen—I’m stunned that she’s still here.

“I’m amazed that she survived. I’m in awe of her resilience to make it through the things that were supposed to kill her. And I’m jealous. And angry,” I say.

And guilty.

Maybe that’s really it. The guilt I feel that, in the end, I was the one who betrayed all her secrets…the feeling is sharp. It’s a knife stuck in my gut, and it gets jostled with every breath I take.

“Those are all understandable feelings, Hunter,” Winter says calmly. “So, acknowledging that, what do you want your relationship with her to look like?”

That question startles me. Relationship? With my mother?

The fact that I haven’t considered that I could have any type of relationship with her hasn’t crossed my mind. I’m unsure why. Maybe part of me can’t believe that she’s actually alive and here.

Maybe part of me is afraid that despite the miracle of her presence here…she’ll leave me again, whether she wants to or not.

Maybe part of me feels the pressure of this shit with The Legion blowing up in a catastrophic way.

Like everything always does. My hand jerks in Winter’s grasp. I take in her face in the dim light and try not to panic.

This. I won’t let anything destroy this .

“I haven’t thought about it,” I eventually say.

Winter’s grin is slow to appear, but it comes nonetheless.

“That’s okay, Hunter,” she says, kissing my cheek. I inhale her soft rose scent, grateful to whoever managed to bring so many of our things over from Amelia Manor.

“Maybe that question is one that you can spend some time contemplating,” she finishes.

I clear my throat. “Sure, Sunbeam. I’ll do that.”

She goes to kiss my cheek again, and I turn my head to capture her lips.

Our embrace is sweet, slow, and full of…everything.

Everything I’ve never dared to allow myself to have and want, I have it here. It’s in my hands.

I run my palms over her sides, and she hums into my mouth, pulling back a fraction to look at me.

It’s like she’s staring into the depths of my soul. I know she would understand. The logical part of me—the part that knows that Winter loves me as I love her, beyond reason—knows that I could tell her anything.

There’s so much she doesn’t know about me. And the reality is the thought of her seeing the darkest, ugliest parts of my past makes me want to die.

You are not a good person, Hunter Brigham, she said to me once.

She wasn’t wrong. Not at all.

“I really don’t want to push you, Hunter,” she says in a soft voice. “But I’m not the only one who has been hurt. You have been too.”

I resist the urge to jump as she analyzes me. I take a long blink to avoid her gaze.

“Eh, my stuff will heal,” I reply.

“I’m not talking about physical pain, H. I’m talking about you—your heart and your soul. Your reactions in your dreams sound very…familiar.” Her voice drops on the last word, and I can’t look her in the eye.

So, instead, I stare at the silky skin on the back of her hand and rub my thumb over it in a slow cadence.

“What you told me that—that night I was taken…” She clears her throat. “That was just the tip of the iceberg. There was more that happened, more you haven’t told me. Right?”

Icy fingers of panic skitter down my spine, morphing into the feeling of unwanted hands on my body. I look down at my palms to make sure they aren’t covered in blood.

I swallow past the thickness in my throat.

“I am here for you, Hunter. I’m here to listen.” She brings my hand to her mouth now, returning the caress. “I’m not here to therapize you,” she whispers with her lips pressed to my flesh. Then she brings my hand to her chest and places it right over her heart.

“I’m here for you because I love you, and I want to be your safe space too.”

At that, I look up at her face.

She looks open to me and so filled with love that I almost choke on it.

“You can tell me anything. Some things…I know they’re hard to say. I know it. But you can’t keep me on the outside of you.” She moves our hands down to cover her stomach. “We’re part of each other now.”

She’s well into her second trimester now. Her stomach has become a little more prominent over the last few weeks, and the sight of her round with my child does all kinds of things to my brain.

One thought is regret—I never saw these stages with August. Another thought is joy—radiant joy that I can try again.

But the loudest thought is fear. All-consuming, trembling fear.

And I know that fear, if given the opportunity, will make me weak. Distracted. Vulnerable.

If I were to allow myself to give in to the fear, that would mean death for all of us.

So I push it down and shut all the thoughts out.

I open my mouth to speak—to spill forward the horrible tragedies that my father allowed, that he dictated.

I open my mouth to tell her that our pasts are not so different.

But when I force my lips to form the words, nothing comes out. She goes back to rubbing my hand after placing it on her lap.

“Maybe another day?” she asks.

I clear my throat. “Another day,” I say.

When she begins to pull away, I stop her and place her hand on my chest.

I place her hand where my heart beats for her.

Her smile is near blinding as she settles into me.

I will keep her safe, even if I die doing it.

When I wake up again four hours later, I let Winter sleep and find August. I’m ashamed that I haven’t spent more time with him. I think about him every day, but when we connect, it’s…awkward.

It’s not August’s fault at all—it’s like I’ve forgotten how to interact with people since I vomited all my emotions in front of everyone in the war room. Winter, Ella, and I sat him down to explain who Misha and Amelia are to him, and he took the information well.

At least, I think so.

But when Ella and Winter left the room and it was just August and I, we sat in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes before he loped off to play his video games with Kitty tap-tap-tap ping next to him.

I realize now that a big part of me is afraid to be around him. I’m such a fucking mess that I don’t want my darkness to rub off on him.

I don’t want any of this to touch him.

So as a result, it’s been too many days since August and I spoke face-to-face.

Get it together.

As I head toward August’s game room, the thought crosses my mind to find Ella—to see if I can talk some sense into her. We’ve broached the topic of her involvement with this shit a few times over the past near month, but those conversations always end with her storming off and me wanting to hit something.

But Winter is right. She’s a grown woman.

She can make her own decisions, even if they are painful for me to tolerate.

In the back of my mind, I can admit I’m being irrational about this. I’m able to feel what’s at stake here and how much there is to lose.

But the abstract thought of The Legion fracturing our civilization doesn’t compare to the very real danger of losing my sister.

But again, Ella can make her own decisions.

So, my decision is to step back. Misha and Amelia and Ella can figure all this out on their own.

I’ll just get in the way.

A knot fists in my chest.

I make my way into the kitchen and stop short when I see Veronica and Rio standing close to each other. It’s an innocent scene, but the way they look at each other…I recognize that look.

Veronica jumps away from Rio, putting her hand on the small stroller that holds Summer. Rio doesn’t move at all—he just continues to look at Veronica.

“Hunter,” Veronica says with a cool tone. She’s still cold toward me about all that’s happened, and for good reason.

All the questions and accusations she lobbied against me when we first arrived were very warranted, so she has every right and reason to be angry.

“Good morning, Veronica. Rio,” I say. At his name, the man breaks out of his trance and adjusts his stance, turning toward me.

He tips his chin down in greeting.

I reach for an apple from the bowl on the counter and make my way to the pantry to grab an unopened box of Cheese-Itz for August.

“Busy morning?” Rio asks, his words addressed to me.

I grunt. “Not at all, actually.”

Not anymore, seeing as Ella has taken things into her own hands. My heart rate spikes, making my chest tight.

Veronica mumbles something beneath her breath and kicks the bottom of the stroller, heading toward the exit.

“Veronica, wait,” I say, not at all sure what I’m about to say. Wait for…what?

Apologize, asshat.

“I’m sorry that I’ve brought you into this situation. Nothing about this is ideal, but I’m glad that you’re here—safe with us.”

The snort she releases is so loud that I’m concerned she’s harmed her nasal passages.

“You’re sorry? Yeah, okay,” she says, turning back to wheel the stroller through the entryway.

I don’t know what to say about any of this. I just know that if Veronica’s unhappy, that will make Winter unhappy. Since Veronica is unhappy with me , it’s even more important that I make shit right.

“I’ll do better by Winter, I promise,” I say. “I know things have been blowing up ever since we started seeing each other, but I swear to you, she’s my everything.”

I’m still facing her back, so I see it clearly when her shoulders rise, tensing. Slowly, she turns her head so that I stare at the side of her face.

“She’s your everything, huh?” she seethes.

I feel Rio shift from his position near the sink.

“For some reason, Winter thinks that you’ve hung the moon and the stars. She’s blinded by you. But you know what I see? I see a really bad fucking decision.”

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. As she inhales, she raises her hand from her waist to her chest and then lowers it back down when she exhales, clearly trying to gain control of herself.

“You’ve been a very big help to me, Hunter. I’m grateful that you allowed me to stay at Amelia Manor and that you provided protection while I was pregnant and alone. But you are a toxic figure in my best friend’s life, and I really resent that you have your claws into her.”

I feel like I’m vibrating from the inside out. I don’t respond to her declaration because…she’s right. I am a poison to Winter.

“I love her,” I choke out.

She takes a beat. “And that’s very unfortunate.”

I don’t say anything else because there’s nothing else to say.

She turns back to the exit.

“Think about what I said, mariposa,” Rio says, and Veronica nearly trips over the wheels.

She doesn’t glance back; she just keeps moving, pushing the stroller as if fire were licking at her heels.

I raise my eyebrow at Rio. We’re not close enough that I feel comfortable asking him anything about his personal life. But at the same time, Veronica is practically Winter’s sister, and anything that has the potential to hurt Veronica will hurt Winter.

Maybe focus on repairing your relationship with Veronica first.

I contemplate what to say to Rio next when his phone rings, breaking the moment.

He answers it with a gruff, “Rio,” and walks out the door, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

I grab two bottles of water, situating them in the bend of my elbow.

Well, kind of my circus.

I decide to leave all of that for tomorrow.

Deciding to abandon my apple in the kitchen, I follow the sounds of dying zombies floating through the speakers and find August in a game room with Max.

Max wears a backward baseball cap and frantically clicks on the controller in his hand while August maintains a completely focused gaze on the screen.

A few taps later, Max throws his hands in the air, the controller tumbling from his right, and yells, “C’mon, man! Let me win one!”

August’s face goes from neutral to hysterical laughter, and he pops up from the chair.

Grabbing his tablet, he says, “Not a chance, sucker.” Then he drops his tablet on the table and skips around the room.

Despite the completely fucked situation we’re all in, I am such a lucky bastard. Because despite all this, August seems happy.

It’s the most I can ask for.

August makes half a revolution around the room before he sees me. When he does, he freezes, his hands going up to his head for a moment before tapping his cheek three times and going over to his tablet.

“Hello,” August says. “I did not know when I would see you next.”

Guilt eats at me. I’ve been so caught up in my own shit that I’ve set August aside again. While I’ve been absent, I’ve let other people keep him entertained. I’ve allowed others to spend significant time with him to assess his mental state.

But I haven’t done the same, and that’s fucked. Completely fucked.

August and I haven’t gone into the serious stuff: Rex’s death, being drugged, seeing Winter shot. He never wants to talk about those things—at least, he never wants to talk about those things with me.

But Winter has been spending even more time with him, and I know they’re working through this latest trauma together.

There has to be deep hurt he’s carrying, but he hasn’t felt comfortable sharing that with me. I haven’t wanted to push, even though Winter tells me that I need to open the goddamn door.

But when I woke up this morning, I realized I don’t have to push anything, but I do need to be there.

Atone.

It’s time for me to sack up and at least try to connect with my son.

“I’m so sorry, Augs. I should have come to see you sooner.”

He sways from side to side and holds his tablet to his chest. This is his usual position when he’s uncomfortable.

When he’s scared.

“Can I spend some time with you now?”

August’s head snaps up and he walks back and forth along the edge of the wall for a few turns before he stops and says, “Yes.”

He goes toward the oversized chairs where Max watches us. Before he sits, though, he taps his screen again.

“I need to use the facilities. I will be right back.” And he leaves.

Max and I take up the room in an awkward silence.

“He’s been okay,” Max says. Two figures bounce up and down on the paused game screen.

“How long have you been hanging out with him today?” I ask him.

He shrugs. “A few hours. His social worker, Alison, is usually with him when Winter isn’t, and she’s really helped August process things. Winter hasn’t given herself much of a break, so Alison and I decided to step in and do August duty so she can rest.”

He offers this explanation casually, filling me in on the regular activities that I should have known already.

No time for regrets.

I decide to change the subject now that I’ve got Max alone.

“How long have you been spying on me?” I ask.

He grimaces. “Eh, I wouldn’t say spying is the right word. More like…” He scratches his ear. “More like I came across some information that led to more information that led to me being here.”

I raise an eyebrow and try to track his line of thought.

“So…how long?” I ask, not wavering from his gaze.

“About a year,” he replies. I hum in response.

August bounces into the room, and Max takes that as his cue to leave.

“August, tomorrow I want a re-match,” Max says happily.

August gives his version of an eye roll and says, “Sure, whatever you say.”

Max turns his hat around to face forward, gives us a salute, and exits.

August resumes his stance of discomfort. I can’t expect him to come to me. I need to go to him.

And that’s okay.

“Hey,” I say. He lifts his head, looking in the vicinity of my right shoulder. “Is it okay if I hug you?”

He doesn’t give me an answer. Instead, he launches himself into my arms. His tablet presses sharply between us, poking into my ribs, but I ignore it, wrapping my arms around him.

He makes sounds of distress, and after a second, he presses his face into my shirt. I’m able to make out the wetness of his tears through the fabric of my shirt.

“August, I’m so sorry,” I say, putting my head on the top of his head. He’s grown at least a foot since his mother died. “Shit keeps happening to us, and I’m sorry.”

August rubs against my shirt, and when he’s finished cleaning his face, he separates from me and lifts his tablet.

“It is not your fault,” he says.

Oh, but it is. It so fucking is, August. And I’m so goddamn sorry.

I put my hand on his arm, a safe place to touch him, as I’ve learned. “From now on, it’s you and me, kid. You, me, and Winter.”

“And the fetus?” he adds.

I grin.

It’s a serious inquiry from him.

“Yes. You, me, Winter, and the little bean sprout.”

August makes a face, confusion warring.

“Please remember that when you say things like that, it confuses me. Does she have a legume in her uterus? That seems like a medical emergency. It does not make sense.”

I bite my lips so I don’t laugh. August wouldn’t appreciate it, thinking that I’m laughing at him. I’m not, really. He’s just so damn funny.

Still, I smile.

“I apologize, August. It’s just us. Our family. Okay?”

August gives a quirk of his mouth, one of his smiles.

“Hey, so I wanted to show you something,” I say, walking over to the sofa to snag the keyboard connected to the entertainment system. A few clicks later, I pull up the instant replay of the RC national convention.

“Oh,” August says, and I turn to him to see him swaying with his gaze on the floor.

“I promised you that we’d watch this,” I say. “I haven’t forgotten.”

August scratches behind his ear.

“I would like to watch it with you, Dad,” August says, and my chest gets tight.

I open my mouth to talk to him more about the very important things. Like how he’s feeling about taking out Blair. Or if he’s having nightmares or is upset or what the hell he’s feeling.

I need to know how he’s coping. But Winter is way better at these things than I am. I know I’ll say the wrong things and ask the wrong questions.

“Scott Sorenson is the reigning champion for the RCNC. I have not checked his scores to see if he won again this year. I think he is generally a little sloppy on his choreography, but his precision and control are excellent,” August says.

I nod, trying to follow the jargon. “I see.” I smile at him and take up residence in Max’s empty chair. August joins me.

“After we watch this, will you play Doom of the Zombie Galaxy IV with me?”

My shoulders drop. This. I can do this with him. I want to do this with him.

“Of course, August. But try not to kick my ass as badly as you did Max’s,” I say.

There’s another quirk of August’s lips.

“I cannot make any promises,” he says.

I smile. “Fair enough.”

I watch August open another window on his tablet, snapping a blank notetaking document next to his AAC app. I fire up the replay, and the four commentators who sit behind the long desk talk about different elements of RC aircraft that I’m tangentially able to connect to piloting actual aircraft.

August types notes on his tablet for the entirety of the ninety-minute show recap, silently watching the stunt shows and making disapproving hums when a competitor makes what he deems a problematic move.

It’s not until the replay ends that he speaks.

“Scott Sorenson was sloppy, as is usual. I do not know why the judges love him so much.”

I nod along to acknowledge his statement, even though I was in awe at the level of control the RC pilot had over his aircraft.

Changing the input on the television, August says, “You know, the fifth edition of Doom of the Zombie Galaxy is set to come out soon.”

He lifts his eyebrow a tick, then taps on his controller to start the game.

“I’ll make sure you have it,” I say.

His crooked smile settles something in my soul.