Page 6 of Hunter

My future husband stood at the end of the black-and-white tiled aisle, his gaze set firmly on me. The intensity of his stare was so strong that my cheeks heated vehemently under it. We only had attention for each other, and the mutterings around me as my father and I walked insanely slowly proved it.

Look at him, they whispered.Look at her, someone would respond.Young love. Oh, to be young again.I didn’t care. The only person in that cathedral was him. The boy I fell in love with was now going to be all mine.

Upon reaching the end of our never-ending journey to his side, my father kissed my cheek then placed my hands in Hunter’s. We grinned stupidly at each other as he reached down and lifted the long white veil from my eyes.

“Bella, you are the most beautiful woman to walk this earth,” he whispered, so only I could hear. “Life will be infinitely better with you beside me.” The priest, clearing his throat, had gained our attention, but he smiled warmly, then welcomed us all to the wedding of Miss Isabella Espinosa to Mr. Hunter Devane.

Our ceremony was beautiful. We recited our vows on command and squeezed one another’s fingers as we took in the moment—our moment. When we were declared husband and wife, Hunter took me in his arms and dropped the softest kiss onto my lips. His mouth quirked into a small smile before his fingers lifted to my chin, his strong thumb grazing my bottom lip.

“That is all they’re getting, Bella,” he said. “Your kisses are for me alone.”

“Thank you,” I whispered back, tears pricking my eyes. Public displays of affection had always made me uncomfortable, and he knew that. He respected that. I couldn’t have loved him any more in that moment. He knew me and the style of life I wanted with him. An understated one, one for us to be a family together, not on public display for all to see.

“Always, Bella. Your happiness is now my life’s work. Until I die, you will be happy by my hand.” He led me from the church then as man and wife to celebrate with our respective families a union everyone desired.

The evening continued, as weddings usually do, with gallons of alcohol and dad-dancing. No matter how well-off or highbrow a person may think they are, very few can withstand the effects of a wedding to create this outcome. Aunties gyrated on the dancefloor toAbbaas my cousins kissed security guards behind curtains.

Hunter and I circulated between family and friends, rarely letting go of each other’s hand. Every so often, when he thought no one was looking, he would take me in his arms and kiss me. They were small, subtle moments that were just between us, each one more meaningful than the last. As the band took a break, so did our guests, and he took the chance to pull me aside, away from prying eyes.

“How are you feeling about tonight, Bella?” he asked. His eyes searched mine for what he wanted to know. The question was, would that night be the one where we slept together? Was I ready?

Losing your virginity on your wedding night may seem commonplace, but having been plagued by endometriosis for the two years before, the idea was terrifying. The research and stories I had read made me petrified of being intimate. Our hands had wandered in the past, but whenever he touched too low, my body would tense, and the moment would pass. I had read myself into a fear of sex, and he knew it. But Hunter loved me enough to understand.

“Nervous,” I admitted. “But I want to try.”

“We have all night, Bella. And if not tonight, we will try again when you feel ready.” My heart swelled with his understanding. I did not doubt his love for me. Not a concern that I wasn’t his. “I’ve waited a decade for you to be mine, and now you are. I want us to be perfect. However long that may take.”

We hadn’t noticed Hunter’s cousin standing nearby, listening to our conversation. If we had, had we not had the discussion there, things could have been different. He had promptly gone off and reported to Hunter’s father that my husband had suggested we may not consummate our marriage in the coming hours, and that information was met with disdain, but we hadn’t known it yet.

Chapter five

Hunter Devane’s Residence, London

Hunter

My house sprawls around me in all its empty glory—room after room of nothing but expensive furniture, paintings, and objects. The divorce papers sit on the coffee table in front of me. I’ve read them more times than I care to admit. She wants to leave me. Permanently.

I pick the contract up again, our proposed separation. Isabella hasn’t asked for any ongoing maintenance, only for her house to be transferred solely into her name. What she doesn’t know is that it already is. I prepared that paperwork and submitted it to my lawyer on our first wedding anniversary with explicit instructions she was only to be advised upon my death. I needed to be sure she would be okay whether we were estranged or not.

My mind wanders to how she plans to live after her allowance is removed. She has no other income, unless she has made an arrangement with her family. My relationship with the Espinosas is purely business. They don’t regard me as family, even though the paperwork says otherwise. But Isabella’s father and myself have made some lucrative business deals since I wed his daughter. She is never mentioned by either side.

A knock on the doorframe distracts me from the lines of drivel. More evidence of how differently my life has turned out from how I planned it would. By now, I expected to be overseeing my businesses from afar, at home with my wife and surrounded by my offspring. The nights holding knives to people’s throats are becoming stale; no matter how hard I push, it never takes away the pain of losing what I could have had. People say I’m unhinged, but in reality, I just have nothing to lose.

“Sir,” my security officer says after clearing his throat. “Harrison Waite is here to see you.”

“Here?” I ask, surprised. None of my friends or associates come to my home unannounced, ever. I keep its location quiet, and very few people know my address. Harrison steps into view around the man introducing him, and I glare at him for his intrusion on my pity party.

“Nice place you have,” he says, his tone dry.

“Never been?” He shakes his head, and his expression matches the gesture. I was sure he had visited before, obviously not. The fact emphasizes just how private I am. “What’s so important you have to gatecrash me at home, Waite?”

He walks across my living room, the soles of his Italian leather shoes echoing off the oak floorboards. After pulling his cell from his pocket, he taps the screen then hands me it, already open on the social media page of a local London-based whistleblower. Playing before my eyes is the CCTV footage from the gym where I held my blade to the throat of some idiot who annoyed me.

“Fuck,” I mutter to myself.

“Yes, Devane. Fuck is the right word.”

“Should I be expecting a visit from our friends in blue? Has Damon…” I trail off as he holds up a hand.

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