Page 2 of Hunter's Revenge

I am destruction.

And I am death.

ChapterOne

Malik

Wilmington, present day…

Her name is Gwen St. James.

She’s a twenty-three-year-old fashion and design graduate. She’s been managing her grandmother’s restaurant while she runs her own online lingerie store with her best friend.

Miss Gwen St. James also happens to be number three on my list, but her large perky tits, shapely hips, and that round ass of hers bumped her right up to number one.

Not many women have captured the attention of my dick the way she has. So, my fascination with her is interesting.

I rivet my gaze to her body as she enters the bedroom, completely unaware of my menacing presence beyond the two-way mirrored wall of her walk-in wardrobe.

The sweet magnolia scent of her perfume is stronger in here. It clings to her clothes hanging from the surrounding rails with invisible fingers laced with temptation.

I’m sure whoever designed the room never thought the mirror would come in handy for would-be stalkers or devils like me with fucked-up intentions.

I can see her, but she can’t see me.

If she could, she’d probably scream at the presence of an intruder in her home, then run off and call the sheriff and his deputy. Neither of which could do a goddamn thing to me. I’d either be long gone before they got here, or I’d deal with them, and they would never see the light of day again.

But everyone is safe from me tonight.

Tonight, I’m just here to watch.

Watch and dig a bigger hole for myself because I shouldn’t be watching her likethis.

My fascination is bad for us both because if she’s the woman I’m looking for, I don’t want to feel anything for her.

Not even attraction. If she’s not her, it’s still bad.

Women like Gwen St. James don’t belong with men like me.

Women in general are a distraction I can’t afford. Despite that, this one caught my attention and I wanted a closer look at the beauty. Days ago, when I first saw her, I was much too far away. The pictures I got are breathtaking, but they don’t do her justice.

They didn’t capture the jade hue of her eyes or the bronze hint of her silky skin. They didn’t pick out the lighter parts of her waist-length blond hair which is almost golden, and they certainly didn’t capture her perfect body.

Tonight, Miss Gwen St. James is wearing a little red halter-neck dress that shows off deep cleavage and long legs. A golden braid falls over her shoulder and those pouty red lips sparkle against the room light.

The entire ensemble makes her look like a cross between a 1950s pin-up girl and one of those models you see in makeup commercials. She has that bouncy and flirty vibe. But something is going on with her that’s taken the bounce out of her step.

Something that’s not me—who she doesn’t know yet.

Distress wrinkles her pretty face as she sets her purse on the desk by the window.

She gazes out to the shadowy mass of trees for a few moments before her shoulders sag with the weight of someone who’s carrying many burdens.

Like she’s in trouble. I haven’t received any new information to suggest so, but the knack to sense trouble was encoded in my DNA alongside my off-the-charts ability to spot microscopic details the average human would miss.

Gwen turns back to her bag, opens it, and digs around until she finds her phone. She dials a number and presses the phone to her ear.

“I’m just checking in,” she says in a soft-spoken voice.