Page 7 of Hunter

“Damon is already on it. He’s called his contact at the police. You’ll be brought in for questioning, possibly cautioned, but he should be able to talk them out of pressing charges.” My friend sighs and throws himself down on the sofa beside me. “I’m more concerned about the public outcry this will cause.”

“Surely, no one we work with will take it seriously?” I say, but as the words pass my lips, I know I am lying to myself and him.

“I’ve already had calls.”

“Fucking two-faced bastards. Most men we have agreements with don’t keep their hands clean.”

“No, but they don’t get caught on fucking CCTV with a knife at someone’s throat, do they?” We both sit up straight and turn to face one another, glaring openly. The security guard who escorted him in appears briefly, no doubt intrigued by the raised voices. I wave him away without breaking my focus from Harrison.

“It perhaps wasn’t my best moment,” I concede.

“Hunter, you’re a single man in his forties, known for ruthless business moves and being a womanizer. Never mind the rumors of your underground shit that we’re constantly brushing under someone’s rug or burying at the bottom of the River Thames. You can’t be seen doing what you do.”

“I am not single,” I snap, furious that he’s written off my non-existent marriage.

“Of everything I’ve said,thatis what you focus on. You’re not married beyond a piece of paper.”

The blunt statement sends my fury into overdrive. I pull my knife from its hiding place in my sock and lunge across the sofa at him. He ducks out of the way before grabbing my arm and twisting it mercilessly. Shit, I’ve taught him too well.

“Don’t fucking think about it,” he snarls. “If you hurt me with that damn thing, you’ll have my wife to contend with. And she’s hormonal; trust me, it isn’t worth it.”

I laugh out loud then sit back up before sliding the knife back into place. Harrison visibly relaxes, as do I. Sure, he’s game, but we both know I am the man more comfortable in combat.

“You know I’d never kill you, Waite,” I say, and he responds with a dubious look.

“I’ve seen your fury unchecked. You’re a wild dog, can’t be trusted when the body overtakes the mind.” I go to open my mouth to counter his suggestion, but his gaze moves to the papers on the table. “What are they? It looks important, and I haven’t seen it.”Always a fucking lawyer.My bloody lawyer.

“My divorce agreement.”

“Have you signed it?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t you want to?” My eyes flick from him to the papers on the table then back to my friend. “It’s been twenty years. If you were going to sort things out, do you not think you would have by now?” I shrug, unsure what to say. I thought the same thing all those years ago. It never happened, and I’ve never stopped loving her. She hates me. I understand why. But we were both put in an impossible position that night. Both of us got hurt.

I haven't discussed my relationship with my wife in detail with anyone, not even the men who have come to be my closest friends and comrades. The thought of her living without me makes my heart ache, and the fact that she chooses to is crushing to my soul. But she doesn’t want me. If she did, we would have reconciled by now.

Our wedding celebrations had come to an end, and the men retreated to the bar to continue swigging expensive whiskey. My mother approached Isabella and me before we retreated to the honeymoon suite.

“I am so proud of you both,” she whispered, placing her lips to my cheek then my wife’s. “I wish you both a long and happy marriage.”

Isabella’s fine hand slipped into mine, and we made our way to the curved staircase that led to the hotel bedrooms above. Our suite was located on the top floor, with a balcony that wrapped around the building and views over the city. I had come up here earlier in the night to ensure everything was perfect for my bride.

Isabella’s health condition meant that sex could possibly be uncomfortable, if not painful. Even though for years we had taken stolen moments here and there to be together, our interactions had never gone beyond a fumble over our clothes. Both of us were raised to believe in the sanctity of marriage. It’s a belief I still hold true to my heart.

The rumors of my multiple partners and girls who I’ve ravished have been handy to hide the truth. Women queue up to tell people they slept with Hunter Devane, that they’ve been in my bed. The truth is that none of them have. My years of celibacy have done nothing to halt my love for Isabella or the reality that she is the only woman for me. The thought of being joined with another woman physically, other than my wife, is ridiculous. It’s never crossed my mind.

At the threshold of our suite, I had opened the door then lifted Isabella into my arms before walking in. She gasped when she took in the vision surrounding her. The bed was strewn with petals as dozens of candles burned. Bouquets of red roses were scattered around the space. I leaned down and picked a single stem from the nearest bunch.

“For my wife,” I said, offering her the bloom. She took it and beamed back at me; the only emotion visible on her face pure joy. “I love the sound of that on my lips.My wife.Mrs. Hunter Devane.My wife.”

“Me too,” she replied before throwing her arms around my neck and rising on tiptoe to kiss me. The thorns on the stem of the rose grazed my neck, but I didn’t care; she was here and so was I. After years of loving her as a boy and now as a man, I had my woman.

Her arms dropped, and she linked our fingers. Eyes that were full of joy fell to between her feet. When her gaze lifted, there was a sadness there I hated to see. Her body deflated before me, and she trailed a bright red shoe across the floor.

“Bella, me wife, me heart. What is wrong? This is a happy day. The happiest.”

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her cheeks now flushed deep red. “What if it hurts? What if I can’t do what a wife needs to for her husband? It’s my duty.”

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