The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(68)

I glanced between Hunter and Gerald, knowing I was missing a very big piece of the puzzle.

Jaw clenched, eyes dead, Hunter stood, turned around, and stalked out of the room. I couldn’t blame him. This house—this family—seemed to purge him whenever he made an attempt to fit in. His father despised him, his brother ridiculed him, and his mother was too weak to stop either of them.

I rose, pressing my fingertips to the table. I could feel all eyes but the Fitzpatrick parents’ on me. Dad, Mom, Sam, and Aisling watched my reaction to Hunter’s meltdown. Even Cillian eyed me, probably curious what other ill-mannered tricks I had up my sleeve.

“I just want you to know one thing.” I pointed at Gerald, feeling my eyes narrow into slits. “When I agreed to this arrangement, I thought I was helping a loving dad guide his son back to the right path. But you’re not loving, and honestly? You’re barely even a dad. You’re a patronizing, bigheaded schmuck. You have no right to be mad at Hunter for turning to booze and sex with random people. He never seems to get any love where he needs it the most—his family. Whatever failure you see in him, be sure to know a big slice of it is your own.”

Without waiting for his reaction, I turned away in the direction Hunter had gone, my veins sizzling with rage. I stomped my way along the wide corridor. It was long and vein-like, twisting here and there. Every time I thought I’d found the farthest part of the floor, I was met with another golden curve decorated by a statue that led to yet another corner. This house was too big to manage. I wondered if Aisling knew every part of it.

At some point, I noticed three granite steps leading to an untouched, heavily decorated family room. All the furniture was angled toward the glass door leading to a beautiful English garden. The door was slightly ajar—on purpose or by design, I’d never know. Without thinking, I pushed the glass door open all the way, stepping outside.

I knew wandering off unannounced after Hunter, whom I’d defended ruthlessly the entire night, looked suspicious, that his father was likely wondering if I, too, had drunk the Hunter Kool-Aid and succumbed to his charm. But I needed to calm myself, far away from the Fitzpatricks. My mother jogged to get rid of the humming energy beneath her flesh. Me? I used my arrow and bow. But I didn’t have them now.

I wanted to ruin something to make myself feel better, even if that something was myself.

The weather had cooled. The chilly breeze coated my bare arms as my heels dug into the damp earth under the lush grass of the backyard. Although calling it a backyard was the understatement of the universe. It was more like an entire meadow, stretched into a barbecue area with an Olympic-sized pool complete with sunbeds, and on the far right, there was some sort of ivy-covered, medieval-looking glass structure. I eyed it, wondering what it could be. I’d already gathered that Gerald Fitzpatrick liked flashing his wealth like a creeper on a subway.

What could be more excessive than a candy bar? Maybe the glass house was where Gerald kept his compassion and sympathy—sealed, locked, and shoved far away from the main property.

It wasn’t in my nature to be nosy, but I wanted to know if Hunter was there. The need to console him clawed at my skin.

I marched to the ivy-laced room, patting it for the door handle. I hoped it wasn’t locked. As I dragged my fingernails along the door, I felt a long, muscular arm stretch behind me, brushing my shoulder. I jumped back, gasping. The hand reached for a secret door handle nestled behind a thick coat of ivy, opening it effortlessly, creating a sliver of space between the door and its frame. An unnatural amount of light poured from the crack. My head twisted back, my blood roaring between my ears, signaling me it was a fight-or-flight kind of situation.

Hunter smiled down at me calmly. “Butterfly garden.”

“It’s exactly like your dad to cage the symbol of freedom in a small, confined room for entertainment purposes,” I muttered.

His eyes twinkled in amusement.

“And it’s hella you to make that kind of statement.”

I shrugged. “I’m not very good at keeping my mouth shut.”

“As you demonstrated at the table.”

“I hope I didn’t make it worse for you.”

“Nothing can make it worse for me, aingeal dian.” His sultry voice wrapped around my body like a snake. He didn’t sound angry or upset. Just sad.

“Where have you been?” I pushed away from him, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Waiting for your ass to figure out my whereabouts. Here, I want to show you something.”

He gave me a slight shove, pushing me into the room. The door closed behind us with a soft click. I blinked, getting used to the artificial light that attacked my retinas.

It was a moist, nearly blistering room, with a rounded see-through ceiling, lots of overhead lighting, and lavish, wild plants winding behind wooden bannisters. They looked like a curious audience behind red velvet ropes. The railings lined a walkway around the room. There were two rustic, arbor-covered benches on either side of the garden and an artificial pond covered with moss, surrounded by heavy gray stones. But the thing that made my knees buckle was the swarm of butterflies fluttering around us. Hundreds of them. Blue and orange. White, green, dotted, and striped, small and large. I followed them with my eyes, momentarily forgetting Hunter was in the room. I twirled in place as I surveyed one particular orange one, adorned with symmetrically perfect black dots. It beat around me happily, and I went very still, like I was getting ready to draw an arrow, my body hardening into stone. The butterfly rested on the tip of my nose, its little wings clapping together as it settled. I crossed my eyes comically to watch it.