19. Winter
NINETEEN
WINTER
A s the sun falls past the government buildings across the Basin on a summer afternoon three days later, I hold hands with Hunter James Brigham and take him as my husband.
The cherry blossom trees are barren of the buds I love so much, and there aren’t as many people here as I’d expect.
Hunter’s hands are cool against my sweaty palms, and I’m grateful for the light breeze that kicks up my skirt near my ankles.
The irony isn’t lost on me that it’s not the right time for the blooms. Just as, perhaps, the timing is all off for Hunter and me.
Everyone came to our brief ceremony—Misha and Luna, Amelia and August, Leo and Ella.
Veronica’s absence is like a hole in my soul. I feel it deeply.
August was happier than I thought he’d be, considering the sharp change in the structure of his life, but when Hunter and I told him about the impending nuptials, he took it in stride.
“I have told Dad before,” he said, “that I think that you are cool as hell, and I do not mind you being my stepmother.”
“You don’t have to call me Mom or anything like that,” I told him, clutching onto Hunter’s hand as we all spoke in August’s game room. August simply shrugged and said, “I will decide at a later date.”
It was the best reaction I could have hoped for.
Ella was quiet during the ceremony, appearing like she was deep in thought. But then she hugged me tightly after Hunter and I declared our vows and whispered in my ear that she’d always wanted a sister. Then she had a driver take her back to Misha’s compound.
Misha and Luna were aloof, as usual, but when Amelia hugged Hunter and he didn’t push her away, I started to cry in earnest.
I think everyone thought they were happy tears.
I’m not a hundred percent sure they were.
We’re in the armored G Wagon now, and I allow my eyes to go in and out of focus as I count the trees. Hunter still holds my hand in the back seat while Jared drives us toward Reagan International.
There were a few paparazzi at the Basin as we said “I do,” and I learned that Misha and Hunter decided to tip them off. “We need to control the narrative,” Leo said.
I guess it makes sense. Now, by all appearances, we’re headed off on our honeymoon, but in reality, we’re giving ourselves an excuse to be out and about around the globe while Misha and the rest prepare to take down The Architect in two weeks when The Legion descends on Isla Cara.
The idea is that all eyes will be on what Hunter and I are doing, so we’ll let them watch. But that doesn’t mean we’ll give The Legion easy access to us. So Hunter, Jared, Max, and Misha came up with an elaborate scheme to get us to our honeymoon destination.
With everything happening since uncovering the codes on the rings, Luna and Misha have been hard at work getting everything prepared to take down The Legion.
Ella has retreated again, and I think back to her heavy silence right before the raid. When I tried to talk to her this morning in the kitchen, she ran in the opposite direction.
“If she wants to pretend she’s Michonne or some shit, I’ll buy her a video game,” Leo said as he stood next to me at the kitchen island with a bowl of cantaloupe in front of him.
I thought the words had been too dismissive—harsh even—but I’ve been so tired that I left it alone.
Our timeline is tight, but we’ll be able to take a full week to ourselves before the others join. Then we’ll take down The Legion, and we’ll be able to leave all this bullshit behind.
Please God, let this prayer come true.
In truth, I’m overwhelmed and feeling…adrift. I feel like a large part of me is missing, namely Veronica and Summer, and I also feel that I was robbed of something special, having to marry Hunter like this. Not that I wanted or expected anything elaborate.
All I’ve ever wanted was to love and be loved.
But I suppose that’s the thing. Hunter and I are fragile. I know with every cell in my body that I love Hunter, and I believe that he loves me too. But I’m unsure if that’s enough to save us if he is insistent on keeping me on the outside.
The thought causes my heart to race, and I feel the undeniable urge to break down on the expensive leather seats.
Hunter murmurs something and his words are so low that I miss them.
“Hmm?” I say, tilting my chin toward him but not removing my eyes from the branches as we whip by.
“We’ll do it right next time, Sunbeam,” he says a little louder.
I keep my face toward the window so he doesn’t see the sheen of tears.
We pull onto the tarmac and Jared exits the driver’s seat, but Hunter and I don’t move out of the back.
“I know we didn’t exchange rings,” Hunter says, “but I got you one. Not the one I got you to visit Misha,” he adds quickly.
I turn to him then, trying to craft a smile on my face.
“Oh? It’s no big deal, Hunter,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. I honestly haven’t given much thought to rings or anything like that. Outside of the crystal jewelry he got me last Christmas, I am not one to wear much jewelry at all, especially rings.
Hunter’s smile is sad. “But it’s a big deal to me,” he says.
He lifts my left hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
“Here,” he says, pulling a small blood-red ring box from his pocket. “I had this designed months ago. Luckily it was delayed in delivery to Amelia Manor, so I was able to intercept it and bring it to Misha’s.”
When he opens the box, holding it up for me to examine, my heart jumps into my throat. The ring is stunning, and when I inspect it, I realize that the shape and cut of the diamond are very similar to Amelia’s ring. It’s exactly something I would have loved and picked out for myself.
The ring is flawless—an understated but still large pear-shaped diamond at the center with a halo of smaller diamonds around the stone. More diamonds adorn the rose-gold and platinum band, but what takes my breath away is the interlocking braid of lightly colored gems.
“What are these?” I ask, still not taking the ring from Hunter’s hand.
He smiles, pulling the ring from its place nestled between the small velvet pillows. “These are sapphires, padparadscha sapphires, to be exact. I researched for days to find the right one,” he says, running his finger around the braid of stones.
The colors are stunning. They shift between orange and pink depending on which way the light hits it. The ring is unique and special, and I’m glad Hunter got something important to him too—a ring modeled after his mother’s.
“Sapphires are known as a stone of protection, and they stand for wisdom and strength.”
He kisses my hand.
“Even though you’ve made me the happiest man on Earth by agreeing to marry me, I always want you to be you. Just you.”
I bite my lip; my nose burns with unshed tears.
“It’s beautiful, Hunter. I love it,” I say. “I didn’t get you anything, though.”
The ring Hunter wants to gift me is at least half a million, easy. Even though I know he wouldn’t want anything nearly as showy, I worry. I don’t have nearly as much money in my bank account, so anything I could afford would be well below what he’s spent on me.
Overwhelm starts to rear its ugly head. What would he want?
That is, if he wants to wear a ring at all.
“Do you want to wear a ring? You don’t have to,” I say, my voice low and my eyes focused on the leather seat between us.
“Yes,” he says, and his voice is deep, serious.
I snap my gaze back toward him.
“There’s nothing that I want more than to wear the ring you give me, baby.”
He’s so passionate in his words, I know he means them with his entire body and soul.
I gaze past him and out the window, watching the ground crew and the pilots confer.
This is a perfect moment. And it’s still not right.
What would it take to make you happy, Winter?
“I’ll work on getting you something special,” I say, pasting on a smile before returning my focus back to Hunter. He smiles back at me, but he looks so tired. I can’t help but put my hand on his cheek.
“I love you so goddamn much, Sunbeam,” he says, pressing his lips to my flesh and whispering the words into my palm.
I know you do, my love. I know you do.
“Will you wear it, Winter?” Hunter asks. His eyes lock on mine.
I’ll never take it off.
“Yes,” I say. “I will.”
Hunter slides the ring onto my finger, and while it’s only marginally more romantic than when he placed the fake engagement ring on my finger in Misha’s driveway, I know I mean my words.
I won’t ever take it off, even if keeping it on kills me.
Jared disturbs the moment by coming around the back of the vehicle and opening Hunter’s door.
Keeping his voice low, he says to Hunter, “The manifest states you’re headed to Costa Rica, but a divergent plane will cross paths near Cuba. Afterward, you’ll change course and land in Martinique. You’ll take the yacht to sail to?—”
“Ah, got it, Jared,” Hunter rushes to add. The blonde man nods and I tilt my head toward Hunter, curious about where we’re going.
When I told him that I’d marry him but I required a honeymoon, even if it were a couple of days, he said he’d surprise me.
I was hoping we wouldn’t go to Paris. So I’m glad we’re not going there.
Hunter nods, sticking his hand out to the tall blond to shake his hand. “Thank you, Jared. Take care of the rest of my family, will you?”
My breaths get short thinking about leaving August behind.
“I’ll protect them with my life, sir,” Jared says.
We exit, and Hunter takes my hand, guiding me up the staircase to the plane.
Getting on Hunter’s plane gives me a strange sense of time. The last time I was here, I was leaving the hospital in Asheville following my abduction. That was a short flight, under three hours, and I was so out of it from the meds and trauma that I didn’t take in much of the scenery.
That time, when Hunter brought me back to the sleeping quarters, I was only able to take in a few details.
Now, I’m a little stunned by the opulence of the plane. Creamy, tan leather seats with tons of leg space line the sides of the plane, and in the center of the aircraft, there’s a small living room area bisecting the forward from the aft. There’s a television on one side of the plane, and on the other, there’s a bench seat that’s as long as a standard-issue sofa and a table affixed to the floorboards.
Beyond that area is a small galley to complement the larger one at the front of the plane, a toilet room, and then at the back, I spy the sliding door for the main bedroom and bath.
Hunter’s hand just above the curve of my ass causes me to stop gawking and take a seat.
When I’m buckled in, he leans over me with one hand on the back of my chair and the other on my armrest. “I’ll be right back, Sunbeam. Just need to talk to the pilots,” he says. He leans closer, his face inches from mine, and pauses.
It’s like he doesn’t know if it’s okay to kiss me or embrace me or take me on the floor and make love to me.
In the end, he gives me a chaste kiss on the forehead and turns toward the cockpit. When he greets the captain, he unbuttons the wrists of his shirt and rolls up his sleeves.
I pull out the iPad Misha gifted me, retrofitted by Max for security, to message August one final time before takeoff.
I miss you already, kid. Your dad told me that you have a new game on the way. Want to play it together when I get back?
It takes a few minutes for August to reply.
Yes.
His simple, one-word response makes me miss him even more. Before I can write another message, he replies again.
Thank you for letting Kitty stay behind with me. We will miss you.
He sends a picture of himself and Kitty. August doesn’t smile, but his eyes are almost fixed on the camera lens. Kitty’s tongue hangs out on the side. Their expressions both seem happy.
I love you. And I also feel immense affection for the fetus. Please come back soon.
I bark out a laugh-cry, tapping to reply to his message. I really, really could use Kitty by my side right now, but August…he needed him more. There’s very little I wouldn’t do for August.
August, who is now legally my child.
I love you too, August.
“What refreshments can I get you, miss?” I blink away from August’s message and face the flight attendant. It’s the same one from my last time on this plane, Jami, and with Hunter away, she wears a detached, professional expression. But she has one too many buttons undone on her top, and her skirt is definitely not regulation length.
Huh.
“A sweet tea, please,” I say, giving her a personable smile that I don’t feel. My iPad pings, but I don’t check the notification.
“Are you sure you don’t want unsweet tea?” Jami asks, pasting on a bright smile.
I arch an eyebrow. “No, I’m sure I’d like a sweet tea. Thank you.” Bitch.
Jami flicks her glance down to my ring finger, purses her mouth, and then returns her gaze back to me.
“I’ll be right back with your refreshments,” she says. She spins on her heels, and I narrow my eyes at the slit in her skirt that stops just below her ass.
Several emotions whirl in my stomach, and my knee starts to pop up and down in nervous energy.
I realize I’m biting my ring finger when the taste of blood registers on my tongue.
How fitting.
I lower my hand. I won’t let my jealousy or my anxiety control me right now.
After all, what do I have to be jealous about? I’m the one with his baby and his last name.
Except he’s tried to exile you to live across the globe not even seventy-two hours ago, and he’s dropped you like a hot potato for the last half-month.
My hand goes back to my mouth and my leg shakes in double time.
This isn’t about me. Hunter clearly has some shit he’s dealing with—or, I guess more accurately, isn’t dealing with. The educated professional in me wants to give him a heaping dose of grace. He hasn’t had the emotional and mental support that I’ve had to heal from the past. But there’s a lot of darkness within him, and while I know he wants to shield me from it…I can’t help but want to dive in headfirst.
Not because I crave his darkness, but because I crave him.
To distract myself, I return to the iPad, preparing to download an audiobook to listen to. But the notification at the top of the screen makes my blood turn to ice.
Abuse and betrayal: Former lovers expose Hunter Brigham's cruelty
What the actual fuck?
I open the article, noting that it’s from a top news source and not a gossip magazine.
My heart sinks to my stomach.
…French model and ex-girlfriend to Hunter Brigham, Gisele Delacroix, goes on the record saying, “Hunter craves control. He needs it like he needs air. So, with his submissives, he’s not a loving, careful Dom. He’s the definition of a sadist and a violent abuser.”
The muscles in my chest freeze, compressing my lungs as I take in the words.
Seeing the words Dominant and submissive next to Hunter’s name doesn’t surprise me. Even though I was inexperienced when it came to sex before him, I haven’t been living under a rock. I know what BDSM is. Not only have I studied it in my coursework, but I’ve learned about it in all the places one would learn such things.
Plus, I’ve read Fifty Shades of Grey, even if the book is a horrible representation of D/s relationships .
I wouldn’t call Hunter a Dom. At least, he’s never Dommed me…I don’t think. The things we’ve done together carry an edge of his dominance, even when he’s trying to be sweet and gentle.
Hunter Brigham is always in control: of my orgasms, my movements, and himself.
But a sadist? Not my Hunter.
The rest of the article is much of the same: ex-lovers of my now-husband coming forward to tell tales of how abusive, violent, and sadistic he is. There are close-up pictures of bruises and abrasions—all allegedly left by Hunter.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.
Movement at the front of the airplane distracts me from my spiral, and I watch as Hunter and Jami meet at the galley. Hunter steps around her, but when they turn sideways, I watch as Jami sticks her tits out and Hunter rubs against her.
The way she tilts her head to look at him, her expression…was she one of his submissives?
I tell myself that Hunter doesn’t intend for any part of him to touch her. That same voice urges me to give Hunter the benefit of the doubt. It screams that this article is likely another focused effort by The Legion to discredit Hunter, to paint him with a black brush of violence and deception.
They’re playing their game.
But the louder voice yells at me that, of course, he’d be with someone like Jami. That same loud, loud, loud voice says clearly: Do you really know him?
Hunter stalks toward me, his face serious but also closed off. I want to keep my eyes on him, but the longer I do so, the more I want to devolve into hysteria. I close down the iPad screen and turn away, leaning over to open the window blind.
I feel the air shift when Hunter takes the seat next to me, and the click of his lap belt sliding home makes me flinch.
I’ve never been more invested in the movements of the ground crew than I am at this moment. I’m transfixed as I watch them fuel the plane.
“Sunbeam?” Hunter’s voice is close to my ear, and I want to throw up and cry and rage and scream when his hand presses to mine.
I’m being a total psychopath right now. And yes, I know that’s not a fair or proper statement from an almost-psychologist.
Can I even say I’m an almost-psychologist at this point? Two semesters have passed, and I’ve made no progress.
I just want things to go back to normal.
…whatever that is.
The forward door closes with a deep thunk, and I start to breathe again when the plane shifts as the cargo doors close below.
“Here’s your sweet tea,” Jami says from my left, and I feel the bitchiness on my face as I allow my eyes to land on her. She puts the tea on the small woodgrain table. “I also brought you some lemon and extra sugar packets. Just in case you want it sweeter.”
Her words are innocuous enough, but I know cattiness when I hear it. Lord knows I’ve watched enough reality TV with Veronica to write a dissertation about it.
My face burns again as memories of me and Veronica surface. Hunter laces our fingers together and I freeze.
“And Mr. Brigham, what can I get you?” Jami asks. I put my hand on my knee to stop it from bouncing.
“Nothing. Thanks,” Hunter says. He squeezes my hand tighter, likely sensing my distress.
But when Jami leans over Hunter, reaching for the tri-fold safety information cards affixed to the wall, I hit my limit, because not only does she put a hand on Hunter’s thigh, but her breasts are at his eye level, her shirt gaping open to showcase the lacy bra beneath her crisp button down.
But instead of jumping up and throwing my likely too-sweet tea in her face or stomping on Hunter’s foot while I scream at him, I freeze.
I go within myself.
I let it happen.
“I don’t need you to give me the safety instructions. Just do your demonstration,” Hunter says, his tone sharp and dark.
And dominant.
Hunter needs control like he needs air….
“Do it over there,” he says, pointing to the front row near the front of the plane. Smiling brightly at Hunter, she says, “Certainly, Mr. Brigham,” and heads off to the front of the plane.
As a defense mechanism, I tune out Jami’s voice as she performs the inflight safety demonstration.
We pull back from our spot on the tarmac and head to the runway more quickly than I’d anticipated. When Jami stops speaking and returns to her jump seat, I can finally take a deep, therapeutic breath.
“Are you okay, Winter?” Hunter’s voice is soft, but I still hear him over the roaring engines as we take off and race toward cruising altitude. I give him a weak smile.
My brain is not a happy place right now and I hate that.
I hate this.
I look at my left hand again. The ring really is so beautiful. I can tell he put a lot of thought into it.
My eyes slide back to Hunter.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Veronica was right.
I shut down the thought as quickly as it comes.
Hunter nods and faces away. From the set of his shoulders, I can tell he doesn’t believe me, but he’s likely unsure what to say or how to fix this.
Fix us.
I so don’t know how to, either.
We’re silent for the next hour of the flight. I desperately want him to say something, anything. I don’t know what the hell I expect him to say or what reassurances I’d expect from him.
All I know is that everything feels wrong where it’s never felt wrong between Hunter and me.
“Winter, I…” Hunter starts speaking but doesn’t finish his sentence. When I angle my body closer, I note the tension running through him.
When exactly did this wall come up between us? And, more importantly, how can we break it down?
No. The most important question is: Should we break it down?
I think back to that damned shower. I wish he wouldn’t have retreated from me, which is what he did. He ran away from me, from us. And while I know he did so to protect himself, I can’t help but feel that I’m responsible in part.
I pushed and pushed. I demanded that he show me all of it. And I did so without giving him a safe place to be vulnerable.
I can accept responsibility for my part.
And still…Hunter’s absence is something he is choosing.
You are Winter Leigh Vaughan, daughter of the incomparable U.S. Representative Katherine Vaughan and the first Black Chief of Neurosurgery in the history of all medical systems in northern Virginia. You come from a line of fierce, strong women. You are beautiful and a badass. No one will make me feel inferior.
I recite my pep talk over and over in my brain, focusing on the statement rather than the swirling self-loathing and anxiety on the periphery.
But maybe if I weren’t so raw, so exposed, so…lost, I could handle it when Jami returned to us and fixed her sights on Hunter again.
I might have been able to tolerate her flirtation then because, in an alternate universe, Hunter and I are solid.
But when Jami leans over to whisper in Hunter’s ear and reaches out to touch his chest, it doesn’t matter to me that he grips her wrist, halting her progress. It doesn’t matter that she gasps, and twin pink spots appear on her bottle-tanned skin as he gives her a flat, unimpressed glare.
It doesn’t matter that Jami smiles at Hunter, acting as if I don’t fucking exist or matter at all.
None of it matters because I’ve pushed past the level of control.
“Get your hoes in order, Hunter,” I snap, wrenching the buckle loose and standing.
Hunter’s head whips toward me, his eyebrows drawing down. I slide past them both and head toward the sleeping quarters.