Page 82 of Hunter

Villa Dún Solas, Andalusia, Spain

August 2024

Isabella

Villa Dún Solas, or Fortress of Light, isn’t the grandest villa in Hunter’s property portfolio, but being on the coast of Southern Spain makes it the one that feels most like home. Nestled into the hillside surrounded by olive trees with expansive views of the crystal water lapping against the beaches, it feels like it was built just for us.

The warmth of the sun is different here. It’s constant without the burn you normally feel on an unexpected sunny day in London. The heat lingers like a blanket, wrapping around in familiar comfort. The rays stretch over the terracotta tiles and glittering waves like a lazy cat, golden and at peace.

I sit in the shade of a large palm tree, a complete history of Ireland open on my lap. Page one hundred and five, and I’m still nowhere near done. So much of my husband’s story is rooted there, and I want to learn it all.

The mid-afternoon breeze lifts a fraction, and my flowing summer dress clings to my six-months’ swollen belly. When I look up at the villa, Hunter is looking down at me from our bedroom balcony, glass of wine in hand. He smiles softly, looking the relaxed father-to-be he has become since arriving here only a month ago. As always, he looks sexy in an open neck white shirt and dark linen trousers. Even this far into my pregnancy, we still can’t keep our hands off each other.

Since the wedding that didn’t happen—since the war ended quietly—we have been blessed with peace in our lives. I pray it lasts.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, high-pitched and chaotic. My focus moves to Damon sprawled beneath a parasol beside the pool. His daughter, Annie, crawls over him, a half-melted popsicle in her hand. Emma’s perched on a lounger beside him, sunglasses propped on the end of her nose as she reads the instructions of the bottle of sunscreen in her hand. She barks orders at Damon as if it’s a military operation, and he lies silently listening to both the women in his world.

Across the pool, Violet is on her own sun bed, toddler Evie on her hip as she feeds their four-month-old son, Theo. She balances a bottle in one hand, Theo in the crook of her arm, as she plays with her daughter’s hair. Motherhood turned into art, perfect and priceless. Harrison hovers around his little family, poised to grab any child who may slip, even though they all look completely at ease. Fatherhood suits him, and he revels in each moment with them, the constant grin on his face never wavering.

Connor and Russell are deep into a game of water polo; they hurl the ball at one another, hoping to knock the other out. Samantha lies on a nearby lounger in her bright red bikini, blonde hair pulled in a high pony tail, insanely large sunglasses propped on her head. The rings both men gave her dangle on a chain around her neck.

Samantha lifts the glass she’s holding in my direction, filled to the brim like my own with sparkling water and fresh lime. Her bump is smaller than mine, though we’re due within days of one another. Their announcement had been something more of a surprise, but she wears the silent pride I recognize in myself—the understanding that our bodies are doing something amazing, creating life.

On paper, she and I would never be friends. We have nothing in common, but our simultaneous pregnancies have given us something to bond over. We trade horror stories of heartburn and morning sickness, or late-night texts when our fears won’t leave our mind.

She doesn’t try to be anyone she isn’t, still as bold and brash as she was the first time I met her in that underground gym fight months before. That’s why our friendship works—she is perfect just as she is. Fierce and strong, more than capable of controlling two possessive men.

She told me once, during a midnight phone call when I was panicking over motherhood, “You don’t have to be soft to be a mother. You need to be solid, consistent, and love every damn bone of them. Be you.” As two women in a similar life stage, connected to men with blood on their hands and guns trained on their foreheads, I accept that she’s right. We are building something unbreakable.

Russell and Connor swim to the edge, asking for her opinion on who won. She responds by asking if they’ve read the parenting book she placed in each of their rooms. Connor smiles wide as he tells her he’s finished, while Russell disappears below the waterline only to appear at the other side of the pool, where he climbs out to grab a drink from the bar. A powerful trio in so many ways, as dysfunctional as they are right. Their joy is their own, and they created it on their own terms.

Samantha stands, kisses Connor still hugging the pool side, then walks in my direction, sitting down on the lounger beside me. She leans over and rubs my bump.

“Who would’ve thought,” she says. “Both of us barefoot and pregnant.”

“Not me,” I respond with a laugh. “But I wouldn’t change it.”

“Rather you than me,” Emma mutters with a cheeky wink as she wanders over to join us. Still the youngest among us with a figure that defies the fact she’s given birth in recent years. “The sickness was awful. But damn, you make it look easy. You’re both glowing.”

“Thanks, Em,” Samantha says, a genuine flutter of happiness on her lips.

“I already want another one,” Violet chimes in, clearly having wandered over, not wanting to miss any girl talk. Harrison has taken her place on the lounger, Theo in his arms and Evie at his feet. “But Harry says we should wait.”

“Spoilsport,” I tease.

“I’ll convince him.” She raises her eyebrows naughtily. “We hold the power, ladies.”

“Very true,” Samantha agrees. “Even men like ours can be led around by their dicks.”

“At least your men didn’t threaten to microchip you,” I mutter, with an eyeroll.

“I have no doubt they would, given the chance.”

We all laugh, and I thank my lucky stars to have found these women who I can call friends. Women who live my life, but understand the need for independence. Who know what it’s like to be the wife of a man like Hunter, but also want to be me.

None of us expected this is how our lives would turn out. But I don’t think I’ve ever felt safer, or more seen. Not just by my husband, but by my village. My sisters. My unexpected tribe.

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