Page 6 of Hunted

The first year I wasn’t keen on choosing one special person—I was far more interested in enjoying the pleasure of a warm male mouth or ass. But during my first summer holidays, when I joined my family at our holiday residence in the Côte d'Azur and we sat by the sea, enjoying a cocktail and barbeque, something inside me slowly transformed. Perhaps it had to do with the way my brothers and their partners looked happy together, or the mere sight of my own parents, who have always appeared a strong and happy couple. I couldn’t pinpoint the emotion, but I did recognize it as an alien feeling. An unwelcome one initially. My first reaction was to fuck it out of my system. The weeks after, I had more volunteers tied up to my bed than I could count, and though my dick was purring in satisfaction, the strange feeling of emptiness in my mind wouldn’t vanish.

I fucking hated it.

Because it lingered, and during moments when I least expected it, made me wonder. What would it be like to have a special person I can call mine?

The only thing that brought me back to my usual, selfish, cocky self, was the hunting season. My granddad from Mom’s side was Argentinian, and had introduced me to old Indian hunting tools when I was a child. The bola had stood out. As a teenager, whenever we’d visit our family in Argentina, he’d take me out hunting, sometimes practicing for weeks in a row. Eventually, after long moments of chiding, tssking and correcting my technique, I became a professional.

I love the hunt. Love to chase an animal down, make it dash away in panic, uncontrolled, panting, with only one wish: to escape me. And though there’s nothing better than eating fresh meat that was hunted by your own hand, the thrill for me wasn’t necessarily in the kill.

It was in the pursuit. The capture.

It was the first of November, roughly nine months ago, when I came back from Autumn break. Hunting season had been a good one this year, and even though my papi was far away from the south of France, I’d been practicing with my bola every day. We became inseparable, so when school started once more, I took my weapon back to school, where I’d frequently practice with it, right here, in Monterrey forest. One day I was doing that very thing, when something caught my eye.

Or someone, I should say.

The guy from the library.

Blond hair, much like myself, though his was a bit longer, more messy, strands that fell in a slight wave down to where it playfully teased his ears and nape. Something told me his mind would be as dreamy as his light and wispy cascading hair, the soft flow making his presence more suited for fantasy rather than reality.

The guy was seated under a tree, his back supported by the heavy trunk, his knees drawn up to his chest, where it supported an open book. He was reading. Which left me plenty of time to observe him further. He had to be a first year, because I hadn’t seen him here before. A diamond-shaped face with a proud forehead, and prominent cheekbones that melted into a narrow chin. Freckles around his nose. His teeth nibbled his full, plush lips, his narrowed gaze fixed on the written words. Whatever he was reading, it had captured his full attention.

He was cute. Very different from the guys I always hung out with, and even more different from those who were my brothers. I wondered what his name was. Where his family came from, and what they did in life for him to have earned this place here in one of the most prestigious colleges in Europe.

I wondered…

He looked up. Green eyes stared at me, widening a little before his cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. His teeth disappeared from his bottom lip as his mouth opened on a gasp. I’d caught him off guard, and despite the moment lasting no longer than a few seconds before he schooled his expression back into a neutral glare, I loved what I saw.

I fucking loved it.

The bola suddenly itched my skin, my palm begging to feel those stones rolling before they were thrown away, the leather slung heavy on my shoulder, begging to be used. Sudden anticipation rolled through my stomach.

After a few seconds of staring, he cleared his throat, shifted his ass a little closer to the tree and slid his gaze back to his book, effectively blocking me out.

Unaware, ladies and gentlemen, that one look had been enough. I just knew that from now on, I would make it my life’s mission to occupy every facet of his life. His mind would be devoured by thoughts of me. This guy, whom I baptized in my head that day as the “timid librarian”, was about to become mine.

I liked that thought. That erradical, random thought. I liked it a lot. And the more I thought of it, the more I liked it. Yes, he would be perfect. So when the brotherhood announced the Wicked Chase months later, I knew that was my call. Brothers put down large sums to insure their participation in the chase, mine not counting any less. My timid librarian deserved all the euros in the world. And my check was a fat one. Because I wanted to bend the rules.

Four colours. Gold, silver, copper and bronze.

I’d be bronze.

Four participants. But only one of them can win the games.

Tonight I’d bring my prey in, chase him down, use my bola on his unblemished skin, before soothing him, and claiming him in front of the world to see before setting him free.

The Elders accepted my donation and so my timid librarian would be mine.

My own parents had been young when they met, so were my brothers when they met their partners and it was the same for most of the people I grew up with. Quite a few members of the Alpha Fraternarii tended to find their partner when they were still pretty young at college.

And so I couldn’t help but wonder if my librarian could be mine for the rest of my life. I obsessed over his name, his voice, his mind. I started wondering about his hopes and fears, about his wishes for the future. I started wondering if he had noticed me like I had noticed him.

Being part of the elite comes with as many perks as it does inconveniences. Our wish is your command, is definitely one of the perks. Most of the other students are terrified of us. It’s usually kind of funny, but not with my timid librarian.

It didn’t take me long to find out all about him. Olivier Besnier is his name. Barely nineteen, his background check confirmed that he was from Tours, lived with his mom who is some highly-sought after medical specialist and comes from a famous line of brain surgeons. He’d had a boyfriend over the past four years, and god damn, did I not like that. I tracked down that little bitch, Theo something, some asshole who’d decided to study business and leave Olivier alone at Saint-Laurent.

If Olivier was mine, I’d never let him go. And that is precisely how it will be once he becomes my guy.

Never.

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