Page 2 of The Wild Hunt

Her face lights up with a warm, welcoming smile that seems to erase any nervousness she might have felt. "You must be McKenna, then?" she says, her accent lilting and soft, as she lowers the sign and extends her hand.

I smile back, taking her hand in mine, and notice the lingering softness of flour on her skin. "Please, call me Mac," I say, giving her hand a gentle shake.

"Lovely to meet you, Mac," she responds, her smile widening. Without missing a beat, she reaches for my luggage. "Let me take that bag for you."

Before I can protest, she’s already grabbed the handle, her fingers curling around it with determination. A soft "oof" escapes her lips as she pulls it towards herself, the weight of my belongings clearly more than she expected.

I chuckle, feeling a bit guilty. "Sorry about that—it’s got my painting supplies in there too."

She laughs along with me, a light, genuine sound that eases the last of my travel-worn nerves. "No worries at all. We’ll get you settled in no time."

As we make our way through the airport, Bridget leading the way with my heavy suitcase in tow, I feel a sense of anticipation building. Soon, I’ll be at the little cottage overlooking the cliffs, with a scenery worth painting. It’s near a tiny village that feels a world away from everything I’ve known.

The hum of conversations and rolling suitcases fades into the background as we step outside into the crisp Irish air. A cool breeze carries the faint scent of rain and something earthy that I can’t quite place but immediately love.

Bridget directs me toward a little blue car parked a short distance away. It’s well-worn but charming, with a few scratches and dents that speak to years of faithful service. The car almost seems to smile at us, its headlights gleaming under the overcast sky.

"Here we are," Bridget announces cheerfully, popping open the trunk with a quick press of her key fob.

I help her hoist my heavy suitcase into the back, the weight causing us both to grunt slightly before it settles into place. Bridget brushes her hands together, attempting to dust off nonexistent dirt, and then unlocks the car doors. I slide into the passenger seat, placing my backpack carefully at my feet. The interior is cozy, smelling faintly of vanilla and something spicy—perhaps cinnamon.

"Welcome to Ireland," Bridget chirps as she buckles her seatbelt and starts the car. The engine hums to life, and a traditional Irish tune softly fills the space from the radio. "You know, Mac, with your looks? You'll fit right in here. Your hair and eyes are stunning."

I feel a flush of warmth in my cheeks, and I duck my head slightly, a little shy about the compliment. Growing up, my hair was the source of relentless teasing—kids would call me names, saying it looked like I had a fire on my head with all the different tones of red, copper, and blonde strands highlighting it. Andmy eyes... Well, they’ve always unnerved some people, though I never understood why. As far as I can tell, they’re just blue eyes, even if they have a small ring of amber around the edges.

"Thank you," I manage to mumble, brushing a strand of fiery hair behind my ear, a smile tugging at my lips as I take in my surroundings. Outside, the sky is a patchwork of grays, and I can already tell that the landscape beyond the city will be breathtaking.

Bridget expertly navigates us out of the busy airport, merging seamlessly into traffic. After a few moments of comfortable silence, she glances over at me with curious eyes.

"So, Mac, what made you want to visit our little village all the way from America? You do know it's not one of those tourist places, right? We're pretty isolated, and barely ever get visitors."

I let out a soft laugh, appreciating her straightforwardness. "I did notice that. Honestly, that's part of the appeal."

She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh? Running away from something, are we?"

Her playful tone makes me chuckle, but the truth behind her words settles heavily in my chest. I gaze out the window for a moment, watching as the cityscape begins to give way to rolling green hills in the distance.

"Something like that," I admit, my voice quieter.

Bridget seems to pick up on the shift in my mood and gives me a quick, concerned glance before returning her focus to the road. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"No, it's okay," I assure her, taking a deep breath. "It's just a very long story."

She offers a sympathetic smile. "Well, we've got a long drive ahead of us. If you feel like talking, I'm all ears. If not, we can enjoy the music."

I consider her offer, weighing the idea of sharing my story with a stranger. But something about Bridget's warm demeanor and the anonymity of being so far from home makes it feel safe.

"I met a man, isn’t that always how it goes?" I begin slowly, my fingers fiddling with the zipper on my jacket. "He seemed perfect at first. Charming, thoughtful, always surprising me with flowers and gifts. Said all the right things."

Bridget nods silently, her eyes steady on the road but her attention clearly focused on my words.

"After six months, I moved in with him. That's when things started to change. He'd make me feel guilty whenever I wanted to spend time with my friends or family. Started criticizing my clothes, my choices, little by little. It was so gradual that I didn't even realize what was happening until one day, I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself."

I pause, swallowing the lump forming in my throat. The memories are still raw, but speaking them aloud feels strangely liberating.

"I lost touch with my friends, and any contact with my family was done in secret. They were worried, of course, but I always brushed it off. Then one night, after we'd been out with his friends, he got drunk and angry. Accused me of flirting with his best friend just because I laughed at a joke. When we got home... he hit me. More than once."

Bridget's hands tighten on the steering wheel, her knuckles turning white. "Mac, I'm so sorry," she says softly, genuine empathy lacing her words.

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