The Wolf
I can navigate the bush that surrounds me in any weather or light. I’d know it with my eyes closed, like the back of my hand—I know this bushland. There are forty hectares I’ve spent years walking, yet I worry. I worry that Morgan might find her way off my land, infringing on another’s.
The closest neighbouring house to mine is another one hundred hectares away, yet their land is much, much closer. There’s no way Morgan could have made it to their home during the night on foot even with the healthiest of bodies. She’s a walking corpse—a fucking walking corpse that managed to ambush me.
“Fuck,” I groan.
If I don’t find her today, there’s a possibility she’ll stumble her way out of here, and if she does, I’ll go on a massacre. I’ll kill any fucker who gets in my way until I’ve found her. My fury will be unleashed. I’ll take more lives than I planned to. I’ll do anything to see that bitch dead. I was never going to let her live—I just wanted to give her a chance to figure out the game. She’s royally fucked up my fucking game.
Leaves rustle above me, stealing my attention. I tilt my head back. The sun has me squinting my eyes as I search for the source. A grey fur-covered claw reaches out scooping a handful of eucalyptus leaves from the old gum tree in front of me. It’s not Red. It’s a fucking koala.
Where the fuck is Red?
She should have run her circle and collided with my chest by now. She should have been in those bushes last night, too, only she wasn’t—a fucking possum was, though. That glowing-eyed critter copped the full brunt of my rage as it flew off the end of my boot. I wish it had been Morgan’s face connecting with my swinging leg, then I wouldn’t be out here walking these grounds like I am.
Each foot I place in front of the other has me thinking about the wildlife that hunts these parts alongside me. The wildlife always hungry for blood, just like I am.
Have they ripped her to pieces? Have the dingoes, foxes, and wild pigs taken the pleasure I want for myself?
I growl, “Fucking hope not.”
Morgan’s life is mine for the taking, not theirs.
Grey stones fill my vision. A massive rock wall, too high to scale, has me huffing. I’m going to need my equipment to find her. I’m probably going to need to borrow some of Winston’s high-tech shit as well. It won’t take long for the day to become night.
Thank fuck Winston is out of town hunting, which means I have full access to his gear without any questions asked. Winston is a nosey bastard, but given his past, and what he once did for a living, it makes sense he’s suspicious. You don’t roll with the mafia and not think every person is out to get you.
Four hours, give or take a few minutes, is how long it usually takes for me to reach Winston’s shack and get back. Add in the time it’ll take to retrieve the stuff I need … “Shit, Morgan, you’ve messed with the wrong fucker today.”
I breathe. I close my eyes. I calculate the amount of time that’s passed in comparison to the condition Morgan’s in, and the time I’ll need … I’ll be cutting it close to how near to freedom she could get.
Disappointment rushes through my veins, and with a harrumph expelling from my pressed lips, my temper rises. I whip around and stomp heavily towards my cabin. I think about the fucking holes ripped through my shirt and torn through my skin. That bitch left those there. Morgan has taken so much from me, and I just want this game over.
Calm yourself.
Don’t lose control.
You will find her.
I will find her.
A good hunter knows how to keep his patience and wait for his target to find him. I’m letting all my training go down the shitter because of one woman. Hell is not where I need to allow myself to travel right now. Instead, I need to sort the memories of my previous Reds and draw on those accomplishments.
Don’t let your emotions erase your composure. You are more manly than this.
I take three long drawn-out breaths and search for someone to extinguish my brewing anger. Red Number Three was one of my favourite captures and kills to date, and I replay our meeting—her wrongdoing—and her capture, over and over in my mind. It’s like a show on television playing before my eyes, and it eases the growing tension invading my muscles as I navigate the bushland home. Donna Martin will keep me rational and focused.
“Hi, I’m Donna.” She grips her bottom lip between her glowing white teeth as she leans against the mahogany bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Her breasts heave, and as her ample cleavage demands my attention, spilling out of her tight hot pink dress, I realise she has figured out who I am. Her wide star-struck eyes and lightly flushed cheeks are a dead giveaway.
This bitch likes powerful men. Even in another town, I’m recognisable. I shouldn’t be surprised. “Sure. A martini, shaken, not stirred.”
She bats her eyelashes, then squeezes her muscular thighs together. Her teeth pinch her bottom lip between them. She knows what she wants and how to get it. And If she wants a movie-worthy fuck, I’ll give her one. I’ll play James Bond, and she can play the slut I bed and leave behind in my wake.
Women only want to be taken by men with money and power. They want jewels and the beautiful things in life. They need the promise of being financially taken care of. They don’t want to be loved by a heart or worshipped by a tender touch. Women don’t want love; women never seek true love.
It’s a giggle, a flirty fucking giggle that has me focusing on her sapphire blue eyes. “Okay, James.” She walks her long, pink-painted nails up the sleeve of my black business jacket. They’re the same pink as her stained lips.
“Thank you, Red.” I name her appropriately for her behaviour.
Her eyes grow even more prominent. “Oh, Red? I like it. It matches my hair.”
“I knew you would.” Fucking tramp.
“Bartender. One martini, shaken and not stirred.” She pauses. “Make it two.” She brushes her long flowing red locks over one shoulder and again grips her lip between her teeth, only this time she lets it slowly escape, really fucking slowly.
My dick jumps in my pants. I may hate women’s souls, but I sure like to bed them and make them surrender to my dominance.
In the next hour, she’ll submit. She’ll let me do whatever it is I want. I’m going to do things to her she never dreamt she’d allow any man to do.
I laugh outwardly.
Her head whips to me. Her hair falls in a bounce down her back. “What’s so funny, James?”
“Nothing.” I offer a toothy, yet playful smile.
“Oh, you’re a naughty boy, aren’t you, James?” She’s a seductive piece of work.
“Would you like to find out?”
Her pale cheeks blush a pretty pink. “Smooth talker.” She cocks an eyebrow and skims her nails up and down my jacket.
I laugh before leaning into her. I breathe against her neck and skim my lips along her earlobe. “I can make you wet by whispering how fucking delicious I know your pussy will be in your ear.”
She swallows hard. She pants.
I slide my hand over her soft hair and down her back until I stop at her arse. Her breath catches in her throat, and the sound makes my dick jump in my trousers once more.
“I-I-I … well,” she stutters.
“I think you should go play with the little boys, love. You can’t handle what I’ve got.” I take her hand, which is hanging limply by the side of the bar, and move it until it’s pressed against my erect cock.
She takes a short breath, then her blue eyes gleam. She reins in her surprised expression. She bites her bottom lip, rolls her eyes, and whispers, “You’d be surprised by what I could do with that.” Her hand becomes tight around my shaft.
Red is confident. I like it.
“Bartender, put those drinks on my room.” I wink before turning my attention back to the large busted redhead in front of me. “After you.” I grin.
Her lips stretch wide. Her eyes close halfway. She’s drunk on adrenaline. She turns on her thin peg heels. Her hips sway from side to side. Long legs travel on forever until the dress covers the way they join at her arse. Red peeks back over her shoulder and offers me a sweet giggle.
A fierce groan echoes in my throat.
I fuck Donna Martin every which way I can. For hours. No orifice becomes off limits, and no hard slap on her arse or pull of her hair seems too much for her. She takes me roughly. She submits. I own every bit of her until my erection goes limp and I can’t plough myself into her sloppy pussy anymore.
“Oh, James.” She stands from the bed and bats her long black eyelashes. “Is that all you have in you?” Cum trickles between her thighs. “I thought you were one of the big boys. It seems you’re all cock and no stamina.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw spasms. I leap from the mattress and reach out until I roll my hand into her hair. I wrap her locks around my palm multiple times. Her neck lengthens and then extends backwards as I pull. “Red, I will fuck you until you bleed. Shut your mouth.” Her body goes stiff. “I want your blood oozing down my cock. I want your insides mangled so nobody can ever touch you again.” I pause to add new fear. “Do you want me to rip you apart? Because that’s all I can offer your sloppy date now.”
She trembles against me. “Wh-what? N-n-n-no. Too … too far.” Her lips pull down, and her eyes leak tears. “Please, let …let …me …go.”
“Don’t bait me. Don’t fucking bait me again,” I snap.
“Sorry,” she cries.
I release her with a hard shove, and as she stumbles backwards, I swing my arm and strike her across the cheek with the back of my hand.
She screams out. “Please. No!” she cries harder. “I’ll take my money, and I’ll go. I’ll go.”
Money? What fucking money?
There’s a moment of quiet when she wipes the blood away from her lips. “I don’t play these types of games, James. I’m just here to get laid and get paid.”
Games? What games? Paid to get laid? What the fuck?
I deliver a fierce stare.
“Look, mister, please. I’m just doing this to pay my bills and my university fees. I-I don’t go that far though. No money could make me let you do anything like that. Rape fantasies are not my thing.”
“You’re a whore?” I bellow.
“I’m a call girl. I’m not a whore. I don’t have a choice. I need an education and a better life for myself.”
I’m livid, and as I pace back and forth, growling like a beast that has a thorn wedged in the pad of its foot, the need to strangle the life from her stupid fucking neck grows.
“Hey, what we just did is further than I’ve ever gone before, but—”
I stomp my foot.
She stops speaking. Her skin turns a shade of grey.
“No. You get not a cent.” I offer a murderous stare.
“Please. One thousand dollars and I’ll be gone.” She’s trembling.
“Are you deaf?”
She shakes her head.
We’re going to play games. We’re going to play my game if this cunt doesn’t leave this hotel room right now. How will she like playing The Game of fucking Life with me?
“Get your clothes on,” I bark.
“I thought you knew. I thought you—”
I launch myself across the room, wrapping my arm around her neck, smothering her lips with my opposite hand. “I had no idea you were a fucking prostitute. Get dressed and get out,” I snarl from deep within my throat, pushing her away.
She scrambles to pick up her clothes, and as tears roll in a line down her face, streaking her heavy make-up, I find myself unable to look at her a minute longer.
I march angrily into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. The walls shake from the force.
The mirror above the sink catches my reflection. I gaze into my narrow eyes, see my flared nostrils and pressed lips.
I want her blood to spill on the floor. I want it now.
Click!
The sound of the latch has me reefing open the bathroom door. She’s leaving.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I yell.
Her body stiffens. She drops the wallet, my wallet, the one she’s holding in her hand. She doesn’t turn to look at me. Instead, she runs with her high heels hanging from her fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she calls back. The panic in her tone is exhilarating.
I leap forward. I want to chase, capture, but I don’t. I stop dead in my tracks.
That bitch has a death wish, and it’s a wish I’m going to deliver. The hunt will be worth every moment. Her death will be the best revenge. “You’re a dead bitch, Red,” I murmur.
For three weeks, I stalk my prey. I case her school, her workplace, and follow her regular clients who are nothing but sleazy vermin who should cease to exist. Red’s daily schedule becomes burned into my memory. She makes it easy, and I’m like a greyhound picking up her trashy scent wherever she trots.
The security at her rundown one-bedroom apartment is pathetic. Why do women think that a cheap Home Depot lock is all they need to keep out a determined predator?
Dumb bitches.
I wait in a dark corner of her bedroom, the floor littered with clothing and high heels. She treats her stuff like trash. She is trash. A sharp needle containing a sleeping agent hangs between my fingers. Red will sleep well—until I can get her over state lines and into my territory, that is. Then, the fun begins. The lock turns over. Screech. Bang. Clip, clop. Clip. Clop. She’s walking right towards me. She has no idea what’s about to happen. She won’t escape. My heart gallops. I smile. She’s finally mine.
Donna Martin: university student. Daughter. Sister. Hooker. She never saw what was coming, and the moment I stuck that prick into the soft skin of her neck, she fell limp in my arms. The rush of pure adrenaline I craved filled me completely. I exhale a satisfied moan.
Oh, how much fun we went on to have. Donna was feisty to the end. She was no Morgan though.
Morgan! Where the fuck is that bitch?