Page 49 of Hunter

“It’s okay, Ronan. Follow us to the station.” Hunter gives him a nod, confirming my instruction. Ronan turns and strides off.

Hunter holds my hand as we weave through the London traffic.

“This is a disaster,” I whisper, and Hunter’s eyes flick to mine.

“What is?” He looks completely at ease in here, and it makes me wonder how many police cars he’s sat in over the years. I probably don’t want to know.

“This,” I hiss, throwing my hands up. He retakes my fingers, smiles, and squeezes.

“Bella, it will all be worth it if you give me our son or daughter in nine months.” He chuckles, clearly enjoying the bizarre situation we find ourselves in. “And I’ve been in the back of one of these for worse. At least this time, I was making someone happy.”

Chapter twenty-three

Bloxwich Police Station, London

Hunter

“This is what you call improving your public image?” Harrison snarls as soon as we sit in his car. “Being caught fucking in an ice-skating rink changing room. For fuck’s sake, Hunter.”

The door has barely closed as I climb into the back seat with Isabella when his tirade begins. Damon sits on the passenger side, silent.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Harrison continues to rant, and a whole load of expletives roll off his tongue. I knew he was pissed when he walked into the interview room, but I wasn’t expecting quite the berating I’m receiving. He should know me by now. What’s his fucking problem?

“I don’t believe it was the cells in his brain that were activated,” Damon pipes up. Even turned away from me, I know he’s smirking to himself about his joke.

Ignoring them both, I shuffle across the back seat, leaning over Isabella who is sitting still, quietly listening to the men in front. I pull her belt across, sliding my hand under the strap so it lays flat over her chest. The buckle clips into place with a click, and I drop a kiss on her cheek. A small moan escapes her lips, and I know she is still as turned on as I am, even though the events of the past few hours have been somewhat nerve racking.

“Put your fucking seat belt on,” Harrison says, turning in his seat to look at me. He looks just as pissed off as he did when he arrived to argue why we shouldn’t be charged with public indecency. Luckily, between his understanding of the law and my bank balance, we were able to come to an arrangement with the police officers on staff.

“Patience, Waite,” I tell him. “I’ve always been told since I was a boy that I should ensure the safety of those closest to me first. I am securing my wife in her seat.”

“She’s a fully grown adult.” Harrison’s focus moves to Isabella, his eyes run from the top of her head down her body and back up. She squirms uncomfortably under his stare. It’s as if she wants the world to open and eat her whole. I squeeze her hand in solidarity as I get myself sorted.

“That’s enough,” I warn him, his prissy attitude beginning to grate. Harrison can always be a little icy, especially when his plans are interrupted by something I’ve done, but never to this extent. He is uncharacteristically being a dickwad.

“A fucking changing room,” he mutters to Isabella, rolling his eyes. “Have some class.”

That’s when my resolve snaps, his direct insult toward my wife igniting a fire I never knew was there. All I can describe as intense burning fury engulfs my body, and I’m out of seat with my knife across his throat before he’s turned back to face the wheel. Damon straightens but doesn’t make any sudden movements; he sits waiting for someone to make the next move.

“Friend or not,” I growl in Harrison’s ear. “No one disrespects my wife without consequence.”

My knife tip sits at one ear, my arm hooked around his head from behind. Harrison goes tense in my arms, pushing the back of his head against the headrest. No one in the car breathes. The men know that when I’m pissed, I can be unpredictable. It’s a personality trait I am always sure to accentuate. People are wary of you if you are either mad or bad. I try to convey both.

Eventually, Isabella’s hand on my arm refocuses my attention. Her fingers squeeze my forearm, gentle at first then with increased pressure as I leave the blade in position. Her touch has an unexpectedly calming effect.

“Hunter,” she says, softly. “It’s okay. He didn’t mean…”

“Yes, he fucking did, and I’ll not have it. He was being an asshole, as if him and his wife have never been in any compromising positions. As if he’s fucking perfect.” The definitive sound of Ireland getting stronger, along with my temper.

“Violet and I have never been trying to improve our reputation,” Harrison spits, clearly as furious at this situation as I am. “Yet again, I’m called out to sort out your shit show. Perhaps I’m fed up with cleaning up your messes.”

“That’s what I pay you for,” I remind him.

Isabella, once again, squeezes my arm then tugs. She unclips her seatbelt, sliding over the leather so our thighs touch. Pushing herself forward, she reaches between the chairs until her fingers lay over mine on the knife handle. They wrap around them and encourage me to move the weapon away from my friend. I am highly aware that due to her position she is now lodged between two men she doesn’t know, attempting to stop me killing someone I care about in a police station parking lot.

“Hunter,” she says, again, this time in a pleading tone. “This isn’t a necessary or a healthy reaction. If you can’t control your temper, we can’t…”

“We can’t what?” Immediately, my body reverts to fight mode when I think she is trying to corner me. She doesn’t back down, her hand remaining on mine, never wavering. A glance at her tells me all I need to know; her inner strength is mesmerizing. Her dark eyes stare back challenging. She won’t back down. “I don’t respond well to threats, Bella.”

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