Hunted

Marcus

Chapter 8

I step into the room, holding back a smirk as I see her laid out on the sofa, naked, sucking ice cream off her fingers like she's putting on a show. Legs spread wide, like she knew the exact second I'd walk in.

I keep my hands in my pockets, taking my time. I'm not hard—not even close. Nothing tempts me anymore. Not even her.

I walk over to the sleek marble counter, pouring a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the modern penthouse—clean lines, black leather couches, floor-to-ceiling windows showing off the city below. Cold, expensive. Perfect.

I turn back, staring at her sprawled on the bed. A part of me, honestly, wishes it was someone else—Naomi. But the other part? It wants to hang her up like a piece of art, make her into something permanent, something mine.

I walk over to her, my hand brushing her bottom lip. It's so pink and full. She leans into it, her eyes tracking me as her short blonde hair does little to cover her breasts. I press my thumb into her mouth, forcing it deep, eliciting a low, guttural groan from her.

I watch her intently, waiting to see what she'll do. Will she suck on it? Lick it? Maybe she'll get daring and try to take my whole hand. I like it when she follows orders, when a woman shows some fire instead of just lying there. I want her to be bold, to do everything with an edge, without hesitation or questions. That's what makes them fuckable.

I shove her back against the couch, her giggle cutting through the room. I don't bother looking at her. I walk past, heading for the window, the city lights glowing in the distance. My thoughts are stuck on Naomi—always Naomi. It's like a curse, one I can't shake off. Sometimes, I wonder what actually goes through that shallow little head of hers when she's around me. Probably nothing, just like everyone else.

When we were kids, she was ten and I was twelve, I thought I'd like her. She was perfect, the kind of girl you wanted to be around. Eye candy. But somewhere along the way, that sweetness turned sour. She became an eyesore. And yet, here I am, still wanting her in my bed, still craving the moment I tear her apart again, until she doesn't even know who the fuck she is anymore.

"You know," Hailey's voice pulls me back, dripping with that sweetness, "it's rude to make a woman wait like this." She lets out a soft moan. "If you're teasing me, it's working."

"I told you I was going to be busy tonight," I mutter, not even bothering to look at her.

She laughs, a low, teasing sound that grates on my nerves. "That just makes it more fun," she purrs, stepping closer, standing behind me. I feel her grab my hand and guide it down between her legs, to her soaked pussy. Her breath hitches, a soft moan slipping out. "You didn't even have to do anything," she whispers, voice dripping with need. "And yet... I'm soaked. I hate you for this."

I slam her against the window, the glass rattling from the impact. She lets out a squeal, her body jolting as my hand smacks her ass hard. "Maybe stick around and watch something with me tonight," I growl, my voice rough and laced with dark amusement.

I pull back, not giving her a second glance as I walk over to the bedside table. This wasn't meant for anyone else to see, but now... the thought of showing her? That sick thrill crawls up my spine.

Grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV, scrolling through the video options, the tension thick in the air. My lips twist into a filthy grin when I find the video.

"You know who she is?" I ask, slowly turning to face Hailey. The playful look on her face vanishes the moment her eyes lock onto the screen. There, naked and tied up, writhing on the floor, is her friend, Naomi Moore. Her muffled cries, the pathetic squirming—everything about it oozes helplessness.

I watch Hailey's expression shift from shock to horror. "Oh, look at you," I sneer, enjoying every second of her reaction. "That's not the reaction I was expecting."

Her voice snaps, anger creeping in. "What the fuck are you doing with her?"

I stride back over, grabbing her wrist and yanking her down onto the bed. Leaning over her, I press my weight into her. "Just having a little fun," I hiss, eyes gleaming. "I'm thinking you'll join in. Maybe I'll make you scream louder than she did. How's that sound, huh?"

"I'm getting out of here," she snaps, her voice trembling.

I don't bother responding, just let a slow smile spread across my lips. She's not going anywhere. She doesn't realize it yet, but the way her hands shake, the way her eyes dart toward the door and then back to me—it's obvious. She's staying.

I want to make her cry. I don't really know why, but something tells me she'll cry in a way that's... pretty. I like pretty things. And I like them more when they cry.

I pinch her cheek, hard, and tug at her hair. She yelps, her small voice breaking, and it's like music. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, wet, and for a moment, that face—twisted in pain—burns itself into my mind. I want more of it.

"Ow!" she whimpers, rubbing at her cheek. She blinks at me, her eyes glimmering with something like awe. I like that too. I want her to always look at me like that.

"You're finally coming out," she says with a soft smile, standing up from the grass. "Do you wanna play?"

"Why are you crying?" I ask, ignoring her.

Her face falls, and she wipes the tears from her cheeks. I hate that. She shouldn't wipe them away. She looks better with them there. "Daddy scolded me. He said I'm like my mommy."

"What's your mommy like?"

"I don't know. But daddy says she's a bad word."

"He's not wrong. All women are," I say, watching her closely.

She frowns, a deep line forming between her brows. "That's not true. I'm not."

I lean in, staring into her tear-streaked face. "You will be."

A fucking liar is what she is. It runs in her genes, guess I should've known earlier.

Now she's here, exactly where I wanted her. Back to square one. Back where it all started. Four fucking years, and now, this moment is mine. I wonder if she'll still want me after what I'm about to do. If she can look at me the same after tonight. Doubtful—but that's the point, isn't it?

I slip my hands into my pockets, eyes fixed on the screen. Jayden's got his fist tangled in Naomi's hair, his grip tight as he squeezes her cheeks. Her nipples aren't hard. They never are when I'm not there. But I'm hard. Always. Every fucking time, just from thinking about her. I'll ruin her, worse than what she did to me.