Hunted

Marcus

Chapter 14

Don't forgive her. Never her.

That's what I keep repeating, telling myself, over and over again. Every time I think about what she did to me, it makes my blood burn like fire in my veins. But every time I look at her—fragile, broken, trembling—I get the urge to stop whatever I'm doing. Even though I don't feel remorse anymore.

I've convinced myself she deserves everything that's coming to her. But when I saw that scratch mark on her wrist, and the way her hands shook when she tried to hide it, something inside me twisted. It shouldn't matter to me. Nothing about her should matter. But it does, and I hate myself for it.

She's here now, right in front of me—vulnerable, afraid. I could destroy her with just a word. Yet, I'm holding back, when every instinct in me screams to finish what I started.

Her eyes, once so trusting, now look at me like I'm the devil himself. Like she can't believe what I've become. It's almost funny—how quickly she forgets her part in all of this. How she pretends she's innocent.

Hypocrite.

She should be scared. Hell, she should be terrified.
I glance at her wrist, the one I had to bandage. She didn't ask me to, and I didn't do it for her. But seeing that raw wound, seeing her pain—it hurt me, and I don't know why.

But this look in her eyes—this mix of defiance and terror—it's not unfamiliar. It's the same look she gave me that day, when she still thought she could trust me. Only now, it's worse. Now, there's no one else to blame but me. And what happens next? It'll be all mine.

I lean back against the wall, watching as she moves through the room, her eyes lingering on everything like she's seeing it for the first time all over again.
Nostalgia, regret—whatever's going through her head, I don't care. Her house, her sanctuary, still stands, but I'm about to strip it all away.

"Let's start with the basics," I say, flicking the ash from my cigarette, the words cold and deliberate.

"You'll transfer ownership of the property to me."

She freezes mid-step, her back still to me, but I can see the shift in her breathing. She's catching on. I take a slow drag, the smoke curling in the air between us.

"That includes all the two lands your father previously owned and your financial assets," I continue, the weight of my words settling like a noose tightening around her neck.

She finally turns, her eyes locking onto mine, a mixture of disbelief and dread flickering in them. The white dress she's wearing catches the sunlight perfectly, making her look almost angelic—too pure for a place like this.

Her lips part, quivering slightly as she responds, "No. My property? First my mother, and now you're taking away everything I have left?" The pain in her voice is palpable, an echo of desperation that cuts through the tension in the room.

"I didn't take your mother," I reply, though the words feel hollow, a truth wrapped in the layers of our tangled past.

"Fuck you, Marcus! I know you did," she retorts, fury igniting her eyes. The fire within her is both infuriating and compelling.

"I would like to say that I care about your opinions, but that's not the case. I need all of it," I state, stepping closer, my presence looming over her. It's a calculated move, designed to intimidate, and it works.

"You have no need for my property. You're not broke," she snaps back, her voice laced with defiance, even as the tremor in her hands betrays her fear.

"And I refuse to be," I reply, my tone unwavering. "You have two options: either you hand it over, sign the necessary papers, and give it to me willingly, or I will extract it from you by force." The weight of my words hangs heavy, and I see a shiver down her spine.

"Marcus," she pleads, desperation creeping into her tone. "I am sorry." She begs, eyes wide and glistening. "I am sorry for everything. Please. Do you think I haven't regretted that moment? Do you think it hasn't been killing me every day?"

"I require a few things from you," I state flatly, my resolve unwavering. "Once that's done, I will exit your life entirely."

I watch her as she wipes her tears, the glistening trails on her cheeks catching the light like a mockery of her anguish. She hasn't changed one bit. All she does is cry and cry. That's what she's always been—lost in her own helplessness.

She shakes her head, her breath hitching between sobs. "This is insane," she cries. "I'm ready to give up my house, but nothing else. Not the assets. They weren't my father's." Her voice trembles with a mixture of desperation and defiance, a fragile barrier she clings to.

"I don't care," I reply, my tone cold and unwavering. The weight of my intentions hangs heavy in the air, and I can feel the tension crackling between us.

"I'm not giving them up!" she insists, the fire of rebellion igniting in her eyes, but it flickers like a candle in a storm, vulnerable to the winds of despair.

"Half of it belongs to my family. I have every reason to take it back from you," I state, my voice cold and unyielding.

She freezes, the color draining from her face. "What?"

"How do you think your mother would've survived?" I tilt my head, relishing the confusion written all over her features.

She stares at me, unblinking, a flicker of disbelief mingling with the dread in her eyes. "What? What do you mean?"

"Your mother fed off of us. My father provided for her. And half of the assets were his, which your mother stole from us." I pull a folded paper from my jeans pocket, the only document I deem important in this whole mess, and toss it to her. It lands on her lap with a soft thud, heavy with implications.

She unfolds the paper rapidly, her fingers trembling as her eyes skim over every word, each line revealing a truth she never wanted to face. I watch as the realization dawns on her, horror etching deeper lines into her features.

"You're lying," she whispers, a desperate edge creeping into her voice. But the doubt in her eyes tells a different story; she knows the truth.

"I want them by this week," I demand, watching as she crumples to the floor, her fragile frame collapsing under the weight of my words. I turn and stride toward the door, the sound of her despair fading behind me.

Once outside, I slide into my car and slam the door shut, resting my head in my hands. The rush of adrenaline surges through me, but beneath it lies a torrent of conflicting emotions that I can't afford to acknowledge.

This shouldn't be so fucking hard. I didn't even commit half the atrocities she did to me, yet here I am, feeling as if I'm suffocating under the remnants of her betrayal. I grip the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white, a desperate urge coursing through me to break something—anything—to shatter this gnawing frustration.

I can't let her get in my head.