Page 8 of Reverie

“Y’all had all this time to talk and you didn’t tell him, Misha?”

Misha inhales. “Blyad,” he mutters under his breath.

“We wanted to ease you into this, Hunter. You’ve had such a terrible evening,” Amelia says, and Hunter just stares.

And stares.

And trembles.

Hunter takes several steps back until he’s close enough for me to grab his hand, and I pry the knife from his clenched fingers and secure the blade. He doesn’t acknowledge my movements.

Amelia moves back into my line of vision, and the stress of this situation causes my brain to buzz.

“Hunter, there’s a lot we need to talk about,” his mother chimes in. “Can we talk?”

“Talk aboutwhat?” Hunter stares at Luna as he speaks, ignoring his mom.

Luna taps her foot and runs her hands through her dirty blonde hair. When she flips it, she looks like a fair version of Lara Croft—only short and mixed.

I turn back to Misha. Then I see it.

His hair is several shades lighter than Hunter’s. There are wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes, showing the differences in their ages. But that’s it: His eyes.

Side-by-side, his eyes are identical to Amelia Brigham’s…just like Hunter’s and Ella’s.

“What the actual fuck…” Hunter mutters, taking one step and then another away from the group. Amelia, who stands near Misha dressed in all black and with tactical gear strapped to her body, looks like a female version of the Ukrainian to her left.

What the actual holy hell is happening right now?

“Hunter,” I say, but I don’t complete the sentence. I don’t know what the fuck to say.

This is all going to shit. Fast.

The crush of a new set of tires on the gravel signals Leo’s arrival.

At the sound, Hunter’s gaze returns to Misha, and I watch as he takes in all of him.

I do the same, and with Hunter’s mother standing next to the Ukrainian, it’s easy to see the resemblance.

A muscle in Hunter’s jaw twitches as he grinds his teeth.

Leo exits the passenger side of the blacked-out Suburban almost before the driver has the vehicle in park. He looks ragged—his usually perfect hair falls in messy hanks over his brows and his shirt is untucked from his slacks.

Hunter keeps his eyes fixed on Misha as he says, “Is my sister with you?”

Leo pauses, looking at Hunter, and I notice his eyes are bloodshot. “H, what?—”

“Is. My. Sister. With. You?” he grits out.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Get her out of here. And don’t let her see the bitch over there.”

I whip my head toward Hunter’s mother at the sound of her gasp. Pity washes over me when I see the tears on her cheeks.

I turn back to Leo, who stares slack-jawed at the older woman.

“H, is that your?—”