Chapter 26
The Hunter
T he gravel crunches beneath my tires as I steer the Camry onto the unmarked path. It’s nearly invisible, swallowed by the forest—a single scar carved through the dense underbrush, with branches overhead interlocking like bony fingers, blotting out the moon.
I’ve driven this road countless times, yet each journey feels like slipping deeper into a darker place inside myself. This is where I am most alive. The trees tower on either side of the car, casting shadows that flicker in the headlights like specters.
Checking the rearview mirror is more instinct than necessity. No one has ever followed me this far. The isolation out here is profound; absolute. And that’s exactly how I need it to be.
The cabin looms ahead in the distance, just visible through the fog. The headlights sweep over it as I pull into the clearing. The structure is unassuming—a simple wood cabin, its silhouette broken by the jagged outlines of decaying wood, a place forgotten by time.
It looks like any other hunting lodge that has long since fallen out of use, the kind that might draw curiosity from hikers or the occasional lost traveler. But those who find themselves on this land are rarely lost by accident.
The engine hum dies as I shut off the car, and the silence that follows is almost jarring. Only the sound of the wind through the trees remains.
Fog curls around my ankles as soon as I leave the car. The scent of damp earth fills my lungs—clean, sharp, and laced with decay. Every breath makes me feel more grounded, more connected to the predator that thrives here.
The cabin doesn’t belong to me on paper, but in every meaningful way, it’s mine. No one comes here without my knowledge, and no one leaves without my consent.
I move toward the trunk of the car, eyes narrowing as I take in the figure inside. His unconscious form sprawled out like a rag doll, limbs limp from the drugs. His face is slack, jaw hanging slightly open as he breathes in shallow spurts. Not ready to bring him inside yet, I close the trunk softly.
As I walk up the steps to the cabin, the wood creaks beneath me, a familiar groaning that has long since become a welcome sound. I like the imperfections of this place. They remind me that nothing here is meant to be permanent. Everything and everyone is subject to decay.
Inside, the air is thick with the musty scent of abandonment, mingling with the acrid stench of old blood. The floorboards are warped and uneven. The fireplace, blackened with soot, hasn’t been used in years. This cabin is a facade, just like the role I play when I’m not here.
I head toward the back of the cabin where a nondescript door leads to the basement. As I unlock it, the heavy iron key grating in the lock, the air shifts. It’s laced with the history of violence that this place holds.
The stairs creak as I descend, the wood groaning under my weight. The deeper I go, the colder it becomes. The light from upstairs barely touches the bottom. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, casting a weak, flickering glow over the room.
It’s small; no more than ten by ten feet. But every inch of it is used to its full potential.
The centerpiece is the chair bolted to the floor in the center of the room. Heavy, black leather straps hang from its arms and legs, worn and frayed from use. Chains dangle from the ceiling like metal vines, their surfaces polished by the skin of past visitors.
The walls are lined with hooks, each one holding a different instrument—blades of various lengths, clamps, saws. And in the far corner, my favorite—a sleek, polished bow mounted on the wall, accompanied by a quiver full of arrows.
I walk toward the bow, my fingers trailing along the wall as I pass by the various tools. The wood of the bow feels smooth under my hand, a perfect weapon. The elegance of an arrow slicing through the air is unmatched. Clean, efficient. There’s no waste, no mess—just precision.
The basement itself has been soundproofed, though I took extra precautions to ensure the cabin’s remote location would offer all the privacy I need. Screams never reach the surface here. Not unless I allow them to.
I move over to the chair, testing the leather straps. They hold firm, as they should. I haven’t used this room in almost an entire year, but everything is ready. Tonight won’t require much creativity.
Michael Simmons isn’t the type that requires much thought. A contract-breaker like him deserves little more than brute force. Still, I have a few touches planned.
Before I get Michael from the car, I grab my balaclava from the shelf. It’s an extension of my being, a second skin that allows me to become the monster I truly am. The skeletal print on the black fabric stretches and moves with every muscle in my face.
My cock pulses as I slip the fabric over my head. It’s not sexual per se, it’s the knowledge that I reign supreme that sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through my body.
I return to the car, opening the trunk once again to take in Michael’s lifeless form. He doesn’t stir as I drag him from the vehicle, his body slack against mine. I hoist him over my shoulder with ease, walking toward the cabin.
When I bring him inside, I pause at the door. There’s something in the air—something cold, electric. It’s anticipation, I realize. Michael stirs slightly as I lower him into the chair, his head lolling to the side. The drugs are wearing off, though he’s still groggy.
The straps snap into place, securing his wrists and ankles. His head jerks as I tighten the last one around his forearm, and he groans, blinking as if trying to clear a fog from his mind. Confusion flickers across his face first, then the slow creep of realization.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, as though he’s afraid of what will happen if he speaks too loudly. He flinches when I take a step forward, the sound of my shoes on the floor like gunshots in the heavy silence.
I don’t respond since there’s no point. His pleas mean nothing to me. I circle the chair, my movements slow and deliberate. I feel his eyes on me, his breathing becoming more erratic with each step I take. He’s trembling now, the straps on his wrists digging into his skin as he pulls against them in a futile attempt to escape.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I ask, my voice low, almost a whisper. The question hangs in the air, thick with meaning.
He swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he struggles to find his voice. “N-no.” His voice is thick, slurred. He tugs at the restraints, but they hold tight. His panic grows, eyes darting around the room, taking in the hanging chains, the tools, the bloodstained floor.
I stop in front of him, my gaze locking onto his. “You interfered with my hunt. Not once, but twice,” I say, my voice cold and unforgiving as I think back to the day I noticed the red tint to her cheek. I should have punished him back then, made sure he understood the rules. “You thought you could hurt her and walk away unscathed?”
His eyes widen further, the realization of what’s happening crashing over him like a wave. He shakes his head violently, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “No… no, please. I didn’t know. I-I…” He swallows. “… I didn’t think it would matter.”
My jaw tightens as I study the pathetic excuse for a man who thought he could touch her, hurt her, and that there would be no consequences. He thought himself above the contract he signed with me.
“You signed the contract.” My voice is deceptively smooth now. “Yet, you defied me and interfered in my hunt. That can’t go unpunished.”
His breath quickens. The panic is setting in now, his brain racing as the reality of his situation begins to take root. He pulls at the straps again, harder this time, but they don’t budge. He’s trapped, and he knows it.
“ L-look,” he stammers, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. “I’ll pay you more… yes, I’ll double your fee. Let’s talk about this—”
I chuckle softly, cutting him off. His desperation is amusing. “Oh, Michael. This isn’t about the money.”
His eyes widen, darting from my face to the tools on the walls, to the chains hanging overhead. He’s trying to piece together what’s happening, but he’s too slow. “She’s my wife,” he roars, shaking his head as though denial or anger will help him out of the chair.
“And you hired me to kill her,” I state. “I told you to leave her alone. Yet, you went after her. Why?”
“Please,” he whimpers. “I didn’t know—”
“Why?” I ask again.
He looks down at my shoes, too scared to meet my gaze. “She… the bitch cheated on me.”
This piques my interest. “What makes you say that?” I ask. In all the scenarios I’ve imagined, Michael acting out of petty jealousy wasn’t one of them.
“She was out until late, and she wasn’t with her family—”
“How do you know?” I ask, interrupting him.
“My brother saw her at a bar. She entered the bathroom with some guy. When she finally came home, I saw the fucking bite mark.” Michael’s voice rises with indignation. “The bitch needed to be reminded of her place.”
Something stirs in the pit of my stomach, an unfamiliar emotion that makes it hard to swallow. Is that… guilt? Surely not. I thought I was careful, making sure no one saw me follow her to the bathroom. Seems I was wrong.
But even if it was the mark I left on his wife that made him attack her, he’s still responsible for his own actions. And so was Ruby for making me fuck her. But… there’s no denying the role I played.
Curiously, even as I feel bad for being the reason Michael beat her, I don’t regret it—don’t regret fucking her, or tasting her blood when I bit her. In fact, the memory alone is enough to make my cock stir again.
“But I… the offer to pay you more still stands. I’m sorry for interfering with your, ahh, hunt.”
I c lench my fists, the anger boiling over as I stare down at him. It’s insulting that he’s even trying to buy his way out of this situation. Turning away from him, my eyes scanning the room until they land on my ultimate weapon.
Without a word, I stalk over to the bow and remove it from its mount, the smooth wood feeling cool and familiar in my hands. I select an arrow from the quiver on the floor, my movements deliberate and precise as I notch it onto the bowstring.
“Which hand did you use?” I ask coldly.
Michael’s eyes widen in terror as he realizes what’s happening, his body trembling as he opens and closes his mouth over and over without making a sound. It’s clear I won’t get an answer from him. With a swift, fluid motion, I raise the bow and take aim at his right hand.
“I’ll choose for you,” I chuckle, my voice barely audible as I release the arrow.
The sound of the arrow piercing flesh is sickening, the thud of it embedding itself in Michael’s hand echoing through the basement. He screams in agony, his body convulsing as the pain washes over him.
I stand there for a moment, my breathing heavy as I watch him writhe in pain. The anger subsides, replaced by a cold, calculating calmness. This is what he deserves, what anyone deserves who dares to hurt my pet.
“A-are we even now?” he sobs.
Even? He thinks we’re even? “Not even close,” I reply as I put the bow back and reach for a scalpel. His face goes pale, what little color he had left drains from his cheeks as he notices the scalpel in my hand. “The arrow was for the first time you hit her after I warned you.”
“I-I didn’t mean to… it was… I had to.” His words are hard to make out through his whimpers and heavy panting.
Coming back to where he’s seated, I press the scalpel against his cheek, the cold metal biting into his skin. He freezes, his eyes wide with terror. “You didn’t mean to hurt the woman you want dead? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
He grunts but is wise enough not to say anything.
I let out a loud sigh. “Are you done now? Are you ready to accept there ’s no escape for you?” I infuse a bit of the curiosity I feel into my tone.
“W-will you let me go if I say yes?”
At first, I don’t want to dignify that kind of stupid question with an answer. But the teacher in me decides this will make a great teaching moment. “No,” I reply, shaking my head. “You signed a contract when you hired me to kill Ruby—”
“Which you haven’t done yet,” he snarls as his fear morphs into a dangerous concoction of outrage. “So why even enforce the contract?”
I pick up the chair folded against the wall and stride back to him. Then I unfold the chair and sit down next to him, making sure the cold metal of the scalpel rests against his injured hand.
“Because a dignified society needs rules, Michael, and you broke one of mine. One you promised not to break. That can’t go unpunished,” I say, deliberately talking slowly. “As for the other part. How do you know I haven’t killed her?”
“Have you?”
I force a careless shrug. “No. Because of you, I can’t get to her. She’s protected by her brothers.” It’s hard to keep my tone even when rage thrums through my veins.
He scoffs and his nostrils flare like he’s trying to temper himself. Interesting. “So you’re going to kill me instead of that cunt?”
“No,” I admit. “Not kill you. You’ll leave with me tonight, and when we go back to New York, you’ll very much be alive. And nothing I do to you is instead of her. You broke the contract, it’s that simple.”
He shows his stupidity when he mumbles a weak thank you. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he snivels.
Surely he can’t think the arrow in his hand is the extent of his punishment, can he? I haven’t had any fun yet. I didn’t even chase him through the woods or anything.
I smirk, the cold, calculated smile of a predator staring down its prey. “Oh, but Michael,” I say, my voice low and menacing. “This isn’t about forgiveness. This is about justice.”
Gripping the handle of the scalpel, the metal cool against my skin, I press the blade against the soft flesh of his hand. His body goes rigid, the tensio n snapping through him like a live wire. I apply just enough pressure to break the skin, a thin line of blood welling up beneath the blade. His scream rips through the silence, raw and desperate, echoing off the concrete walls.
It’s a sound I know well. The sound of fear transforming into pain. The sound of a man realizing he has no control.
I savor it.
I let the blade hover there for a moment longer before pulling it away, watching as the blood drips slowly down his hand, staining the chair. His breath comes in ragged gasps now, his chest heaving as he struggles to contain the agony.
“Do you feel that?” I ask, my voice calm, measured. “That’s just the beginning.”
He sobs, his body trembling against the restraints. “Please…”
Since I’m here for justice, not here for his apologies, I ignore him. The scalpel catches the light as I turn it over in my hand, feeling the weight of it.
“Did she cry like you?” I ask, curious to know the answer. “Did she try to buy her way out of your punishment?”
His sobs grow louder, his body shaking violently in the chair. He’s unraveling. The fear has taken hold, sinking its claws deep into his psyche. He’s no longer a man. He’s prey.
I lower the knife, letting the blade hover just above his skin. The tension in the air is palpable, electric. Fear radiating off him in waves, his body tenses in anticipation of the next cut.
But I don’t move. Not yet.
I let the silence stretch out between us, heavy and suffocating. His breathing becomes more erratic, his sobs choking in his throat. He’s waiting, desperate for it to end, desperate for the pain to begin so that it can be over.
Having had enough of this one-sided conversation, I get to work. Michael’s screams grow louder, more frantic, as I slowly flay the skin from his hand, inch by agonizing inch. The sound of his flesh tearing is music to my ears, a symphony of suffering that feeds the darkness within me.
As I work around the arrow, I can’t stop thinking about Ruby. I wonder what her beautiful face looks like when it’s twisted in pain, and I hate that I haven’t seen it yet.
The anger and hatred that I’ve kept buried deep inside me surges to the surface, fueling my every movement. This is for touching my pet, I think, my grip on the knife tightening. This is for all the pain he’s caused someone that isn’t his to inflict anything on.
Done with the top of his hand, I stand and unceremoniously grip the arrow to pull it free. His screams and cries are no longer exciting. In fact, they’re downright bothersome, so I bare my teeth at him.
“Screaming won’t help,” I deadpan as I twist his hand so the palm faces up, before slamming the arrow back through his limb and the chair.
He tries his best to remain quiet, but the second I slide the scalpel beneath his skin, he loses any control and howls in pain. I’ve done this so many times now that the sounds don’t disturb my work anymore.
I was twenty-four when I taught myself the art of skinning, something any hunter needs to know. Unlike most, I didn’t practice on animals, but on people. Which both made it harder and more rewarding since they were alive.
It didn’t take me long to learn to block out their small jerks, screams, even the bodily responses that sometimes follow. As if on cue, Michael’s pants darken with wetness, and the scent of urine hits my nostrils.
“Do you know why no one is allowed to interfere with the hunt?” I ask conversationally, opening the subject again as I force the scalpel between his middle and index finger.
“N-no,” he screams.
I suspected as much. “It’s because that makes it harder to get to my prey.” Pausing, I try to think back on one of our first meetings. “But I think I’ve already tried to explain that to you. Anyway, now Ruby’s with Jack, and February is upon us.”
Through hiccups, Michael manages to deliver another pointless apology. Not that it matters, I’m done now. I stand up again and admire my handiwork.
“We’re done,” I say, my tone grave. “Your indiscretions have been punished.”
Mic hael lets out an audible sigh of relief and opens his mouth. But then he changes his mind and closes it again, probably for the best.
I quickly undo the straps and tilt the chair so he falls to the floor. Another scream is torn from him as this jostles his hand since the arrow is embedded into the armrest on the chair.
“This is your one and only warning, Michael,” I say, my voice cold and hard. “Do not interfere in the hunt again.” The sense of satisfaction, of power, I feel is delectable. This is who I am, I think, my fingers tracing the intricate mark on my wrist. This is what I do.
I watch him as he pushes himself to his knees and pulls at the arrow. When he finally gets it free, I get the urge to slam it back into place, but I refrain. I need to get back to New York.
Pointing at the hose and tap by the end wall, I say, “Start cleaning.”
Leaning against the wall, I watch Michael collect his skin from the floor before pouring bleach all over it. When he begins hosing it down, I sit down on the stairs, making sure he’s within my view at all times. A few times I notice him staring longingly at my weapons, but he never once makes a move to grab one.
It takes a couple of hours before he’s done, and by the end, he’s struggling to stand and his face is paler than before. I fully expected him to pass out, so I’m begrudgingly impressed he’s still standing.
“It’s time to go,” I say, my voice cold and impassive. “You’re going to walk yourself to the trunk and get in. And if you try anything… well, let’s just say I have plenty more arrows where that one came from.”
Michael hesitates for a moment, his eyes flicking between me and the door. But ultimately, he knows he has no choice. With a resigned sigh, he nods and begins to make his way up the stairs, his movements slow and pained.
Watching him, I feel a sense of detachment, of disgust. This man, this pathetic excuse for a human being, is not worthy of my time or energy, yet I’ve wasted an entire evening on him.
As I load him into the trunk of the car and drive away, leaving the cabin and the forest behind, I pull my phone out of my pocket, frowning as I realize it’s turned off. I never turn my phone off. When it refuses to switch on, I realize it must have run out of juice.
Huf fing with annoyance at myself for not having checked the battery, which is very unlike me, I reach for the USB cable and plug my phone in. It takes several miles before the display lights up with my home screen.
It’s not until I unlock it and am greeted by my apps that I realize the extent of my mistake. In my eagerness to punish Michael for what he did to Ruby, I forgot all about the damn app that distorts my voice. That means he has listened to my real voice all night.
I curse under my breath and slam my hand into the steering wheel. What the hell! None of this makes sense. Never before have I made such a rookie mistake.
In my role as a teacher, I’ve only ever interacted with Michael Simmons twice, so I don’t think it really matters. Especially not after tonight. Right now, I’m pretty sure he’s too scared to even consider rebelling against me.
After the first hour of the drive back to the city, I finally cave and do what I’ve tried so hard not to do. With one hand, I type out the text.
Me: I need to see you, Pet.