Page 30 of Hunt Me

ARCHIE

It’s been exactlythirteen hours since I last had my hands on Denver. Outside, the sun is warm on my face—a rare day here with a sky uninterrupted by clouds. The heat makes me tired, and with that lazy weight in my limbs, it’s easy to sink into the grass and get lost in memories of the night before.

My body is still humming from my moment in the closet with Denver. The way his skin felt against my palms, the way his breath fanned my face, the way his cock was heavy and rich and salty as I curled my tongue around it.

Watching him fall apart had been the best thing that ever happened to me. I regret not taking out my earplugs so I could get drunk on his groans, but his body language was enough to send me into the best fucking spiral.

If I hadn’t already come from jerking off to his memory, I would have made a complete mess in my pants. As it was, I left hard as a rock and desperate for more. And he probably would have let me take him again.

And again. And again.

But I wanted to keep up the chase. I wanted the satisfaction of hunting. Of being hunted.

That won’t last forever, but it’s something I can indulge in now, and that means everything. No one understands me the way he does. No one has ever given me what I so desperately craved.

When I was younger, I’d met people I thought understood me. People who believed they knew what I wanted. What I needed. And then I’d find out that they were terrified of who I was, just like everyone else.

They didn’t understand the game. They didn’t understand the chase.

They didn’t understand beauty in blood, and violence, and sometimes even death.

But Denver seemed to come alive at the thought of it. The way his eyes had glimmered in the dark when blood hit his face and the way he gasped and his body begged for more at the graveyard told me everything.

Stretching my arms above my head, my fingers graze a headstone. I’m in the larger, Catholic cemetery with older headstones. I like it better here. The church has money, so the graves are maintained, the grass always freshly watered, and the ground is soft beneath my back.

Extending my arm fully, I feel around the etchings of the headstone. Bits of old granite crumble under my touch, and I think about the body that’s lying beneath me. It’s probably bones now—remnants of the person who lived here before they died.

It doesn’t look like anyone has maintained this plot. No fresh flowers, no fake ones, no footprints. They’re forgotten—memories turned to dust. Then I think about the people who are long dead but immortalized because no one forgets who they are. People who left their mark on the world, beloved and treasured, even if they were shit people.

That won’t be me. My brothers will remember until they’re gone, but I don’t think we’ll be continuing our family line the way my father has always wanted. The idea of kids turns my stomach sour. The idea of having to play uncle to children my brothers could create terrifies me.

Luckily, they both feel the same way I do. They don’t see a point, and there’s no pride in this legacy. My brothers don’t see beauty in nothingness the way I do. I think Percy believes in something, and Milo’s probably afraid to consider an afterlife. But there’s no way to ignore how we’ve all suffered, and I don’t think any of us wants to pass along any more generational trauma.

Then something around me stirs. The silence of the cemetery has shifted, and my hackles rise. I’m being watched. I rarely ever feel threatened, but I’m cautious as I sit up and immediately scan the area. It takes me a moment to find who it is, but when I do, my heart skitters in my chest.

It’shim. My little rabbit.

Does he know I can see him? He’s lurking behind the large trunk of a tree, one hand pressed to the wood, the rest of his body attempting to hide. But even in a pitch-black room, I would know him. I’ve memorized the way he moves, the way he breathes, how often he blinks, and the way his fingers twitch when he’s mumbling to himself in sign.

He can’t hide. The chase is over. He might not know it yet, but I’ve already caught him, and all I can do is sit here and pretend I don’t know he’s watching. I know the feeling it’ll give him, the zing up his spine, the joy of the hunt. I want him to feel as free as I am.

Even if it’s all bullshit.

My dick gets hard, and I want to palm it. I’m out in the open, but there’s no one else around, and the entrance to thiscemetery is more than half a mile away from where I’ve found this comfortable spot.

Pressing my back against the headstone, I close my eyes and dip my hand beneath the waistband of my pants. The other slips into my pocket to feel my prize from the night before. The lace panties still smell like him. I stroke my thumb over the rough fabric and feel my dick get harder.

My breath is heavy, the sound a little too harsh for my liking, but it doesn’t bother me enough to reach for my earplugs yet. I grunt when my zipper slips down and my cock springs free from the slit in my boxers. It’s warm against my palm—hard, throbbing.

Opening my eyes, I don’t see Denver right away. It takes me a moment to find his wisps of dark hair floating in the breeze. My heart leaps in my chest. He’s moved closer now, just above a larger headstone shaped like a cross.

My throat gets a little tight with excitement, and I make a long, tight hum as I begin to stroke. There might be cameras watching for security, but I don’t care.

I want him to see this.

I want him to want me exactly as I am.

I stroke faster, a small gasp ripping from my chest as my balls go tight with the need to come. I don’t. Not yet. He’s moving closer now, being a lot less careful, unaware of his surroundings, unlike the way I was trained.