Hunted

Marcus

Chapter 12

"Once you lose your Queen, you're useless," Anderson mutters, snatching his Queen from the board with a smug grin. "But it's the pawns you should keep an eye on. They have a way of slipping through when you least expect it."

I twirl the King between my fingers, watching it spin before shifting it on the board, but my mind's far from this game. I'd gone back to town, retrieved the footage from Jayden. The bastard couldn't be trusted with anything. I'd seen what I needed to see. Watched it over and over. I should've felt something for Naomi—maybe guilt, maybe regret. But I didn't. Instead, there was something else. Darker. I wanted to see her break, just a little more.

Anderson moves his Queen, trapping my King. "I love when you're distracted. It gives me all the chances I need to see how incompetent you really are."

I lean back in my chair, eyes narrowing at him. "Why are you here?"

He crosses one leg over the other, his smirk growing colder. "Let's cut the shit. You've spent three years dragging my name through the mud, and I want my reputation back. I don't care if you were innocent."

"You know damn well I didn't do it."

Anderson shrugs, his indifference almost casual. "That's not my concern. There's a party at the Cristenson estate—a big one. They're the key to rebuilding what you destroyed. I need their trust, their endorsement, and you're going to make sure I get it."

I raise an eyebrow, my fingers tightening around the couch. "And why the hell would I help you?"

He leans forward, his voice dropping to a whisper, cold and sharp. "Because you don't have a choice. Not anymore."

I push myself up from the couch, ignoring his presence. My steps are deliberate as I walk to the white wooden door and yank it open, the creak echoing through the room. I motion toward the exit, my voice cold. "Your hour's up."

Kicking my old man out is nothing new. Hell, I've been doing it since I was a kid. Since the day. Since the screams, the chaos, the blood. So much blood. I can still see it, feel the heat of the fire licking at my skin, hear the dull thud of a head smashing into concrete.

Anderson doesn't flinch, just looks at me for a second longer than necessary, like he's sizing me up. Then he gets to his feet and steps toward me, his voice low. "You never learn, do you? Still making the same mistakes."

With that, he walks out, leaving the weight of his words behind like smoke.

I slam the door shut, pulling my phone from my pocket, fingers moving fast as I type a message to Vaughn.

ME: Change of plans. We're not burning the house.

Then I switch to Jeremy's texts.

ME: I want every single detail on her finances. Now.

The exterior of my apartment is something people envy. Tall glass windows reflecting the city lights, a pristine white facade that stands out against the surrounding buildings. It's the kind of place that screams power, wealth—a fortress in the middle of the chaos below. The kind of place you can vanish in if you want to.

I head to the bedroom, where my laptop waits, glowing faintly on the edge of my bed. Anderson's little interruption pissed me off more than it should have. Ruined my flow. But there's always another way to take back control.

I open my laptop, logging into Instagram—her account. Hacking into Naomi's profile was too easy. People always think passwords are safe, but they never are. I click on "Change Password," and with a few keystrokes, I make it mine. Simple. Clean.

Then I start wiping her out.

I delete every photo, every carefully crafted highlight, every trace of her smile. Every moment she thought was worth sharing—gone. Vanished.

Naomi might not obsess over her social media like she did when she was seventeen, but that doesn't matter. Now, she has nothing. The one platform she held onto is gone. And that's just the beginning.

I want her erased from existence before I'm done with her. Wiped clean from every part of this world. She didn't give me the chance to love her—not before she tore everything apart. Tore me apart. Now, love isn't even on the table.

Now, it's only about revenge.

I snap the laptop shut, my jaw tight. The second I sit back, my phone buzzes. Vaughn. Of course.

VAUGHN: You sure know how to fuck up a good time.

ME: That house means nothing to her. No point.

He responds almost instantly, the guy's as relentless as ever.

VAUGHN: Whatever. Do your thing, but I'm still burning it down. I'm fucking bored.

I leave him on read, the buzzing of my phone an afterthought. I toss it aside like it's worthless and grab my laptop, flipping it open. My fingers find their way to one of the old pictures I've kept—her. The same one she sent me four years ago. It was the first time she did something like that, right after I stood up for her, defended her when I didn't have to. My friends, my brother—none of them should've been there that day. I didn't want them to see. That was supposed to be for me.

But she sent it anyway. She'd changed after that. Got braver, or maybe just more pathetic. I wonder what the hell was going through her head when she sent this. The picture pops up on my screen—her in that pink net bra that barely does anything to cover her nipples. A finger resting against her left breast like it's supposed to tease me.

My cock hardens immediately, the same way it did back then. No one else does that to me—just her. She's become something else entirely. A fixation, an object I can't get rid of, a mix of desire and destruction that's been crawling under my skin since the day she tried to play bold.

It's not about her body. It's about owning her.

I grab my phone and go to her contacts and send her the photo.

ME: Happy Birthday, baby.