Page 95 of Reverie

And when I say, “I love you, Hunter,” he groans long and low and comes without ever changing the cadence of his movements.

We breathe together for several minutes as Hunter rests inside me, and even when he softens, he doesn’t pull out.Instead, he keeps me close as if he’s as reluctant to add space between us as I am.

“I need to pee,” I say, breaking the spell. He laughs, more of a snort, and says, “Of course, baby,” and rolls away from me.

I pad over to the bathroom, naked, and hold onto the euphoria that we’ve just experienced.

Why can’t it be like this? Why do we have to be in this space where everything is so fucked up?

And for how long?

When I wash my hands, Hunter stands behind me and wraps his arms around my middle. One of his hands rests near the side of my breast, and he rubs dizzying circles around the curve of it. He leans down to kiss my neck, and my eyes slide closed as the warm water runs over my fingers.

“I need to know that we are okay, Winter,” he says against my throat.

I take a deep breath. Are we okay? My heart and body say yes, but my mind is conflicted.

I look at him through our reflections in the mirror. My Hunter, the love of my life, the man who consumes me.

“You and I are always all right,” I say.

Yet the words echo in my brain.

Consumes me.

Consumes me.

…What will there be left of me once he’s done?

I feel myself begin to spiral as anxiety stabs its hooks into my psyche, but I’m broken out of it by loud banging on the door.

Hunter is the first to jump into action, pushing me further into the bathroom and tossing a robe my way from the back of the door as he rushes out.

Banging starts up again, and after tying the belt of the robe in a tight knot, I exit the bathroom to see a shirtless Hunterstanding in front of the open door with his pants pulled up but unbuttoned.

“Leo?” I call out from my position between the rooms, but no one acknowledges me.

“How bad is it?” Hunter asks. His voice holds a note of dread so acute I feel it as a physical thing.

Leo’s naturally tan face is pale, but at Hunter’s question, it turns grim.

TWELVE

HUNTER

When Leo and I purchased the building in Chevy Chase, it marked a new era for BwP. No longer were we the scrappy startup working out of leased space that we quickly outgrew. We were the big boys now—a full-fledged organization.

Staring at the rubble of the building, tracking the flow of smoke and steam and dust as it rises to the sky, causes a curious sort of bittersweet grief to rush through me.

The sweet: I’m free from BwP in a way. With our main headquarters in rubble, we have a solid excuse to shut down. Insurance will pay out; the government will step in.

We can get rid of Panacea as if it never existed.

But the bitter? Four hundred and thirty-two people are dead from the explosion. That’s not just bitter. It’s downright vile.

Walking next to me, Leo answers all the questions the law enforcement officers and detectives throw his way. I stay silent.

Silent and complicit.