Page 172 of Reverie

No, not unconscious. Dead.

And that’s when I know there are more than myself, the guards, and the two dead shopkeepers in this room.

“I’m saving your goddamn life,” a familiar voice intones.

And as soon as I register it, I spin around, narrowing my eyes.

“You,” I hiss. Blind with rage, I launch myself toward the man who tried to destroy my life all those weeks ago.

TWENTY-FIVE

HUNTER

Iregret letting Winter go as soon as the boat leaves my line of sight.

But because Winter needed the freedom and I’m unable to deny her anything, I gave her what she wanted and sent her off to explore.

This is an exercise in releasing control.

Sitting on the deck with Misha and Amelia on a video call, I allow myself to fall into a state of hypervigilance as my gaze flits between the tracker app I have on the encoded phone Max prepped and the horizon.

She’ll be back within the hour. Breathe.

“Are we boring you, Brigham?” Misha asks. His tone is both amused and exasperated.

I shift in the seat, looking at him and my mom on the screen.

My mom.

She smiles brightly, and I note that her nose is a little red.

“Have you been spending time in the garden?” I ask her. She looks a little taken aback by the question, but still, she says, “I have.”

“Are you wearing your sunscreen?”

She smiles even wider. “Isn’t that my line?” she asks, and I chuckle.

Any time I went to Isla Cara, Mom would give me a tight hug and tell me to wear my sunscreen every day. It was our thing.

I shrug. “Maybe it’s time to re-apply. You’re getting a little burned,” I tell her.

With atskand a good-natured eye roll, she leaves her seat, going out of sight of the camera.

It’s just Misha and me on the line, and the wind is my only companion.

I return my gaze to the shore.

“Plan on living, Hunter.”

I turn toward Misha’s image, giving him a wry look. “Pardon?”

He chuffs, the sound close to amusement for the pakhan. “You have a bit of martyr in you, Brigham, but don’t throw yourself into the shark-infested waters just to absolve yourself of guilt. Plan on living to be an old man with your wife and your kids by your side.”

Misha paints a pretty picture, one I desperately want—and more than anything, I want peace.

Peace for Winter. Peace for August.

Peace for me.