7. Marcus
MARCUS
There’s been a slight change of plans.
It’s my attempt to adapt to the current state of affairs and all that.
When I first got here, I meant to observe.
That’s clearly changed now that I’ve yanked Armstrong against me. His back is pressed against my front, his shoulders tensing instantly.
He smells of blood and that intoxicating masculine scent that seems to go straight to my head every time he’s in my proximity.
Which is odd because I don’t really get this affected by other people’s scents.
But something about Preston Armstrong is making me a tad reckless.
Well, not reckless, but definitely more eager than usual.
Maybe it’s because I like the feel of his muscles bunching beneath mine, or maybe I just want to hear that crude mouth of his raining insults as if it’s a sport.
I might have had a dream about playing against him again.
That game wasn’t enough.
Touching him once isn’t enough.
Nothing is enough.
It’s why I came here. Sure, the absence of my bike inconveniences me, and I do have ulterior motives for worming my way into his life.
But truly, the main reason I went through the hassle of coming here wasn’t just to teach him a lesson.
It was so I could be close again.
Like this.
The more he fights me, the deeper my fixation gets.
The harder he pushes me away, the darker my retaliation becomes.
It’s gotten bad enough that I made a deal with the devil, promising an alliance with someone elusive, just to get the code to access this forest.
“The code changes every hour. Make sure you leave before then, or you’ll be trapped inside. If you do, I’ll deny I had anything to do with this.”
That’s what she said before hanging up.
I’m starting to conclude there are no manners at all in Graystone Ridge, but I digress.
Thanks to the access, I got to witness something curious in Armstrong. A trance, maybe. Being in a zone? Or perhaps it’s something a lot more ominous?
At any rate, I managed to watch in full HD how he kills.
Like he has a personal vendetta against his victim, himself, or his weapon of choice.
I still can’t decide which one is more intriguing.
The knife still glints in the night, dripping with blood that clogs my throat.
“Osborn?”
Fuck.
Is the way he says my name with that rough refinement and slight trepidation supposed to go to my dick?
The answer is no, but it takes notice anyway, thickening in my boxers, straining against my jeans.
Fucking hell.
I’m not the type who gets horny easily. At all, actually. It takes lots of sloppy blowjobs to get me in the mood.
So why is the sound of Armstrong’s voice—and the feel of him—provoking this carnal reaction?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” He shoves himself away from my grip, and the sense of loss goes all the way down my body.
It doesn’t deflate my dick, but it does fill me with a sort of…disappointment.
As Armstrong swings around, he punches me in the chest. I raise my fist and punch him back with the same strength he used. Nothing more, nothing less.
It’s a reflex of sorts. At an early age, I learned to always give back what I’m given. Though I usually make sure it’s ten times worse.
Obviously, not today.
Hmm.
I wonder why.
“How did you even get here?” he asks in a clipped tone. Coupled with his blood-drenched face and the absence of light, he looks so gorgeously feral.
“It’s a secret.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. You obviously came here to die, and I’m happy to oblige.”
“Not really—”
He tosses the knife aside and punches me again. Then we’re trading blows in the middle of the pitch-black forest—one for one.
The harder he goes, the more I match him.
And that pisses him off, judging by his choppy breaths echoing in the night.
He doesn’t like being challenged. Or maybe he’s not used to someone meeting him strike for strike.
“You are—” He hits me several times, most of it glancing off the mask and my skull. “—a fucking asshole who needs to fucking die! Don’t ever touch me again, you goddamn gay!”
He grabs my shoulders and drives a knee into my stomach. My breath is knocked out of me, but I shove him back, slamming him against a tree. I seize his collar and haul him upward as I slam my fist into his face.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
“You think that’s an insult, Armstrong?” Punch. “Is that why you used it?” Punch. “You really believe calling me a slur makes you more powerful than me?”
I’m hitting him over and over again, that awkward-strange attraction vanishing in minutes.
But then I realize two things.
One, he’s trembling. So much so that his entire body quakes with it.
Two, he’s not punching me back.
I’m towering over him as he slumps against the tree, holding him with one hand and punching him with the other.
At this point, I would’ve expected him to shove me away, hit back, or try to overpower me.
But he just remains still, his hands lying lifeless on either side of him on the ground.
What the fuck is this dilemma on steroids thinking now?
Isn’t the whole point of provoking me and calling me names to fight? So why the fuck isn’t he fighting?
Not that I care what he or anyone else says about my sexuality, but he needs to be taught a lesson in manners, so he’ll stop being a judgmental little bitch.
I’m about to punch him again when something happens.
My throbbing knuckles pause in midair as Armstrong bursts out laughing, the sound manic in the silent darkness.
A sheen of derangement overtakes his face.
Blood stains his teeth like a vampire, and he’s looking straight through me.
As if I’m not here.
As if he’s staring at some imaginary friend.
I shake him with my grip on his collar. “Where have you gone? Look at me.”
He blinks once, still laughing, but his glassy gaze stabilizes a bit, a flash of light showing through.
And it’s…fascinating.
Like a lightning bolt in the darkness.
“Go ahead,” he says through his laughter. “Hit me.”
“I’m the wrong person to tell that. I enjoy hitting people a bit too much.”
“Go on, then. Show me how much you enjoy it. Or do you prefer I call you names before you do that—”
His words end in a grunt as I slam my fist into his face, sending it flying sideways. Then I do it again. And again.
He practically vibrates beneath my fist, his entire body coming alive.
But not as much as mine.
Because fuck. I’ve never hit someone this…way. Like I want to fuck them into the tree while I’m beating them to within an inch of their lives.
I want to bend him over and pound his ass as I spank him, drive my fingers into his loud mouth, and make him suck on them, choke on them, as his saliva drips down my fingers—
Fucking hell.
I’m hard as I keep pummeling him.
He takes it all, letting me bloody his beautiful face that he takes extreme pride in. It’s not a secret that he’s an egotistical maniac with enough arrogance to rival Narcissus.
But he’s letting me beat him.
Me, the rat from the slums, as he likes to call me.
Me, the guy who he thinks is so far beneath him, I don’t exist on his radar.
And it’s making my dick hard.
His bloody face, his shaking body, even his manic laughter.
Everything about Preston Armstrong calls to me in ways that disturb me.
And I want more.
More.
Just…something more.
Wait.
What do we have here…?
Despite the dim light, I catch a glimpse of a thick bulge in Armstrong’s pants.
Did he just get…hard by being beaten?
I mean, my cock is just shy of solid, but I have sadistic tendencies.
My eyes widen the slightest, a rush of something primal and overpowering slithering between my aching bones.
Does this mean he could be what I’m thinking he is?
My gaze flits to his, and I can’t see his expression in the dark. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he looks like, what the meaning of this is.
“You—”
“Don’t talk.” He growls deep in his throat. There’s pain, but there’s something my animal side latches on to like an aphrodisiac—lust.
“Shut up and hit me,” he whispers low, so low that I barely hear him.
Footsteps sound behind me, and I curse beneath my breath when I spot two shadows.
Literally Preston’s shadows. Kane and Jude.
Things will get complicated real fast if they catch me and find out how I was able to gain access to the Armstrongs’ private property.
With a low grumble, I shove him against a tree trunk and cast one last look at his face.
Bloody, confused, unhinged, aroused.
But there’s something else.
As he looks up at me, he sinks his teeth into the corner of his lip, biting down so hard, his glassy eyes shift subtly, almost as if…in fear?
I don’t get to study it properly as I pull my hood up and run off, disappearing between the trees.
I don’t go far, though.
Maybe I can’t.
Maybe I don’t want to.
Maybe I want to see that look one more time.
It took everything in me just now not to reach for him and do…what, exactly?
With a muted breath, I hide behind one of the trees, far enough away that I can only see their shadows.
An owl cries in the distance as Preston stands up. I recognize him right away as he blocks Kane’s path, his stance wide, his shoulders squared, no longer like the ghost of himself I left behind.
Kane shoves past him. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’ll chase.” Jude starts to run toward me, but Preston slams a hand to his chest.
Preston, the smaller of the three, is single-handedly stopping both of them.
“He’s my prey. Back off.”
Hmm.
I wouldn’t say I’m his prey. If anything, it’s the other way around, but his words still put a smile on my face.
He called me something of his.
Is that supposed to be entertaining?
“I haven’t seen you this injured in a long time,” Kane says. “You sure he’s the prey?”
Touché.
“Of course he is.” Preston laughs in that disturbed, unhinged way, throwing his head back.
“He’s lost his mind again,” Jude says.
Again.
I tap my middle finger against my thumb.
That means Preston is prone to losing his mind?
Why?
Kane steps farther into his space. “Who is he, Preston?”
His laughter finally dies out, but there’s still an edge to his words. “He dared to hunt me in my own goddamn place. Love that!”
Happy to serve.
Jude hits him upside the head. “You should’ve let us catch him, dumbass.”
Preston’s fit of laughter returns as he practically bounces in place. “No, I’m going to hunt him, too, before I chop him into tiny little pieces. Oh my, I’m getting hard thinking about it. I’m so fucking hard.”
I don’t think that’s the reason he’s hard, but by all means. If he wants to hunt me next time, I’ll happily oblige.
“Focus, man,” Jude says.
“You fuck off, both of you.” Preston’s still moving in place, as if he can’t stay still. “I’ll arrange the cleanup and watch some security footage.”
“Find out how he managed to trespass on this place, Pres,” Kane tells him.
“Not important.” Armstrong laughs, walking away with a spring in his step. “Not fucking important.”
“Get your dick sucked,” Jude shouts after him. “Don’t go fucking crazy.”
Yeah, that won’t be happening.
Preston getting his dick sucked, I mean.
I narrow my eyes on Jude, considering the best way to bash his head in without being killed by Kane.
Then I decide it’s not worth risking my life.
Not now, when I’m getting all sorts of ideas about my fairy prince.
And none of them are nice.
I consider following him, but I have little time until I need to leave.
“He’s going to do something stupid and probably get himself killed,” Jude mutters to his captain. “We should stop him.”
Kane runs up behind Preston and hits him on the nape with the gun.
The laughter comes to a halt as Preston drops to his knees, then falls forward, unconscious.
Every hair on my head stands on end as I watch the scene.
Did his supposed best friends just knock him out?
Not that I’m judging, but maybe I am.
“Well, that definitely stopped him.” Jude crosses his arms over his chest, standing close to Preston. “He’ll fuck you up when he wakes up. You know he hates being knocked out.”
Huh.
Now, I’m contemplating how to beat the shit out of that little bitch Davenport without Jude tearing me limb from limb.
“Then he should’ve controlled his animal side better,” Kane says. “I won’t clean up his messes.”
“You have a point.” Jude searches his surroundings. “Who do you think that was?”
“I don’t know, but we need to find and eliminate him.” Kane sheathes his gun and lifts Armstrong by the arm. “Help me carry him back.”
“What a nuisance. Always a damn fucking baby,” Jude grumbles as he rips off a piece of his shirt and wraps it around Preston’s arm wound—that he inflicted upon himself in his stabbing frenzy.
Then Jude takes his time to carefully lift Preston.
I narrow my eyes on the motion but mostly at the seemingly practiced moves they both use as they start to drag him away.
My steps are careful as I follow them from afar, their voices getting fainter by the second.
“You think it’s one of those motherfuckers?” Jude asks, a strange type of emotion intertwining with his voice.
Protectiveness? Rage?
“No. They wouldn’t dare touch him as he is now.”
“He went crazy, Kane.” Jude’s voice rises a bit. “He rarely ever lets himself slip that far now that he’s had himself under control for so long. What if they’re targeting him again?”
“Simple. We’ll maim every last one of them and let him bathe in their blood.”
“Every last one of them.” A smile laces Jude’s words. “We might need a list. Your favorite.”
Who are they and them?
Other than me, who the fuck dares to target Armstrong?
I don’t like that.
At all.
Only I get to fuck with his head.