Hunter
As I step out of the helicopter, the London air greets me.
I used to think London weather was bad. Then I spent time on Elaris Isle.
I give a nod to the driver waiting beside the car before I get into the back seat without a word.
The door shuts behind me, and we soon pull away.
As the city rolls past the window, my mind remains nowhere near London.
It’s still on that damned island.
On her.
Especially the fact that she left.
Just like that, without a word.
Not that she owes me an explanation.
After all, we’re nothing.
At least, that’s what she insists.
But we’re something, whether she wants to admit it or not.
I know it.
She knows it.
Anyone with a pair of eyes knows it.
Yesterday, I sat in the dining hall and every one of her friends was there except her.
I don’t think I made it obvious, but something close to worry gnawed at me the entire time.
Fucking worry.
For her.
Where was she?
Had she eaten?
Why wasn’t she here?
Eventually, I asked as casually as I could and was told she’d gone home for the break.
Back to Washington.
That’s way too much bloody distance between us.
And not seeing her every day is... difficult.
It feels suspiciously like I miss her.
Attachment.
What a stupid, useless thing to feel.
And one I apparently possess now.
I’ll admit there was a moment when I almost called my private pilot and had him follow her to the States.
Almost.
Then a measure of my self-control returned.
Thank fuck for that.
Because I don’t chase or cling.
And I most certainly don’t lose control over a woman.
So instead, I took the helicopter to London.
Mostly to remind myself that I still have responsibilities.
See, this is precisely why I never needed any of this shit.
Relationships, commitments, attachments.
Nothing but weaknesses.
The car slows to a stop outside one of London’s more exclusive restaurants.
The driver steps out and opens my door. I exit, adjust my cuffs, then fasten my jacket properly.
Inside, the place reeks of old money.
A hostess approaches. The moment she recognises me, her smile grows brighter and there’s a distinct shift in her demeanour.
Under different circumstances, I might have entertained her interest.
But now, my cock may as well be fucking dead.
I look at her and feel absolutely nothing. Not the slightest flicker of attraction. If anything, her attempts at flirtation only irritate me.
My mind, traitorous bastard that it is, immediately abandons the woman standing in front of me and returns to the one person it seems incapable of leaving alone.
Hazel eyes, freckled skin, that infuriatingly soft mouth, and a riot of red hair I can’t seem to stop thinking about burying my hands in.
I dismiss the hostess with a curt nod and continue past her without another glance.
Frederick Wardgrave sits at a corner table with a glass of whisky in hand, every bit the respected Secretary of State for Defence that he is.
The moment he notices me approaching, a rare warmth touches his face.
By the time I reach the table, he’s already on his feet.
“Father.”
“Hunter.”
We shake hands, before he pulls me into a brief embrace and gives my back a single pat.
“Good to see you, son.”
“And you.”
We take our seats, and for a moment, I simply study him.
I didn’t inherit my father’s looks. Beyond the dark hair, there isn’t much to suggest we’re related, and anyone who didn’t know us would never guess we’re father and son.
That said, the man has aged remarkably well.
Not that he’s particularly old. Having children in your early twenties probably helps.
“Your grandfather has been rather persistent,” he says after a moment.
I let out a noncommittal sound in acknowledgement.
Their relationship has always been a complicated one.
Then again, he’s my grandfather on my mother’s side, and I imagine most in-law relationships come with a certain degree of tension.
“I see. He extends me the same courtesy.”
“I suspected as much.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks before his expression turns more serious.
“What’s really going on, Hunter?”
I meet his eyes but say nothing.
“I was under the impression you were prepared to take over Wardgrave Dynamics this year.”
“I was,” I reply. “Something... unexpected came up.”
He arches a brow.
“Unexpected to the point of delaying your succession?”
“Until May. It is hardly an unreasonable extension.”
He studies me for a moment.
“Is this related to the Syndicate? The Markevs mentioned something about a truce and your attendance at St. Monarché Academy.”
I smirk.
“There’s a truce, yes. As for the details, I couldn’t care less. That’s Isaak’s concern, not mine.”
“I have a feeling it’s more than that.”
“A necessary alignment.”
“And your involvement?” he asks.
“It proves... advantageous.”
He shakes his head with a faint smile.
“There it is.”
I arch a brow.
“You have a personal interest in this arrangement.”
I say nothing.
He studies me for a moment longer before giving a small nod, as if he’s just confirmed something to himself.
“Is it a woman?”
I shake my head.
My father has been almost as persistent as my grandfather when it comes to seeing me settle down.
Whether that’s for the image it creates or because he genuinely wants grandchildren, I’ve never been sure.
Either way, he can abandon those hopes now.
That will never bloody happen.
“It is,” he says, answering his own question.
“It changes nothing.”
He falls quiet for a moment, a thoughtful look on his face.
“On the contrary,” he says. “If it’s delayed your taking over the company, then it’s already changed something.”
After a long moment, he speaks again.
“I’m happy for you. Truly. I want you to find your person. Just make sure,” he says, “that whatever this is... it doesn’t interfere with what truly matters.”
I hold his gaze.
“It won’t.”
But even as the words leave my mouth, I’m not entirely convinced they’re true.
Because somewhere along the way, my priorities shifted.
And Piper Ashthorne sits firmly at the top of the list.