24. Winter

TWENTY-FOUR

WINTER

“ I t’s giving sexism, Hunter.”

I stand with my arms crossed on the balcony overlooking the dense jungle of trees that separates us from the shore. The wind whips my skirt around my knees, making it difficult for me to tap my foot like I want to. There’s cloud cover today, which I’m grateful for, and I enjoy the sharp breeze against my skin. I’m wearing a two-piece bikini—a first for me—and for once, I’m not covered in sweat despite being outside at the height of the noon sun.

We’ve been on Winter Island for a full week, and it’s been the most peaceful, love-filled week of my life. The highlight was yesterday morning. The baby kicks all the time now, and when I woke up that morning with the sheet bunched low around my hips, I stared as my belly jiggled with their movements.

Hunter woke to my sobs, and he immediately became worried, cautiously wiping my tears.

This is the thing he’s the most repentant about: getting me pregnant. Having a baby changes the game for both of us in massive ways. I’ll never say that he forced me to get pregnant because I do know how babies are made.

But the bitter pill we’ve both had to swallow is that I shouldn’t have made major life decisions at that point in time, so fresh on my healing journey from everything I’d gone through with the abduction.

Lucky for both of us, we’re happy with the outcome.

“I love our baby, Hunter,” I said, placing his hand over my bump.

He stuttered out a breath. “Me too, Sunbeam. You have no idea.”

But now, the tenderness of that moment has evaporated as I approach the outdoor table that Hunter has turned into a workstation. Hunter sits there with the guards—strangers—that Misha sent to meet us for protection. The guards make it a point not to address me directly, which both irritates and sets me on edge. As a result of their avoidance, I don’t know their actual names.

So I’ve taken to calling them SpongeBob, Squidward, and Patrick.

Early this morning, Hunter received a message from Misha that caused him to hole up in the airy pseudo-office in the mansion’s east wing with all three guards to devise a plan. Apparently, Max was also correct that the code on the rings related to the anagram Leo received.

With the new discovery comes the increased need for protection and Hunter’s attention.

Him needing to work out the news isn’t the problem. The problem is he left me in bed to “rest,” and when I came down to talk with him a few hours later, he ushered me into another room to eat breakfast and then to the deck to relax in the hammock.

“Why is it that everyone else can know what’s going on, but I can’t?”

The guard I’ve taken to calling Patrick looks over to me when I speak, but he quickly returns his attention to his comrade, Squidward, before looking back at his computer. Patrick is a tall, stacked man with what looks like a permanent flush to his face and short-cropped, dark hair. His eyes seem a little wild, like he’s done a bunch of coke but is trying really hard to not show it.

Squidward, on the other hand, is also tall, but lithe, and he always has a serious expression on his face, if not an outright scowl. SpongeBob, the short, bulky blonde, moves outside the room.

The three new arrivals spent most of the morning dealing with the massive shipment of provisions that arrived at sunrise. They’ve been milling about taking inventory and talking with Hunter in hushed tones.

And as I hover around Hunter like a bee, his frown is back in full force.

Hunter sighs, and I see his thoughts spinning through his brain—the fight within himself not to simply demand that I go take a nap until he’s done.

Instead, he says, “Come on, let’s talk.”

He puts his hand on my elbow, steering me to the kitchen. I sit on the stool, and after washing his hands, Hunter opens the refrigerator, pulling out the components to make a Cobb salad.

“What do you need, Sunbeam?” Hunter asks, tossing the pre-washed romaine lettuce into a large wooden mixing bowl.

I open my mouth, prepared to provide a litany of tasks that I wish to undertake, but then my sense returns to me and I realize that I don’t actually want to do anything concerning The Legion.

Not really. I’ve had enough action and adventure over the last year. I don’t need to add “face down a cabal” to the list. Still, I just want him to include me.

“I don’t want to be set aside,” I tell him, tapping my fingers on the counter.

Hunter hums as he drops the chicken, tomato, avocado, and chopped red onion into the bowl. “Do you think we’re setting you aside? You know I value your opinion. I love that beautiful brain of yours, remember?” He smiles at me before opening the container of blue cheese. He momentarily pauses, then closes the container and sets it aside. He returns to the fridge and pulls out a container of shredded parmesan.

“I know, H…” I release a sigh.

“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a total ass from the 1950s, but it would make me so happy if you could relax and not worry about this stuff.”

He adds the new selection of cheese and ranch dressing to the bowl and tosses it with two large serving spoons. I purse my lips, waiting, as he plates the salad and puts the sliced eggs on top. He slides the dish in front of me with a fork.

I give him a skeptical look. “Not worry? Not worry about people trying to kill my husband?”

He rounds the counter to stand next to me. His smile grows and he looks damn near radiant.

“What?” I ask, ticked off.

“You called me your husband so easily then. It just—” He pulls me into him and one of his hands goes to the curls at the base of my neck. It seems to be one of his favorite places on my body.

Well, one of his favorite non-sexual places.

Well, husband, ” I say, drawing out the word. “It’s a very big ask to request that I not worry about this.”

He twirls a lock of my hair around his finger, rubbing the strands with his thumb for a moment before letting it spring back near my eyebrow.

“I know.” He gives me a light kiss on the lips. “I just want you to be happy, to make the most of this time where things are relatively calm to just enjoy being alive. All I ever want is for you to be happy. Blissful.”

He kisses me again.

“Can you understand where I’m coming from?” he asks, his tone gentle. He punctuates his sentence by picking up the fork and putting it in my hand.

Oh. Well.

“I understand, H,” I say, subdued.

His shoulders relax.

“But with that in mind, maybe we can make a deal.” I put the fork down.

He sighs but then grins, kicking his mouth to the side. “A deal?” He folds his arms, ready to negotiate.

“I want to go to shore today. We’re near Martinique, and I want to do some shopping.”

The look he gives me would be absolutely comical if I weren’t so serious.

“You want to go shopping?” His voice sounds strained. He leans a hip on the counter.

“Yup!” I say, my voice bright. “And I want it to be a surprise, so I want you to stay behind. You know, so you can ‘work’ with Misha.” I make air quotes.

He exhales as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.

After staring off for a long moment, he says, “Okay. But here are my conditions.”

I mirror his cross-armed pose, still seated, but swing to face him. “Okay, Mr. Brigham. State your requirements.”

He grins again, then his face turns serious.

“You go with all three guards. You’re gone for no more than three hours. That’s an hour to get there, an hour to shop, and an hour to come back. You spend as much money as you want. I will keep your tracker up on my phone while you’re gone, and if you deviate off the main street at any point, I’m coming after you. Do you agree to the terms?”

Holy hell. The way he commands me to do all of these things, including spending his money, makes me stupidly hot. There's a lot to unpack with his stipulations, but I can’t really focus on any of them. My nipples tense against the fabric of my bathing suit top.

“Out of curiosity, if I agree but violate any of the terms, what will happen?”

Heat flashes in his eyes and my cooch clenches in an involuntary flutter.

“What do you want to happen, Mrs. Brigham?” He runs his thumb over my nipple. Of course he’d zero in on the fact that I’m turned on.

“I think you’d have to punish me,” I whisper. He steps into the space between my parted thighs and drags me to the edge of my seat. Our faces are so close; our bodies are so close. I feel the heaviness of his erection against the vee of my legs, and I’m tempted to lift my skirt so he could shove my swimsuit bottoms to the side and impale me on his cock.

I’m turning into a nympho.

“Don’t tempt fate, Sunbeam,” he says, sliding his hand into my bottoms. I grip his tense biceps as he finds my clit, rubbing the nub in a familiar and highly efficient pattern before dipping down and sliding a long finger inside my channel.

When I start to moan, he brings my face to his, crushing our lips together in a punishing kiss. He knows my body so well now, and in some ways, he knows my body better than I do.

So when he has me on the edge of combustion with a few expert twists and thrusts of his hand, I can’t help the cry that releases from my throat.

I’m so close. I’m so, so?—

“Wait!” I yell, but it’s no use. One moment I’m seconds away from coming, the next, Hunter is two feet away from me, smiling like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland while he licks my cream off his fingers.

“I’ll punish you, baby, and I promise you’ll hate it as much as you love it.”

“Ass,” I say with a trembling smile, gripping the chair and sliding back to keep upright.

“Yes, but I’m your ass,” he says with a shrug. “Do you agree to the terms, Mrs. Brigham?”

Composing myself despite the wetness in my bottoms or the fact that my breasts are practically aching, I say, “I have counter-terms.”

He folds his arms before tilting his chin down. “State them,” he intones.

“I will take one guard; however, you may choose which one. I don’t feel good about leaving you here unprotected.”

Hunter’s smile is slow to appear. “You think I can’t protect myself, baby?”

I roll my eyes. “I know you can protect yourself, H. But what if something happens? What if you get overrun by pirates? What if you fall down the hill and into the ocean? What if you?—”

“I get the picture, Sunbeam,” he says with a laugh.

Hunter rubs his upper lip with the back of his thumb, thinking. A moment later, he sticks his hand out. “Two guards.”

I nod my head from side to side, contemplating and ignoring his outstretched palm. “I want SpongeBob and Patrick. You can keep Squidward.”

“Who?” he presses, completely baffled. He drops his hand, and I bust out laughing at the confused look on his face. My cackles trigger his own spiral of hilarity.

“I don’t know their names,” I stage-whisper as I hold my chest to calm myself down, “Do you know them?”

Hunter sucks in air and wipes his eyes to remove the tears. Pulling me close to him by the back of the neck, he presses a firm kiss to my forehead.

“Never change, baby,” he says when he pulls away a fraction. He ghosts his cheek against mine and turns his head to whisper in my ear. “Who’s SpongeBob?”

I keep the same low tone. “That’s the short and stout one. The blonde.”

His breath fans against the shell of my ear. “That would be Walker.” He kisses the space behind my ear. “Which one is Squidward?”

“Um,” I say, marching my way up the mountain of arousal once again. “That would be the tall, lithe one. The one who looks like Benedict Cumberbatch if he were an Olympic swimmer.”

He switches sides, kissing my neck and pulling the skin into his mouth with a firm suck. Releasing me, he says, “His name is Keegan.”

I run my hand down his chest, sticking the tips of my fingers beneath the waistband of his boardshorts. “And what’s Patrick’s name?”

I slide my hand lower, lower, lower.

Bingo. I grasp his cock in a firm grip, which forces him to release the most deliciously masculine groan against my lips.

He gives me a kiss so dirty that if I weren’t already pregnant, I totally would be.

“Maybe we could take a break?” I ask, pulling his hand down to return to its rightful place between my thighs.

He groans again, covering my pussy with his palm and pressing our bottom halves together in an intimate embrace.

“I wish, baby,” he says, slowly pulling away. I blow out a breath.

Straightening, I say, “Okay, Mr. Brigham. I accept your offer. But you owe me like four orgasms when I get back home.”

I press my palm to his, shaking his hand firmly.

“Deal,” he says, grinning.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” I throw back, matching his tone and expression.

“I’ll be sure that your transportation is ready within the hour.”

“Thank you,” I reply, mustering every ounce of professionalism I can.

“Now, eat your food,” he demands.

I comply because one, I’m hungry, and two, this salad looks delicious.

And I guess three—because he made it for me, and I know he made it with love.

When I’m halfway done eating, he says, “I love seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” I reply.

“Happy. Carefree,” he says. Then he presses a kiss on my left hand.

“You never told me Patrick’s name,” I say, pushing the salad bowl away when there are only a few bites left.

The sides of his eyes crease at his laugh lines. “It’s Patrick.”

“I know, what’s Patrick’s real name?”

“Patrick,” he replies.

I bark a laugh. “No shit?”

“Nope,” he replies. Giving me a brief kiss and heading back toward his office, he says, “They’ll forever be known as SpongeBob, Squidward, and Patrick in my mind, though.”

We both start snort-laugh when Squidward and SpongeBob enter the room.

Getting to the island is a bit more complicated than anticipated. I don’t know why I thought it’d be simple to go from our island to the larger one, but it definitely isn’t.

First, SpongeBob, Patrick, and I—or, I guess, Walker, Patrick, and I—take the motorized Catamaran toward the south shore of Martinique. So we can avoid having to check in with customs, we travel around the backside of the island and dock at an old fishing alcove that looks abandoned. Winter Island is under twenty nautical miles from Martinique, so with the motor at top speed, it takes us less than an hour to get there.

When we arrive, however, a Jeep with the doors taken off idles on the dirt road, and after one of the guards secures our boat transportation back home, all three of us hop into the vehicle and ride in the back of the 4x4. Walker is a short and stout man, a solid block of muscle, so when the three of us try to squeeze into the backseat with me in the middle, I reconsider whether I actually want to get Hunter a gift after all.

Our chauffeur speaks English fairly well from what I can tell, but he isn’t a stunning conversationalist. Thirty minutes after we dock, we arrive at the seaside village of Les Trois-?lets. Our driver drops us at the end of the line of shops.

The buildings are colorful and scream, Westerners came through and put a ton of money into making this place look island-y yet Americanized . It reminds me a bit of Key West, Florida. Still, getting on solid, dry land and smelling the various plants and trees does something to my soul.

The guards exit the vehicle and assess the area. The square is quiet, barely anyone around.

Still, I’m uncomfortable. On edge. I fidget with my thumbnail. “I won’t be long,” I tell Patrick when he takes up space beside me. “I just wanted to stop at the jewelry store.”

The man tilts his chin down in acknowledgment.

I trail behind Walker as we follow the signs further into the market. Patrick follows me closely, so I’m covered from the front and behind. Another shout comes from my consciousness, repeating that this is probably a really bad idea.

It’s just a small stop. It will be fine. Take a chill pill.

For the first time in several days, I wish I had Kitty with me to soothe my nerves.

Within a few minutes, we’re saved from the Caribbean heat when we run across an elaborate store that appears to cater to wealthy Americans daily.

“May I help you?” comes a bored, accented voice when we step inside. The fair-skinned woman looks at me with a pinch of annoyance. I look down at my casual outfit.

I don’t appear to be the epitome of wealth in my simple sundress and woven sandals, and I suppress irritation that if I looked differently, this woman would likely have a more welcoming attitude toward us.

Nonetheless, I square my shoulders and address the shopkeeper. “Yes, I would like to see your men’s wedding bands. I’m looking for something to complement this.” I stick my left hand out toward her over the counter, and I take immense pride as both of her eyebrows go up.

Then she pulls out a jeweler’s loupe to analyze the gems, and I try not to suck my teeth at her clear assumption that my stones are fake.

After waving over her partner, who also takes a look at my diamonds, both of them share a glance before breaking out into beatific smiles.

“Yes, of course!” The man scrambles to round the counter, meeting Patrick and me on the other side. “May I get you some refreshments? Champagne? Sparkling water?”

I can see the dollar signs spinning in the dude’s eyes, and his female counterpart reappears with a chilly bottle of Dom Perignon in one hand and Perrier in another.

“No, thank you,” I reply good-naturedly. “What bands do you have that have rose gold or platinum? Ideally, I’d like both metals, but we’re on a time crunch, unfortunately.”

The woman jumps again, headed to the back of the store while the other man says, “Of course, madame. If you’ll give me just a moment, I’ll present you with several options. Forgive me, may I ask your name?”

“Yes, it’s Winter B?—”

“Mrs. Ventura,” Patrick says, cutting me off. I’m almost as startled at the fact that he’s actually speaking words directed at me as I am that he punted a new name my way. “Just a reminder that we have your next appointment in fifteen minutes or so.”

I turn back to Patrick, who wears an unreadable expression, and then it dawns on me that I was about to give this stranger my whole legal name as if supervillains aren’t chasing after us. No wonder Veronica left. I really am too stupid to live sometimes.

“Right, thank you, Patrick,” I say, and the guard lifts an eyebrow, amused.

“Mrs. Ventura, thank you. Just a moment,” the man says.

When out of the man’s earshot, I open my mouth to speak to Patrick, but he shakes his head a fraction. A definitive “no.”

I snap my mouth shut.

“Mrs. Ventura, how about these?” The woman returns with a tray, seven rings evenly spaced for my assessment. “This is the…” she drones on about the different classes of rings and the types of diamonds embedded in the band.

I hum as I assess each one, aware that the guards are keeping time behind me. When the clock strikes 12:45, I frown at the shopkeepers.

“None of these are quite right,” I say. I look to Walker, who watches the male jeweler as he moves over to the main entrance.

“We will be closing for our midday break shortly,” the man says, turning the lock on the door.

That immediately sets me on edge, and when Patrick’s face hardens, I trip over the precipice into panic.

“You know, thank you so much for showing me all of these. We must be off now,” I say.

But then the woman grabs my wrist, which has me looking at my security, terrified.

Please, God. Please don’t let me die here.

Walker is the closest to me, and he pulls his gun out in a smooth motion, pointing it at the woman. But she’s fast. I’d be impressed at how quickly the female shopkeeper moves in any other scenario, but in this one, as she flicks a blade at Walker and stabs him right in the abdomen, all I can do is scream.

The shorter guard falls to the ground with a pained, wet roar, lifting his arm to shoot. The woman falls when his bullet pierces her skull.

Move, Winter!

I shuffle backward, finding the nearest wall and putting my back on it before dropping to the ground in a crouch. As soon as I land on my ass, our other assailant shoots Walker in the neck.

My change in position allows me to see everything that I don’t want to see—one guard on the ground, the other guard standing with his hands up as the male shopkeeper points one gun flush to his temple and another at me. Even though I’m on the floor, the shopkeeper has a clear sightline to where I sit.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my voice quavering and body shaking with fear and regret.

The man sneers. “For The Architect,” he says, but before he can finish the last syllable—before he can pull the trigger—a round hole appears right between his eyebrows.

I stare at the sight, confused, even when the man drops to the ground. Patrick rushes over to his comrade.

“What are you doing here?” Patrick says, his voice full of menace but his attention focused on his unconscious partner.

No, not unconscious. Dead.

And that’s when I know there are more than myself, the guards, and the two dead shopkeepers in this room.

“I’m saving your goddamn life,” a familiar voice intones.

And as soon as I register it, I spin around, narrowing my eyes.

“ You ,” I hiss. Blind with rage, I launch myself toward the man who tried to destroy my life all those weeks ago.