Page 37 of Hunter

“You can ask me anything,” I say in encouragement. We sit in silence for a few minutes. Her hands have disappeared beneath the table—the way her arms flex, I expect they are twisted in her lap. “Bella,” I prompt.

“Did you kill your father?” She looks me square in the eye as she asks the question, straightening her shoulders so her back sits against the chair. I swallow nervously; it is a question I half expected, but I wasn’t sure if she’d read that letter yet. Part of me thought of removing it from the stack before giving it to her, but if this was to be the new start I hoped for, she needed the whole story. No secrets or lies, just brutal truth, so if she chose to give me a chance again, she knew who I was.

“Yes,” I reply simply. “But I assume you know that with what I wrote.”

“Why?”

“Because he was the last nemesis I had. He was part of the reason I lost what was most precious to me. He used me to create a world with no end—one that I live trapped in.” Her head leans to one side as she listens to my rambling explanation. I hope it makes more sense to her than it does to me. “He deserved it,” I add, as if that is a complete explanation in itself.

“I’m glad you did,” she says, surprising me. “He did deserve it.”

Ronan and Kasia reappear to clear our plates then lay out the dessert that Isabella was determined to have on our wedding day, to the horror of both our mothers. The fresh red strawberries sit in a small pile at the center of a sleek white plate, a small pot of chocolate sauce to one side. Our staff disappear as quickly as they arrive.

Isabella pushes herself up to stand. She comes around the table to my side. I push my chair back and look up at her, unsure of her intentions. She lowers herself down into my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck and then leaning in to kiss me. Her lips drop onto mine, soft and gentle. Before we close our eyes, we enjoy the moment.

“Do you remember this course at our wedding?” she whispers against my lips.

“I do.”

On our wedding night, we took the strawberries to our room. Between the kisses, Isabella dipped a strawberry in chocolate before popping it into my mouth. It was one of the most sensual experiences of my life and a happy memory I cherish.

Tonight, she reaches out and plucks a strawberry from my plate before lowering it into the chocolate. Isabella tugs on my hair, encouraging my head backward. I open my mouth, and she drops the sweet fruit into it. I bite down, and the delicious taste of sweet strawberry and bitter chocolate mixing is delightful.

“My turn,” I tell her, picking up one more red treat and feeding her. She sits on my knee as we eat our dessert, lost in one another and the romance of the night. As I feed her the final strawberry, a wayward drop of chocolate falls, landing on her bare chest. Both our eyes focus on the delicious bead; on instinct, I lean down and lick it from her skin. When I look up, she’s staring at me with wide eyes.

My hands sit on her waist; I wrap them around her, pulling her hard against my body. We kiss, and it is the most electric kiss of my existence. Her tongue explores my mouth as we reconnect for the first time in years. It’s then I become aware of wetness on my cheeks; when I pull back, tears are running down not only her face but my own.

“I love you, Isabella,” I say truthfully. “I always have. You’re my girl.”

“I know,” she stammers as I feel the last of her walls crumbling. The final barrier that has been keeping me out is falling to allow me passage. “And you’re my boy.”

She stands and then offers me her hand. I take it, she encourages me to stand up beside her.

“What does my bride want now?” I ask as the atmosphere changes from emotional to sexual.

“You,” she whispers. “I want to re-do my wedding night with you.”

Chapter eighteen

Hunter’s Residence, London

Isabella

With Hunter’s strong fingers wrapped around mine, he leads me up the staircase toward the bedrooms. We walk along the corridor silently, our breathing slow and steady. As we pass my bedroom door, he hesitates. I wonder if he is waiting for me to suggest we go inside. When I don’t say anything, he tugs me toward his door.

We stop outside, and he turns to face me, taking both my hands in his. His thumbs run over my knuckles, his bright eyes flit to the door handle then back to me.

“Before we go in, Bella,” he says. “Promise me you’re okay to go through with this.” He lowers himself to his knees, still holding my hands. I pull on his fingers to encourage him to stand, uncomfortable with the gesture, but he stays where he is. “Bella, my love, I want to worship you like I should have all those years ago. Please be okay with this.”

My heart aches with his concern for my well-being, his unspoken inquiry about the situation with my endometriosis. The wary look in his eyes tells me this has been concerning him. The question has been the elephant in the room since it became obvious this was how tonight was going to end.

“I’m fine, Hunter,” I tell him firmly. “You won’t hurt me. The treatment worked. My pain is managed thanks to the doctor you hired. I’ve been living free of the bastard illness for years.”

He rises to his feet, a broad smile spreading over his lips. His face lights up with the good news. The next thing I know, he has scooped me into his arms, thrown open the door, and carried me into his bedroom.

Like years before, we stand in the center of the room. My eyes roam around his private space. It’s not as masculine as I expected it to be for the head of the Irish Mafia. The softness is a welcome surprise. It hints to a side of him that I wonder if anyone has seen since I knew him as a boy, a kindness he keeps well hidden.

Decorated in neutral tones with cream accents, it emits vibes of the outside being inside as light floods the room through large paned windows from the exterior lights. Various plants are scattered around, either on shelves or in pots on the floor. A large writing desk is on one side with a stack of pink envelopes in the corner. A matching sheet of paper laid out ready to write his next letter. I hope he planned to send it to me. Immediately, I speculate on what it could have said.

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