Hunted

Naomi

Chapter 3
Five years ago.

I race down the stairs, my heart pounding wildly. He should have been here by now.

I pull up my jacket, nearly slipping on the cold, tiled floor. Pressing my back against the living room door, I peer through the crack. His uncle is already here, but he isn't, and that sight sends a wave of crushing disappointment over me. I try to steady my thoughts, forcing myself to stay hopeful.

My mind is consumed by thoughts of him. It feels like I can't breathe without seeing his face. I fidget with the hem of my jacket, torn between asking his father about him and retreating.

With a resigned sigh, I head to the kitchen, where Sam is focused on baking a pie. I enjoy making pies with her, especially for Marcus. But he seldom indulges in sweets; his rigorous training keeps him in peak condition for soccer.

Swallowing my frustration, I approach her. "What's the occasion?" I ask, nodding toward the pie.
Sam looks up with a warm, slightly mischievous smile. Her eyes, though crinkled with age, still hold a spark of youthful mischief. "Your father didn't mention it? Jason and your father are finally burying the hatchet after years of animosit."

My heart skips a beat. My father and Marcus's father reconciling? That means I might get closer to Marcus.

"Dad didn't mention anything," I admit. He seldom shares anything with me.

Sam chuckles softly, setting the pie tray into the oven. "And what would you do with that information? Anyway, want to help me decorate it?" She gestures toward the pie with a playful twinkle in her eye.

I force a smile, eager to make the pie perfect for Marcus, hoping it might coax him into taking a bite one day.

"Sure," I say, rolling up my jacket sleeves and washing my hands. "But why is Marcus's uncle here?"

Sam shrugs, wiping her hands with a towel. "Chess," she replies with a knowing glance.

Dad always pushed me toward chess from a young age. I hated it. The complexity of the game felt like it was tearing my brain apart, but I'd sit and watch Marcus and Dad play for hours. Even though I didn't understand the game, I couldn't tear my eyes away from their intense matches.

One day, driven by a desperate need to connect with Marcus, I asked my friend who was a chess prodigy to teach me. I hoped to impress Marcus, but the game still eluded me. Frustrated, I gave up and turned to cooking instead—a cliché, but it was a way to feel useful. Which, I admit, still hasn't worked out for me.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from my thoughts. I pull it out and read the messages from our group chat called Threesome:

ARIELLA: Gear me out

ARIELLA: Hear*

ARIELLA: We kidnap him

TINA: No

ARIELLA: Meet up at Hyacinth? I look like a vogue model

ME: Kidnap who?

TINA: Yes

TINA: Her stalker

ARIELLA: I can sell him too

ME: You have a stalker?

ARIELLA: For a year now dude where the hell have u been?

TINA: Busy with Marcus ofc
ME: That's not true

ARIELLA: I hate to admit my stalker is worse than Nao

TINA: im scared

ME: im not a stalker!

ARIELLA: Hyacinth at 8 pm ladies, don't forget!

ARIELLA: Marcus is such a weird ass name btw

I roll my eyes at their texts and slip my phone back into my pocket. Looking up, I realize Sam is gone, but my attention locks onto the figure in front of me.

Marcus leans casually against the white marble table, his gaze fixed on me as he picks at the cut fruit in a bowl with a fork. The sight of him sends a wave of dry dread through my throat.

"Hey..." I manage to whisper.

Marcus frequents this place often. Despite the tension between our fathers, Jason never interfered with Marcus's visits here. He's so comfortable it's as if this place belongs to him.

Marcus chews his fruit slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "That jacket doesn't suit you," he says bluntly, gesturing with his fork. Whatever happened to hey, how are you, I missed you?

The sting of his words cuts deep. I'd worn this jacket hoping to catch his eye, but now his disdain feels like a slap. "So what? I like it," I snap, crossing my arms defensively.

He shrugs, indifferent. "Just thought you'd want to know."

I try to change the subject, "When did you get here?"

"About five minutes ago." He nods toward the oven with his fork. "Sam said to take the pie out after two minutes, by the way."

My gaze darts to the oven. "Shit," I mutter, rushing to put on gloves and yank the pie out before it burns.

I set the tray down on the table, biting my lip as I feel a desperate urge to stay close to him. It's almost unbearable, and I'm throbbing so hard, I feel the need to be near him. I shake my head, trying to push away the unsettling thoughts.

Swallowing hard, I say, "Dad and your uncle are playing chess."

"I know," Marcus replies, taking another bite of fruit without looking up from the bowl.

"Are you going to join them?"

"Can't. I have practice."

"Oh."

An awkward silence hangs between us, thick with unspoken words. I force myself to break it, "Are you planning to leave after graduation?" I didn't want to ask, didn't want to know. It feels like a cruel twist of fate, as if I want to lock him away with me so he can't leave.

"It's pretty clear."

My lips press together, disappointment settling heavily. The thought of him leaving gnaws at me, a hollow ache I can't ignore.

To distract myself, I pull the whipped cream from the freezer and begin decorating the pie. I focus on the creamy swirls, trying to ignore the growing unease as I imagine the sweet, apple aroma.

Despite my best efforts, I feel Marcus's gaze drilling into me. "Want to try some?" I manage to ask, my voice trembling.

"No," he whispers, but his proximity catches me off guard. I turn to find him inches away. Before I can react, he grabs my jacket and yanks it down. His hand slides under my pants, and his other hand locks around my waist, pulling me tightly against him. His breath is hot and uneven against my neck. "Much better," he murmurs.

I freeze, a jolt of shock mingled with unwanted arousal coursing through me. My arms instinctively wrap around him, my heart pounding erratically. My face burns with heat, spreading to my neck as I press closer. I crave his warmth, his scent, desperate for him to be even nearer.

I bite my lip, eyes shut tight, as I grind against him, my body acting on its own. Silent whimpers escape me, begging for more. But it's not enough. Frustration surges within me—it's never enough. I need him deeper, more intense.

Before I can push further, he shoves me away, stepping back to resume his casual posture. He picks up the fork, eating the fruit as if nothing happened.

Embarrassment floods over me, suffocating my breath. My face burns with shame. Why did I let it get this far? I try to steady myself, swallowing hard.

"Meet me at the amusement park tonight," he says, not looking at me. "Seven o'clock."

My mind races, completely oblivious to my plans with friends later. The thrill of his command makes me giddy.