Page 24 of Hunted

We’re here in the parking lot that faces the inner courtyard that I often gaze down upon adoringly, from the small Astragal barred windows that decorate the large library. Garden personnel do a great job of keeping the massive greenery with its winding ivy and countless different types of roses, begonias and buttercups in shape. It’s a little piece of heaven, this garden, and carries a magnificent view.

During the day time.

Right now, blanketed by the night, with whispers of the evening lingering through the bushes, it gives me the chills.

“It seems to me,” Alexandre’s voice is laced with amusement, “that you are still in a phase of denial.” He looks my way, but I ignore him and the triumph in those ablaze eyes. “It seems to me that you have been hiding for too long in tales of the past. We are part of the rich, and that’s very much a reality. One that we can only be grateful for.” Patting his knees, he hops out of the car, only to reach for my door barely a few seconds later with an unnecessarily violent swing and a cocky grin on his handsome face. Returning my scowl with amusement in those charcoal eyes, unbothered as he continues to grab me by my elbow and escort me out of the car.

“I can walk myself, you know.” I can’t help but grumble, painfully aware of my pettiness.

“I know.” He doesn’t let go, instead continues to guide me over the pebbles as we make our way toward the reception hall that’s void of the usual porter with his stony face. “But I enjoy walking you to our dorm.”

“Our dorm?” I jerk on his hold in an attempt to get free, but he doesn’t let go, squeezing a little tighter in reply.

Alexandre lets out an exasperated gasp, then brushes a hand through his thick, blonde mane. “Have you even been listening to me?” He leans in, bumping our noses together. Fisting my hands, I try to keep a steady breath, but something inside my chest tightens, something inside my mind wishes it could travel back in time, to another place, alone and safe. Like the library, the door locked. This…this right here, right now, is terrifying. I want to speak, but words don’t come. The only sound that leaves my dry throat is a pathetic squeak, that Alexandre cuts off before it can be shaped into something less unintelligible.

“Oui, beautiful,” he says, and his gaze softens as he strokes a hand over my cheek, cupping my face between his large hands. “I struck you down from my horse, hunted you through the forest, hurt you—” He strokes my back and I wince when his fingers brush over the welts. “Then fucked you in front of all our brothers. And you want to know why?”

I nod, because yeah…I do. I’m a little desperate to hear the words, fully aware of how deplorable that must sound.

“Because you are the perfect mix of kind and dreamy, artistic and intelligent.” He drops a kiss onto my quivering mouth. “Because you’re unmistakably male, but have soft and pretty features just the way I like.” A fingertip traces the line over my nose up to where it curves back behind my eyes. “Large, green eyes. Very handsome.” He leaves another kiss on my mouth, fingertip tracing up and following the lines of my forehead before it curls a stranded lock around its digit. “Beautiful, messy hair.” Only when he pulls back, do I notice that I was leaning into his touch, desperate for affection. It has been a while, if I’m being honest. After Theo…there was no one. And Mom is too absent for childish hugs, as she’d call them.

“You’re a grown man now.”

“Come on, let’s go. You need a bed.” Alexandre takes my hand and starts walking. This time I let him lead, and follow without hesitation.

We make our way through the narrow corridors, with their heavily decorated walls. Photos and paintings adorn our surroundings, a melancholic fusion of the past and the present, matching my inner turmoil. But there it is, this new craving. This desire to cross the line and see what’s on the other side.

Danger.

Excitement.

Attention. For me, and only for me. What would it feel like to be noticed?

We halt in front of door number fourteen, and I realize we’ve already climbed the double-spiral staircase with its large and colourful tracery windows. And all the while, I was lost in my own thoughts.

Now it’s too late to back out.

The door creaks open, revealing a space entirely illuminated in black and white. In the heart of the living area stands a huge, black leather couch, framed by glass side tables and a white, glossy coffee table that stands on an equally white, fluffy rug. The ivory-coloured walls are garnished with black framed posters of some of the most famous artists France has had over the past decades—Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot.

“You know Maël Duteil?” Alexandre eyes my way, eyes flickering with delight.

I shrug. “You mentioned him briefly, yeah. But he’s—” I flush and press my lips closed.

“One of the elite?” Alexandre finishes for me. I give him another half-hearted jerk of my shoulder, trying to play it cool. “Like you now?” His question is laced with devilish delight and I spin around, giving him my back. He laughs at that, a throaty mockery, before grabbing me by both shoulders and twisting me back to face him. “He’s my best friend and cousin. We share this apartment together.” He slides one hand around my shoulder and uses his weight to push me further inside the dorm.

It’s a classy one, I have to admit. Though not very colourful, all objects seem to have been well-balanced, putting emphasis on the chosen black and white. It’s elegant.

Behind the small kitchenette there are a few doors. We pass by them without slowing our pace, and Alexandre ticks on every single one of them as he explains, “Maël’s bedroom and bathroom. The study room. My bathroom, and my—our—bedroom.” He gives me a toothy grin, then pushes me inside. While I’m still admiring the spacious, comfy space, Alexandre lets go of me and starts rummaging around. I pay him no attention, too busy taking in the space.

There’s a large king-size bed with black sheets and countless pillows. Here too, the walls are white, but Alexandre keeps photos. Many of them. On the wall, on his desk. Of smiling people and beautiful lands.

“Where is this?” I point toward a younger version of him, grinning into the camera, an old man by his side. Behind them lies a land of hills and green, a common scenery that somehow still feels different. Perhaps because of the colours, or the vegetation.

Alexandre turns around, two towels in his hand. He has already kicked off his shoes and socks, and stands barefeet in front of me wearing only his tank top and boxer briefs. I swallow thickly at the thought of how little he wears. He looks at the photo I’m still pointing at, then gazes back at me. “Argentina.” He juts his chin toward the image. “That’s my abuelo. My granddad.”

I frown. “Are you from South America?”

“My mother is. My abuelo is the one who taught me how to hunt.” He gives me a crooked smile and my stomach swoops dangerously. Desire that manages, despite my immense fatigue, to burrow deep beneath my skin.

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