Page 155 of Reverie

While the press thinks we’re going to Costa Rica for our honeymoon, which is where all documentation says we are to land, the reality is we landed at a small airstrip in Cuba under a different call number from the one we departed with, and took a smaller jet over to Martinique.

We flew into Forte-de-France, settling on a private airstrip, where we took the private helicopter that Hunter piloted to ferry us to our next destination: his yacht in the Caribbean.

Hunter and I exited the helicopter hand-in-hand, not letting each other go as we descended from the ship’s helipad.

Settled into the room as the sun falls past the waterline, Hunter is silent as I take time to put our bags away and start up the shower. I’m told weonlyhave a skeleton crew on board: twenty mariners, the chef, and the captain—so we’re on our own for most things except piloting the vessel and our meals.

We’re roughing it, if one could “rough it” on a two-hundred-million-dollar super yacht.

“Come on, H,” I say softly, pulling Hunter off the bed and toward the shower. It’s a massive en suite—much larger than I’dexpect for a boat—and Hunter allows me to strip him before I remove all my clothes and guide us into the shower.

The warm water must shock him a bit from his stupor, but he still doesn’t say anything. I realize that he’s avoiding my eyes.

I know what this is—where he is. The emotional onslaught of retelling the most horrifying, traumatic moments of one’s life can tax survivors in many different ways. For me, my compulsions tend to get worse, and I perseverate over little things to an unhealthy level. Usually, these effects are temporary, thanks to many years of therapy and meds.

For Hunter, however, it’s clear that he’s dissociating—withdrawing into some safe space in his brain where he doesn’t have to confront the terrors on the outside.

I get that too.

So while the water cascades over us, I bring him against my body and hug him. There’s nothing overtly sexual about the move. I just want to provide him comfort and give him a physical counterpoint to anchor him to the now.

I want to help remind his body that he’s here with me—not back on that veranda at Isla Cara.

I force myself not to tense as my brain spins over all the horrors he’s faced in his life.

I thoroughly understand now why he ran away. I understand why he tried to shield August from his father’s attention. I thought there was an edge of paranoia on his part before, but now? I can imagine the constant anxiety he must have felt over keeping August safe.

And then when his father managed to hurt me….

I squeeze him a bit tighter.

“I love you, Winter. So fucking much,” he says in a low voice. His body begins to shake in a fine tremor, and I know that he’s finally, finally crying. He didn’t shed a tear as he told me about the assault, witnessing his mother’s brutal attack, or any of theother atrocities that he experienced under the hand of Benjamin Brigham.

But here, in this shower, Hunter breaks down. And I hold him through it.

When the water starts to cool and Hunter begins to shiver, I turn the taps off and pull us into the main bathroom.

“Let’s eat some dinner,” I say, bending over to dry my legs. When I stand, I wrap my towel around my body while Hunter stands silent as a statue. Water drips off the ends of his hair, but he doesn’t even shiver from the cold.

His gaze fixes on me, and within it, there’s so much heat.

Still, I try to keep my movements efficient, and I help him dry off. I run the towel over his wet hair, moving down over his shoulders and chest.

When I lower into a crouch to dry his legs, he puts a steely hand on my shoulder. My head snaps up, and I stare transfixed as his jaw ticks. I try to ignore his erection rising near my cheek.

“What do you want me to do, H?” I whisper. The look in his gaze darkens, and when his hand tightens more on my shoulder, I let out an involuntary gasp.

At the sound, he blinks once, then again and again in rapid succession.

With an exhale, his shoulders collapse, and he lets go.

“Hey,” I say, standing. “It’s okay.” I wrap the towel around his waist.

“We need to talk some more before anything else happens, Sunbeam,” he rasps out. I offer him a smile, aiming to be reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” I say back. For the first time in several hours, I see the ghost of a smile cross his face.

“You’re amazing, you know that, right?” His words are as soft as his hand at the back of my neck. “But we need to set some boundaries.”