The Hunter (Boston Belles 1)

Hunter took a glass of wine from the tray, offering it to me, before plucking one for himself. He was walking on thin ice—stomping on it, more like—and I couldn’t blame him. The air was thick with aggression, and he needed to save face. “Do I think I can? Certainly. Do I want to? No, that would be boring. Care if I treat myself to a glass of wine?”

“I do, actually. You are nineteen.” Gerald sniffed his wine, swirling it in its glass.

“Yes, an age when it is legal to drink in every western country save the United States.”

“Which is, unfortunately, where you are currently situated.” Cillian grinned at his younger brother.

“Could’ve fooled me. This place feels a lot like hell,” Hunter mumbled.

I jumped into the conversation headfirst, wanting to avert the looming family crisis.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I can assure you Hunter hasn’t had a lick of alcohol since we moved in together. He is the designated driver. I’m sure one glass of wine isn’t going to hinder his progress.”

“Are you that lax on him with other rules, too?” Gerald frowned at me from across the table.

I smiled, batting my eyelashes. Forget the fork, I’m throwing the steak knife at him, and I’m aiming for his heart.

“I’ve never been accused of being lax before, sir.”

“I’m sure you were not accused of anything, sweetheart,” Dad said through clenched teeth, staring Gerald down.

Gerald raised his hands in the air, backing off. “Clearly. I was merely teasing.”

“Tease someone your age.” Sam flashed a smile that didn’t match the danger lying behind it.

We had some kind of raw fish as a starter, followed by bread, cheese, and various tapas dishes. Then came the main course: steak and whipped mashed potatoes with butter and chives, with shavings of a type of mushroom that cost hundreds by the ounce. Mom seemed to hit it off with Jane conversation-wise, I talked to Aisling, and Dad, Gerald, and Sam discussed business, which left Cillian and Hunter to try to form some kind of a tête-à-tête. I half-listened to them while discussing colleges with Aisling.

“How is Syllie’s wife doing?” Hunter asked.

I’d noticed that when provoked about his antics, Hunter never missed an opportunity to flip his family the finger, but when he was actually talking to them, he walked on eggshells.

Cillian shrugged, cradling his wine glass and staring through his brother like he didn’t exist. “Unfortunately, I don’t keep tabs on women’s health unless they frequent my bed.”

“And you speak of my manners,” Hunter said tightly, throwing a large piece of steak into his mouth and chewing.

“I have the refinery to care for. Syllie is a very resourceful person. I’m sure he can help his wife with whatever she’s dealing with.”

“Resourceful enough to hurt us?” Hunter asked, arching an eyebrow.

Aisling was telling me about the merits of going to an out-of-state college, but I was drawn to the conversation between the brothers.

“Probably.” Cillian yawned, picking up a blueberry and examining it coldly.

I saw what he saw, what he liked about the tiny fruit—that little crown each perfect blueberry had that made it regal.

“Yet you wouldn’t back me up in front of Athair.”

“Correct.”

“Why, pray tell, is that?”

Cillian considered him through narrowed eyes. They’d fit on a snake better than they did on a human being. Cillian was gorgeous, his colors warm against the iciness of the rest of him. The older Fitzpatrick brother always looked a step away from gracefully dipping a sword into your chest and watching you draw your last breath with a pretty smile.

“Because you didn’t have sufficient evidence and you reeked of hysteria. Both made your case weak.”

Hunter said nothing, watching his sibling under a deep-set frown.

“Did you know that the word hysteria derives from the Latin word for uterus?” Cillian asked conversationally, dissecting his steak meticulously into pieces the exact same size, a la American Psycho. “In ancient Greece, it was believed that a wandering and discontented uterus was to blame for that dreaded female ailment of excessive emotion.” He put his fork down and stared at what he’d carved on his plate.

I watched him behind the diamond-studded rim of my wine glass.

Cillian’s hawk-like eyes and panther gestures gave me violent, uncomfortable shivers. He made me feel uneasy, unequipped—like the dirt beneath his shiny loafers, and he hadn’t even tried all that hard to provoke these emotions in me. I didn’t envy the people he actively hated.

“Do you speak Latin, Cillian?” I asked, taking a bite of my steak.

Aisling stopped talking, shooting me a do-you-want-to-die? horrified expression. The rest of the table fell silent, the tension hovering above our heads like a thick, dark cloud.

“A fair amount. Any particular reason you’d care?” He popped a piece of steak into his mouth.

He’d requested his steak so raw, so bloody, the juicy meat made the corners of his perfect lips glisten.