Page 32 of Hunting Ground

“Just didn’t want you going soft, pretty princess,” Adrien purrs, leaning back and balancing on one foot to press the other against the back of Cletus’s head. “After all.” With one violent shove, he stomps Cletus’s face into the edge of the spinning platform, causing his face to finally give way. There’s a high wail, and another sharp crack, and that’s it. The fragile bones of Cletus’s face surrender under Adrien's heel, breaking against the platform as his face caves in.

When Adrien drops his shoe, Cletus slithers to the ground and doesn’t move. There’s no more wailing. No more anything from the man, except blood pooling around his ruined face.

“You said you wanted to kill them all.”

12

Adrien leaves a few minutes later, deciding he doesn’t mind being the one to scout out the roller rink. He barely spares Cletus a glance, though I find my attention keeps creeping back to the dead man. Especially now that he’s lying in a pool of his own blood on the pier.

The music from the carousel feels much too loud in my ears, and I walk past it to the edge of Wonderlight Pier to stare down at the black water below.

It feels surreal to be here again, like this, with them. Surely if this is a hallucination my brain had conjured up, there would be a lot more sex and a lot less murder.

But then again, I suppose I’m maybe not the most mentally stable person. So maybe if I am having a mental break, the amount of violence in my hallucinations are reasonable. I snort at that thought, and my hands tighten on the railing while I stare blankly down at the churning, frothing tide. The salt air seems to catch in my lungs when I inhale, and it’s only at the very last minute that I hear someone behind me.

Then Ansel has an arm around me, and my mousy-haired best friend drags me back to him. Without looking at him, I can feel the difference in his grip. There’s a strength there that never was before. More than that, there’s a stillness that I can’t explain, and that I certainly don’t understand.

“Are you mad at me?” he asks in a voice that’s carefully neutral. I lean against his chest, not speaking, and trace his fingers on my waist.

“For what? Not getting in on the Cletus murder?” I ask softly, humor lacing the words. “Absolutely furious.”

Ansel scoffs. “Be serious.”

“I’m sure I’ve never been more serious–”

“You’re so difficult.” He wraps his other arm around me and buries his face in my throat. “Fuck,” he snarls, sounding more like a starved animal than my Ansel. “You’re just so difficult, you know that.” His lips trace my pulse, kissing, stroking softly, before he’s suddenly biting down with his teeth grazing my skin.

“Ansel,” I gasp, my head spinning. The idea that he wants this–that they want this–is something I haven’t been able to wrap my head around. How can I, when I spent all of our teenage years with an unrequited crush on both of my best friends? Telling them had been out of the question, of course. I’d been so convinced for so long that they would turn me down and it would create distance between us. That they’d never look at me the same way, and I’d lose the two of them forever.

To have them acting like this, like it was always this obvious, sends a tremor of frustration and want down my spine anytime they’re close.

“You were never like this before,” I blurt out finally when he nips at my throat again. “You didn’t want me. Didn’t want this.”

“We always wanted you.” His voice is surprisingly raw, and the tone makes me shiver. “You were just too oblivious to notice.” At my protest, he bites down harder, turning my words into a yelp and smiling against my throat.

I’m finally able to wiggle away from him, though it takes everything in me to do it. Fuck, but it’s so hard to convince myself that this is not the time. That I need to take care of this fucked up mess I’ve gotten myself into, instead of grabbing Ansel and dragging him in for a kiss where I can explore every inch of space between his lips.

“I’m not mad,” I murmur at last. “Things are just a lot tonight.” My hand comes up to hover near his oh so familiar, yet changed face. He’s still my Ansel. Just older and harsher, in some ways.

But he’s still mine, no matter how I look at it. My fingers touch his jaw before I can stop myself, and as I step away from the carousel, another warm weight presses to my back.

“Are you okay?” Ronan murmurs against my ear, caging me in from behind.

No, I want to say. No, I’m very much not okay. How can I be, when the two of them are holding me between them, not letting me go, like I’m simultaneously their prey and their greatest treasure. My heart flutters in my chest, making me feel like a swooning teenager again, and when I glance back behind me to look at Ronan, I’m surprised by the level of heat in his gaze.

And the predatory bloodlust that hasn’t quite died down yet.

“You’re vicious,” I breathe. Then I look between them, and correct myself. “You’re both different. You’ve changed.” It isn’t an accusation, exactly. Just a whispered observation that I’m finally ready to say outside. “You weren’t like this before.”

“You just never saw it,” Ansel chuckles, one hand gripping the front of my hoodie. He pushes my hair back to look at my grazed ear, and I wince under his gentle touch. Then he moves to my face, and my arm, checking each wound in turn before being satisfied that they’re incredibly minor.

“You don’t even need stitches,” Ansel huffs, giving me an amused glance from under his lashes. “And here I thought I’d get to show off my new and improved medical skills on you.”

That has Ronan groaning, and he buries his face into my shoulder. “Count yourself lucky,” he grumbles. “You really don’t want him stitching you up. Hurts like a bitch.”

“Only because you’re a crybaby,” Ansel snaps back, reaching out to tug on Ronan’s hair. He pulls his face up only slightly, and only so Ronan has a better angle to nip at my throat. The action surprises me into a yelp, but when I move to twist around, Ansel is right there.

Refusing to let me.