6. Winter

SIX

WINTER

E ventually, another nurse came into my room to wake me and remove my IV. She tried to make small talk with me, but I was so out of it I didn’t have much to say.

And I wasn’t out of it because of meds. I was out of it because my heart was in the active process of breaking.

Another person, also dressed in black and sporting guns, ushered me to the wing where Hunter and I were to stay. Ella has a room down the hall, as do August, Veronica, and Leo. I wanted to smile at the small dog bed in the corner of the room, which Kitty took no time jumping into and passing right back out. But the fact that the room smelled like Hunter, but he was nowhere to be found, caused another wave of tears to fall.

When I saw the bouquet of roses, Knock Outs, just like the ones he got me on our day date, the tears turned into sobs. I pushed the crystal vase they adorned to a far corner of the room.

A sad, scary truth that I’ve had to face in the last several hours is this: Hunter Brigham might never let me all the way in, and I’m not sure I can live with that.

Or that I should live with that.

Veronica’s question rings in my ear. Should I trust Hunter?

My heart knows that Hunter would never hurt me. He’d never intentionally put me in harm’s way. But the reality is that his life is dangerous. He has to see that. And because danger surrounds him, it’s imperative that he is transparent with me.

Except he’s doing the exact opposite.

You know what you have to do. You have to be honest, Winter.

It’s nighttime—dinner time—and my stomach cramps so violently from hunger that it amplifies my nausea. Still, I seek out August, because if nothing else, I need to see how he’s doing.

When I reach August’s room, I listen outside his door for a moment, trying to gauge if there’s any movement on the other side. When I turn the handle and peek in, there’s a lump on the bed under a single sheet.

August.

Movement in the corner of the room makes me jump, but the woman who rises from the chair puts her finger against her lips and motions for me to exit with her.

She wears black hospital scrubs that don’t hide the full sleeves of tribal tattoos. In the hallway lighting, the first thing I notice besides her dark waist-length hair is the cultural tattoo on her face. The vertical lines on her chin and ornamental markings above her eyebrows are the most beautiful art I’ve seen.

She’s stunning.

“You must be Winter,” she says. “I’m Halle. I was a nurse before I came here.”

I clear my throat and stick my hand out to shake hers.

“How is he?” I ask.

She releases a puff of air, but a smile accompanies it.

“Physically, he’ll be fine. He was given nasal Versed, which sedated him, but luckily, it’s short-acting.”

I nod. “And not physically? Where is he at emotionally right now?”

She grimaces. “He’s had a rough time transitioning here. Alison has been with him for much of the day. She was a social worker in her past life.”

Past life. Is my life as I know it a past life now?

“I’m staying with him through the night. The doctor also gave him something to help him sleep, so he should rest through the night,” she says.

“Thank you for watching over him,” I reply. When she opens the door to return to her post, I stretch to get another glimpse of August.

I forget sometimes that he’s just a kid. Yes, he’s a teenager, and he’s got a lot of opinions about a lot of things.

But the truth is, August still needs people. Parents.

I’m in that role now. A stepparent. Sort of.

Halle shuts the door.

I make a mental note to check on August in the morning, no matter what. He comes first.

It takes a few minutes and several turns, but I eventually walk into the second kitchen—the assistant told me there are three—and help myself to the refrigerator.

Neatly labeled matching containers greet me as I revel in the cool blast coming through the open door. My wound doesn’t hurt quite as much now that I’ve rested and have a pain pill on board, but it reminds me it’s there whenever I move my arm.

“Oh, sorry.”

I turn from the open fridge and face the soft feminine voice. Amelia Brigham stands at the narrow entrance to the kitchen.

“Are you all staying on this wing? I’ll move to the other one if you want me to,” she says. She folds and unfolds her arms across her chest, and I notice she tilts her body so that her scarred side is out of my line of vision.

“Yes, we’re staying here, but, um, you don’t have to leave,” I say, struggling to find my words.

This is Hunter’s mother.

His mother . Returned from the dead. Hunter has to be all tied up over this—in fact, I know he is.

I can’t imagine how I’d feel if my parents suddenly waltzed into the room.

But then, actually, I do. I’d be shocked but then overjoyed. Grateful. I’d want to spend as much time with them as humanly possible.

I’d realize the gift in front of me.

Instead, Hunter is angry. So, so angry.

And I don’t know how to reach him, despite all my training.

Despite loving him.

“Please,” I say, pulling out two containers without looking at the contents. “Please stay. I’d love to spend time with you.”

The shocked look that flits across her face almost breaks my heart. Hunter has so soundly rejected her in this short span of time, and that has to hurt.

“Thank you, Winter,” she says. I realize I didn’t tell her my name, nor was I formally introduced.

“I’m Hunter’s, um—” I straighten my top to give myself time to figure out how to describe myself. “I’m Hunter’s girlfriend.”

She smiles. It’s a sad look, given the slight sheen of tears in her eyes.

“Hmm…you’re more than that to him, I suspect,” she says.

I look down, heat rising to my face. “I love him,” I say.

“I can see that.” I glance in her direction, and despite the nerves coursing through me, I smile back.

“Am I safe to assume you know everything about me? You know, given the nature of the company you keep,” I ask as I track Amelia’s movements to sit on one of the luxury barstools.

Assessing the containers on the island counter in front of me, I check the labels for the reheating instructions.

Pasta a la Vodka and Italian Wedding Soup.

“Do you have a preference?” I ask her, even though she hasn’t responded to my earlier question.

Presenting the options, she says, “I’ll have the pasta.” I pre-heat the oven and remove the plastic tops from the heat-safe base.

As I pull out a pot from the third cabinet I open, she decides to speak.

“You’re having my second grandchild.”

I look at her over my shoulder and try to gauge her response to that information. But my eyebrows snap down when I realize I can’t really tell what she’s thinking. And it’s not because of her scars. Her expression is flat, giving nothing away.

I hum in response. “Why don’t you tell me what you know about me,” I say, tension causing my back muscles to tighten.

I turn back to the pot and dump the soup in, then I throw her pasta dish into the oven, even though it’s not quite done pre-heating.

With the burner on low, I face her.

“I know that…” She drops her head into her hands and takes a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Winter.”

There’s so much depth to the emotion in her words that I want to rush over and comfort her. But then she stuns me when she says, “I knew your mother. You look so much like her.”

Pain radiates in my constricted throat, so I raise my hand to my neck. “You knew her?”

Amelia nods. “Such a smart woman. She really wanted to change the world.” She looks down at the countertop, winding her fingers together. “But she was only one person.”

Just when I’m about to say something, anything, to break the tense silence following her declaration, she says, “I’m really sorry for everything you’ve gone through.”

She lifts her gaze to mine, and it’s perplexing how her face cracks and emotion shines through.

She feels deeply, but she puts it all behind a wall.

Did that start before Benjamin Brigham wrecked her life?

“Thank you,” I reply.

We both fall into silence again.

“I’d hoped that you would have gotten my note. Misha and I disagreed vehemently about whether to intervene or not, but….”

My eyebrows crease. “Note?”

She lifts the side of her mouth—her best approximation at a grin. Her eyes are sad, though.

“I’d slipped a note in your mailbox before Christmas. I’d hoped you’d see it and bring it to Hunter. Maybe get more security on you. But then you two broke up and I saw that things were moving forward with him and Blair, and?—”

“Wait,” I cut in, “You…a note?” I think back to that haze of time around the holidays last year. Then, like a beacon in my memory, I recall the envelope that was so out of place when sifting through my mail.

But Veronica’s questions about my relationship with Hunter distracted me, and then the man himself showed up.

And then we made love.

And we broke up.

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” I say, releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth. “I didn’t open it. I got sidetracked.”

Tension blooms at the base of my neck, causing my shoulders to bunch.

“Yeah,” Amelia says, because what else is there to say?

“Thank you for trying,” I add.

She hums before tapping her fingers on the white marble countertop, signaling a change in topic.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” she says.

“How long is a while?”

“Once you moved into D.C.”

Two years?

“Why? I only met Hunter a year ago.”

She smiles. “Like I said, I knew your mother.”

“I see,” I say. “And how long have you been keeping an eye on Hunter and Ella?”

That was the wrong thing to say because her face shuts down again. Feeling awkward, I rise and turn toward the stove. Pulling open the drawers, I don’t speak again until I locate a wooden spoon.

“Do you know who will tell me what the hell is going on around here? Your son isn’t being very forthcoming,” I say, my back to her.

But when she still doesn’t respond, I turn around to find Hunter at the entrance. Amelia’s posture is rigid, and I know that she knows he’s there.

“Hey, H,” I say in a cautious voice. “Do you want something to eat?”

Awk- ward .

He doesn’t reply to me. Instead, he continues staring at his mother and says, “Why are you everywhere I fucking go?” The menace in his statement makes me want to cry.

“Hunter James Brigham!” I yell, shocked by his attitude.

But I shouldn’t be.

Amelia gathers herself, exhibiting poise so gracefully that it’s clear why she was a beauty queen.

“Thanks for warming up the food for me, Winter. But I’m going to go back to my room. I was just looking for…I don’t know,” she says.

Spinning on her heel, she practically runs out of the kitchen.

I open my mouth to call after her when Hunter interrupts. “Don’t.”

I blink once, twice, three times in rapid succession before saying, “Hunter, don’t you think?—”

“ Don’t. ” The force of his anger behind the single word causes me to take a large step back. Anger quickly follows my sense of unease.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but snap it closed again. Turning my back to him, I say, “I warmed soup for myself, and there’s food in the oven. Your mom was supposed to eat it, but you can have it if you want.”

Another frozen pause.

“Do you want me to make you a—” I squeak when Hunter pushes me aside, opens the oven, and grabs the bubbling dish barehanded. With a flick of his wrist, he tosses the entire thing into the under-counter trashcan.

“Okay, caveman, what the actual fuck!” I spin away from him and rush to turn the taps on cool. “Jesus, you can’t do shit like that! The oven is set to 400 degrees!” Lunging for him, I grab him by the wrist and drag him to the sink. Testing the temperature with my fingertips, I shove his hand under the water.

Hunter doesn’t respond. Instead, he stares at his hand as it turns an angry red.

“Stay here,” I command.

I’m angry, but I try to access my empathy.

Returning to the stove, I turn off the oven and the burner with my soup, transferring the pot to a cool eye.

The soup slows from the gentle boil, and I use the time I watch the pot to calm my racing heart.

Center yourself, Winter. Control. You have control of yourself…even if you don’t have control of anything else.

I turn back to the man who drives me crazy in so many ways. The water still runs as Hunter stares at the stream. Silent.

He’s different. I haven’t seen this side of him. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him hurt. But this? This is a completely different emotion, and I struggle to make sense of it.

“Hunter, what do you need?” I whisper the words, closing my eyes. I want to feel him. I want to breathe him in.

Are you safe, Winter? Are you safe with him?

Hunter’s long exhale forces me to open my eyes. He grabs a towel from the drawer next to the sink and wets it. Turning to me after shutting off the water, he keeps his head bowed and presses the rag to his injury. But when I capture the devastated look on his face, I struggle to stay rooted in the spot.

“Hunter, please say something. Anything.”

We need to talk, communicate.

So I give him the floor.

Each second feels like a lifetime while I wait for him to speak. His distress is plain on his face, but I don’t rush him—I don’t stifle his processing. Between finding out I’m pregnant to the car chase to everything that’s happened around the raid, the last seventy-two hours have been a lot.

They’ve been life-changing for him.

“Sunbeam,” he says. His voice is raw, pained.

Devastated.

“Can I please hold you?” He lifts his eyes to mine after he says the words, and I let out a choked sob as I rush to him.

“You never have to ask that, Hunter,” I say as soon as my face presses into his chest.

“Baby, I almost lost you. I’m sorry. I should be able to push that aside because ‘almost’ isn’t real. But I was so close to losing you and August, and things are…things are fucked, Sunbeam.”

I press my mouth to the space beneath his collarbone.

“Hunter, tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.”

I place my hand on his cheek, forcing his face to nearly touch mine.

“We are a team, Hunter Brigham. We are in this together.”

Hunter shudders and presses his forehead to mine. I close my eyes and his minty breath fans across my lips.

“I don’t deserve you, Winter Leigh Vaughan,” he whispers.

“No, H,” I reply. “We deserve each other. Because our happiness is our birthright, and we’ve been denied it for way too long.”

He kisses me, and it’s the sweetest, most tender action I’ve experienced in a while.

Because in his kiss, he vows so much. He vows to love me. He vows to cherish me.

He vows to be mine.

Mine. All mine.

“There’s so much we need to talk about, and I’m not even sure where to begin,” I murmur, finding words to speak. I pull away from him, and he gives me a chagrined look.

And it’s true: I don’t know where to begin. There’s the fact that his mother has returned from the dead.

There’s this talk of The Legion and The Resistance and who is actually on our side and who wants to see us dead.

There’s the reality that things were not good between us when all this happened.

“First, let me feed you,” he says. He guides me to the stool and kisses the top of my head when I’m seated. Then he takes time to find the dishes and spoons and ladles soup into the bowl.

“Here you are, baby,” he whispers close to my ear as he places the hot dish in front of me.

He stares at me hard, and I realize he’s waiting for me to actually eat, so I lift the spoon to my mouth and take a delicate taste.

After I take three sips, I put my spoon down.

“Okay, I’ll choose the topic of discussion. There are three things I want to talk to you about. First, Rio and Jared. Do you know how they are?”

Hunter cracks his neck from side to side.

“I saw Rio. He’s fine.” He looks past me for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “I heard Jared was in the medical bay still, but he’s going to be all right.”

“Thank God,” I say, releasing the tension in my spine. Even though I literally held Rio at gunpoint, I really like him. I don’t want him to die. Same for Jared.

“Jared needed surgery, but they were able to get to him in time to save his leg.” Hunter makes a strange face.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. Falling silent, I stare at the Italian Wedding Soup and get vaguely nauseous the more I think about last night.

There was so much fucking blood. Blood everywhere.

Rallying myself, I say, “Okay, so my second question is?—”

“Take at least three more bites of your food. Then I’ll answer your next question,” he says.

I lean on my open palm, elbow on the table, and quirk my eyebrow.

“Oh, really?” I say lazily.

He simply nods at the soup and folds his arms across his chest, widening his stance.

“Fine,” I grumble, quickly shoveling one, two, three spoonfuls into my mouth. “Happy?”

“I’ll be happy when you finish the bowl,” he says, lowering his voice to that sexy growl that always manages to make me wet.

Down, girl.

“Okay, my second question is…can we go home?” I bring my thumb to my mouth, ready to bite the nail. I lower my hand.

Hunter quirks his mouth to the side, thinking with his arms still crossed. Inhaling deeply, he says, “I don’t think so, Sunbeam.”

I try to keep my tears at bay. “Like, ever?” My voice is thin, strangled.

He rubs the back of my neck, pressing into the tense muscles on my good side.

“I don’t know about forever. But for the time being, we need to stay locked down. At least until we figure out what our next moves are.”

And who is “we?”

When a tear plops on my lap, I sniffle and wipe my face with the back of my hand.

“What did they do with Rex?” I ask, my voice hoarse. I think the image of the bodyguard’s head half blown off will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Hunter rubs the back of his neck before saying, “Misha will have him cremated.”

We’re both silent for a long moment. I look back at my food; my appetite has completely vanished.

“Rex didn’t have much family, but I’ll make sure they are taken care of. He knew the risks of the job and that he could die at any moment. I’m sure his loved ones knew too. Either way, they’ll have his remains and the money that’s promised to go to them in this situation.”

Hunter seems so detached from his words, as if he isn’t speaking about the death of a person who was close to our family.

I bite my lip and nod. “That sounds good, H,” I reply.

Hunter leans on the counter, pressing his hands together as he leans forward on his elbows. He keeps his body still as he looks at me directly.

“Okay, so,” I take another deep breath. “Third question. What are we doing next?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but I don’t let go of the question.

“Sunbeam, how do I put this,” he begins.

I frown. “You ‘put this’ in whatever context equates to the full truth. It’s quite simple, Hunter.”

The muscle in his jaw twitches, and he straightens before taking a step. He settles a foot away from me with his hip leaning against the island, his arms crossed.

“Winter, this is dangerous,” he says.

“You think I don’t know that?” I point to my bandaged shoulder.

His face hardens.

“Winter, I need for you to sit this out. We’re safe here in Misha’s compound. Hell, the place used to be a fucking military base. I’ll figure it out from here.”

Both of my eyebrows are damn near in my hairline.

“Oh, really?” I deadpan.

He doesn’t add anything further, but when I scoff, he moves to grab a cup from the cupboard. A few moments later, a tall glass of ice water materializes next to my now-cold soup.

I push the bowl and glass away.

“Winter,” he grits through his tight jaw. He pulls my seat back, spinning me to face him in one smooth movement. When he leans over me with one palm flat on the counter and the other grasping my good shoulder, he gets so close that I can count the flecks of gold in his blue eyes.

“I’m trying here, Winter. I really am. But you keep pushing and pushing, and why can’t you just be content to rest? To heal? To grow our child?”

Anger causes my shoulders to go up, which pisses me off because the action hurts.

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to sit back while the men go off to war? Yeah, that works,” I bite out.

“No, Sunbeam, you’re supposed to let me take care of you.”

I snap. “ Can you take care of me?”

The words are hard, harsh, and when I utter them, Hunter looks stricken. I wish I could swallow them back. But then…do I really have this question in my mind?

Can he take care of me? Can he keep me safe?

I cast my eyes downward, staring at his bare feet. When I look back up to him, his face morphs. And he grins.

“Hmm, let’s see, Sunbeam,” he says, his voice so low that I feel it in my clit.

“See what?” I whisper. Our mouths are inches from each other’s.

His grin turns into a smile.