Page 2 of Hunter

Hunter has provided for me for two decades. I have wanted for nothing, and my safety has always been guaranteed. But I have never truly lived; I’ve only existed between champagne and fitness classes. There have been men, perhaps fascinations, but never anyone who made me want them as mine. After twenty years of fulfilling my surface needs, it’s time to find out who I am.

As a young woman, I passed from being under the care of my father to that of my new husband. Our union was between two powerful families, the Devanes of London and the Espinosas of Barcelona. It was a marriage to unite the most powerful men in the underworld and create descendants of immense power and wealth. In the world my husband and I grew up in, alliances can be the difference between life and death. Although our union wasn’t successful in a generational sense, it has been from a business one.

My father and Hunter have made many successful business deals across Europe and taken down enemies together. If there was any positive to take from my nuptials, it was that. Me? Well, my life, or lack of it, is collateral damage, but that’s a fact I am now determined to change and have the ability to do so.

Chapter two

The Lonely Hearts Café, London

Hunter

“How fucking ironic,” I mutter as we approach the café Isabella demanded I meet her at. The white sign with pink writing proudly displays a broken heart as decoration.Sit down and make friends. I don’t need fucking friends; I need my wife.

My security guard beside me grunts in agreement, but I could probably tell him the sky was green, and he would agree with me. Yes-men, that’s all these two escorting me today are. This quality is handy in some situations but not in others. The men Itrulytrust challenge my statements, even when I don’t want to hear it. I’m well aware of my unhinged existence, but the truth is, I have nothing to fucking lose.

I push open the rickety wooden door of the tiny café. It’s dreary and certainly lives up to its name. No bastard would enter this place and have their mood improve. The walls, which I am sure were once white, are now a dismal gray stained with yellow as if customers have smoked here. However, the smoking ban has been in place for years. Each table has a worn pink tablecloth surrounded by plastic chairs; in the center is a blue vase holding a cheap, fake flower.

In romance films, this type of establishment is portrayed when the male lead has been discarded and is drowning his sorrows over a cold cup of tea in the middle of the night. Today's music playing in the background could be used in the next Hallmark movie when the love story goes wrong. I chuckle at the irony of finding myself exactly where I should be—the man completely in love with the woman who doesn’t want him.

“Make yourself scarce,” I tell my guard. I can’t remember his name. “Bella said no muscle; we will do as she asks.”

“Shall I remove her security as well, Boss?” he questions.

“That will be her decision. Now, fuck off. I’ll call you when I need you.”

He nods and walks off, leaving me standing in the middle of the café surrounded by everyday Joes enjoying a drink after their blue-collar shift. One man, still dressed in ahi-vis vest and hard hat, sits sipping at a mug of something at a table nearby. Black cracks weave over what I assume is porcelain.

My skin crawls at the thought of the bacteria the vessel could carry, but I say nothing as the waitress approaches. The woman, most likely in her fifties, stalks across the café, a fake smile plastered under her bright red lips. Thick black curls fall around her shoulders atop a cliché black-and-white uniform.

“Alright, mate,” she purrs.“ Just take a seat, and I’ll be with you.” I blink at her, semi-stunned by the words chosen to address me. In my forty-three years on earth, I don't think anyone called memate, certainly no one who was a stranger anyway. “Ya deaf? Take a seat.” She spins on her heel and strides toward the swinging door at the rear of the building. I slink into the nearest seat to wait for both the server and my wife to appear.

Ten minutes pass and nobody bothers with me. I tap my leather sole against the sticky tiled floor as my annoyance increases. Just then, the waitress reappears with a teapot and a single mug. She places them on the table and smiles.

“I didn’t order tea,” I mutter, and her lips widen further turning her beam almost comical.

“Here at Lonely Hearts, we pride ourselves on knowing how to cheer our customers up,” she half-sings. “And you, sir, look like a tea drinker.” She disappears again before I can protest that I prefer coffee and that customer service relies on listening to the person paying the bill. Beaten, I lift the teapot and start to make my drink.

I feel her presence before I see her, the way she has affected me since we were kids. Even though I’ve not seen Isabella up close in the flesh in years, it hasn’t changed how I feel about her, this deep sense I have of needing to protect her. From the moment I met her as a thirteen-year-old boy, she was the girl for me. Life had been mapped out so beautifully before it all went wrong, and I’ve hated myself ever since.

She weaves through the clutter of tables and chairs, wide hips skimming the cheap plastic with each step. The memory of my greedy hands holding them in years long gone pops into my head, and my cock hardens instantly. My unfamiliar nervousness only appears when thinking of Isabella, and how I fucked up so severely ravages my body.

Back at the Zumba studio, I had been running on adrenaline. The divorce papers were handed to me when I entered a meeting. It had taken all my self-control not to storm away to find her. Only days later, I was marching through the door of her dance class, demanding I see her.

Isabella saunters over and stops in front of me. Her dark eyes hold mine for a beat. I stand and move to hug her in greeting. She immediately takes a step backward out of my grasp. Her plump lips purse in disgust as if offended at the thought of touching me. She flicks her plait off her shoulder, causing her breasts to wobble a little with the movement. I bite my lip to stop a comment that should be kept inside from slipping out.

“Stop staring at my tits, Hunter,” she hisses, and my wayward pupils that dropped like a schoolboy snapback up. She glowers angrily, and I clear my throat.

“What would you like to drink, Bella?” I ask, moving to pull out her chair. She lifts her hand, thrusting her palm in my direction. Her long fingers are poised straight, no rings in sight. It is my turn to glare at her. “Where are your rings?”

“At the pawn shop.”

Her retort is slick to the point of perfected practice. The nervousness subsides slightly, making way for aggravation.

“I’m not staying, Hunter,” she says shortly. “I know why you’re here. No, I won’t be discussing this with you. Please sign the divorce papers and let us both move on.”

“No,” I reply, my tone that of a teenager. I sit down in my chair and lift the cup of tea to my lips. “I don’t believe in divorce.”

Isabella huffs loudly before taking two steps forward. With her trainer-clad feet almost touching the leg of my chair, she leans down and narrows her eyes, appearing like a snake that has locked onto its prey.

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