Page 9 of The Wild Hunt

Yet, even with this setback, a darker impulse stirs within me. Lorcan’s words from earlier linger, fueling thoughts that were once dormant. The memory of her ignites a flicker of desire within me. The way she moved, the soft flutter of her pulse beneath her pale skin like a caged bird, the delicate freckles that seemed like a constellation across her face—these details haunt my thoughts.

The idea of playing with her—teasing her, toying with her fears and curiosities becomes irresistible. I imagine the thrill of seeing her again, of watching her grow uneasy, knowing something is there but never quite seeing it. The glamor I wear will keep me hidden, and I could get as close as I want, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, to hear the frantic beat of her heart when she senses the danger.

I could almost imagine the sight of her blood connecting the blemishes on her skin as though drawing constellations in red. It sends a thrill coursing through me. My mind remains fixated on her, like a hunter with its prey in their sights, as blood streaked fantasies dance in my thoughts.

Would she cry out, I wonder, with that voice so pure it could make a songbird weep? Or would her lips part in a gasp, silent but heavy with fear, as she realizes what I am, what I want?

There’s a thrill in the unknown, in the way her reaction could swing wildly between terror and surrender. The thought of her struggle sends a shiver of anticipation through me. Would she resist, fight with every fiber of her being? Or would she give in, as so many before her had done, collapsing under the weight of the darkness that defines me?

The idea of her resistance is tantalizing. The way her pulse would quicken, the thrum of it beneath her fragile skin as panic takes hold, makes my blood hum with excitement. To see her fear, raw and unfiltered, reflected in those wide blue eyes—to hear her voice, trembling and broken, as she realizes there is no escape from me—this thought alone makes my body heat with desire.

And yet, there is an equal temptation in the idea of her giving in. The moment she might realize that running is futile, that the darkness has claimed her before she even knew it was there. Would she whisper my name? Would she beg for mercy, her song twisted into a plea for release from the very thing she sangof? There is a twisted beauty in the way submission can be as potent as defiance, both paths leading to the same inevitable end.

Her voice, haunting and ethereal, is what lingers the longest in my mind. I want to hear it again, but not in the way I heard it before. I want to hear her voice crack with emotion, torn between the need to flee and the deeper pull to something darker. Would it break? Would it soften?

I picture her again, inside that small cottage on the cliff. Is she thinking of me, sensing my presence even if she can’t see it? Does the fear of the unknown prick at her skin, raising goosebumps in the warm sunlight? Or does she feel safe, tucked away in her little haven, unaware of the game that has already begun?

I could visit her in the dead of night, when the moon is high and the air is thick with silence. I could stand at the edge of her bed, watching the rise and fall of her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart. How long would it take for her to realize I was there, watching, waiting? The thought of her waking, eyes fluttering open to see nothing but the dark expanse of her room, sends a jolt of anticipation through me.

No matter what, she will know me soon enough. And when that time comes, whether she struggles or submits, I will enjoy every moment of it.

Chapter 6

Mac

After making it back to the cottage, I decide to eat some fruit to tide me over until dinner while standing in the warmth of the sun that streams in through the window. It’s so easy to feel in awe of the beauty that surrounds me. Already I wish I could stay here, hidden away from my life back in America. There is so much nature here to get lost in.

After finishing eating, I gather my art supplies, feeling the familiar excitement of creating something new. I decide to set up my easel just outside the cottage, facing the cliffs that rise dramatically above the crashing waves. With my paper propped and a chair dragged into place, I settle in, the breeze tugging at my hair as I begin to sketch out the scene.

My pencil glides across the paper, tracing the jagged lines of the cliffs and the rolling waves below. As the sketch takes form, I feel myself sink into the moment, lost in the rhythmic strokes of my hand. When it’s ready, I dip my brush into the watercolors, watching as the pigments spread in soft, fluid motions. I wouldhave preferred to use my acrylics for their boldness, but I’d had to settle for watercolors this trip. They were easier to transport, and I didn’t want to risk my acrylic tubes splitting open on the journey here.

I smile to myself, knowing I can always add acrylic accents when I get home. Perhaps that will allow me to relive these moments, layer by layer. I imagine painting the white spray of the water as the waves crash into the cliffs, the vibrant streaks of the birds as they circle overhead.

The sun warms my skin, the soft sound of the wind and distant sea settling into the background. I lose myself completely in the work, each brushstroke a meditation on the beauty before me. This place feels like another world—untouched, wild, and free.

Occasionally it almost feels like the trees behind me are watching my progress, their tall leaves reaching out to take glimpses at my work over my shoulders. The feeling of being watched isn’t oppressive, nothing like the way Nathan used to watch me. It’s easy to dismiss the feeling as my imagination, the warm tingling feeling on my skin, nothing more than the warm breeze like the sun is breathing against the soft hair that escapes my hair tie.

I get so lost in my art that I once again start singing softly to myself and the hours slip by unnoticed. Even the regular pauses for water and to let the paint dry become part of the rhythm. The colors blend and swirl on the paper, capturing the essence of the cliffs and the endless ocean beyond. But soon, I find myself squinting, struggling to make out the details as the light begins to fade.

It’s already late afternoon, and I know I can’t keep going in the diminishing daylight. I frown up at the sky as though it’s betrayed me by doing what it naturally does at the end of each day. Reluctantly, I gather my supplies, carefully moving everything back inside the cottage.

I clean and dry my brushes, wipe down the easel, and set the paper aside to fully dry. My jeans and knit sweater, which I’ve worn since my morning exploration, now sport small flecks of paint, but I decide it’s still acceptable attire for dinner at the local pub. The rustic charm of the place means a few stray paint marks won’t draw much attention.

As I get ready to head out, a thought flickers through my mind—will I see Cianán at the pub? The memory of our brief encounter earlier lingers, his captivating presence and the way he seemed so at home there in the forest. For a moment, I let myself imagine bumping into him again, perhaps sharing another conversation, but I quickly push the thought aside.

I didn’t come all the way out here to focus on men. In fact, one of the reasons I left home was to escape a man. Nathan. Just thinking about him makes my chest tighten with a mixture of anger and regret.

It's strange how someone like him could have such control over me, how he slowly isolated me until I had no one left. I’d always thought I was stronger than that, smarter. I used to laugh with my friends at the idea of being manipulated by anyone, convinced it could never happen to me. But it did. Nathan didn’t love me—he saw me as something to own, a possession he could shape and break at will.

Memories creep in like an unwelcome shadow, ones I’ve tried hard to bury or forget. I can just imagine the vicious tirade I’ll face from my best friend, Ree, when I finally tell her the full story. I haven't spoken to her in so long because of him, and I dread the day I’ll have to explain everything. When I returned to my family home, bruised and broken, I wasn’t ready to hear her anger. Worse, I wasn’t ready to admit the truth—not even to myself.

I had downplayed the abuse to Bridget, making it seem like a one-time thing, a moment of weakness from Nathan. But thereality was far darker. It wasn’t just one hit. It had been a steady progression of slaps, insults, and degradation.

Nathan didn’t just hurt me physically—he stripped away my sense of self, piece by piece. He told me I was nothing, that I wasn’t worthy of his love yet, and that I needed toearnit. According to him, I wasn’t good enough to take his name in marriage until I became perfect. He wanted a flawless, obedient doll, not a partner.

The night I realized I needed to leave was the night he almost killed me. I had told Bridget the truth behind what started it, but not how it ended. I still remember the darkness in his eyes as he left me on the floor, bleeding and unable to move. I was so cold, it felt like my veins had turned to ice. When he left the next morning for work, I was still on the ground where he left me the night before. His parting words were a cruel reminder of his control—he told me to make sure I cleaned upmymess.

It was only after he left that I managed to get to my feet. That’s when I knew I had to run. I grabbed whatever clothes I could and fled, heading straight for my family’s home. They held me, let me heal, but I couldn’t bring myself to contact Ree.

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