chapter 4: Things Hunter calls his

Francesco’s grip didn’t loosen until Dylan was shoved into the leather back seat. The locks clicked, sealing them inside. The engine started with a low growl.

“Where are you taking me?” Dylan’s voice was sharp, breathless.

Francesco kept his eyes on the road. “Somewhere safer than where you were.”

Dylan let out a bitter laugh. “Safer? With you?”

Francesco glanced at him briefly, his tone flat. “If I wanted you dead, Dylan… you wouldn’t still be speaking.”

Dylan swallowed, but he wasn’t finished. “Then why? Why drag me out like this?”

For a moment, Francesco didn’t answer. The only sound was the hum of the tires against the asphalt. Then, without looking at him, Francesco spoke — softer this time, but the weight in his voice was unmistakable.

“Because I know what happens to the things Hunter calls his.”

The rest of the ride was silent. The tension in the car was a living thing, crawling up Dylan’s spine until his shoulders ached from holding them stiff.

They drove through iron gates into a vast, shadow-draped estate. Inside, Francesco led Dylan into a dimly lit sitting room and gestured toward the couch. Dylan sat, his gaze never leaving him.

Francesco disappeared into another room and returned with a small black box. When he raised a hand toward Dylan, instinct took over — Dylan flinched, eyes squeezing shut, bracing for the impact.

Instead, a cold sting touched his skin.

Dylan’s eyes flickered open. Francesco was cleaning a cut on his arm, his movements deliberate, silent. Dylan hadn’t even realized he was hurt until now.

When it was done, Francesco packed the kit away, gave him one unreadable look, and left without a word.

Moments later, an older woman appeared. She carried neatly folded clothes and a tray of food.

“Change. Eat,” she said simply.

Dylan stared at the meal. Does he treat all his victims like this? Give them comfortable clothes and a warm plate before taking their souls?

His stomach growled. Never mind… I’m starving.

When he finished, the woman led him to a guest room. Dylan lay on the bed, listening for footsteps outside, waiting for death — but sleep took him instead.

A scream shattered the silence.

“Dylan!”

He shot up, heart pounding. That voice — he knew it. He stumbled to the window.

Hunter. Covered in blood.

Without thinking, Dylan ran downstairs. He found himself staring into Francesco’s eyes for a long, taut second before pushing past him. He rushed straight to Hunter, throwing his arms around him.

It’s true… Hunter is no longer in my heart. But that doesn’t mean I want him dead. Or to see him like this… because of me.

Hunter held him tight, his eyes flicking to Francesco in the distance. Without a word, he scooped Dylan up.

As they left, Dylan looked back — but Francesco was already gone.

Why did he help me? And how did Hunter even know where I was?

The answer came soon enough.

Back home, Hunter tossed the borrowed clothes aside and shoved Dylan under the running shower. His eyes were wild — not from pain, but possession.

He pressed Dylan against the cold tile, his lips crushing down, the kiss tasting of anger rather than affection. He pulled back just enough to whisper in a low, venomous tone, “Ew… you smell like him.”

His hands weren’t gentle; they scoured his skin like he could erase another man’s touch.

“Do I need to remind you,” he murmured against Dylan’s ear, “exactly who you belong to?”

Dylan could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. The water pounded down, but it didn’t wash away the dread curling in his chest.

That night, Hunter didn’t let him sleep.

When Dylan woke the next morning, the bed was empty. His eyes landed on the bracelet Hunter had given him — and the truth slammed into him. A tracker. That’s how Hunter had found him.

His mind drifted back to the day he first understood the depth of Hunter’s obsession.

It had started with love. Six months of bliss, the kind of romance people envied. Hunter knew his favorite coffee, his favorite books, the exact way to make him laugh when the world felt too heavy.

But love turned into something else the moment Hunter disappeared for six months, locked away by his father to be molded into the next leader of the Hendrix empire.

Dylan wasn’t allowed to see him, wasn’t allowed to call. So when longing became unbearable, he did the unthinkable — he went to Hunter’s home.

The hallway was silent, the air carrying the faint scent of cigar smoke and leather. Dylan’s fingers brushed along the wall as he walked, each step echoing in the empty house. He reached Hunter’s bedroom door and hesitated.

He told himself it was just to see him — to remind himself that Hunter was real after six months of silence. But when he pushed the door open, the air shifted.

The lights were dim, a single lamp casting a golden pool onto the far wall.

And there it was.

Every inch of that wall was covered in photographs of him.

Not framed. Not neatly arranged. Pinned and taped haphazardly, overlapping like layers of obsession. Some were faded, their edges curling; others were glossy and new, taken days — maybe hours — ago.

His stomach churned as his eyes scanned the images.

Him laughing in a café.

Him tying his shoelaces outside the university.

Him standing at a bus stop at night.

They weren’t the kind of pictures lovers kept. They were the kind you took when the subject didn’t know you were there.

Then his gaze fell lower.

Beneath the wall of photos was a long wooden table — no, an altar. A single candle burned at its center, its wax pooling in a silver tray. Around it lay small objects: the cap from Dylan’s favorite pen, a button from his old jacket, the wrapper from the chocolate bar he’d eaten weeks ago.

Every item was placed carefully, as if each held some private meaning only Hunter understood.

Dylan’s heart pounded in his throat. He opened the cupboard beside the table — and the air seemed to drop ten degrees.

Boxes. Neat, identical boxes. Inside each, more photos. But these weren’t just of him.

They were of strangers he recognized — the barista who once gave him a free coffee, the classmate who sat next to him for a week, the man who’d bumped into him outside the library.

In the next set of photos, those same people were in a dark room. Bound to chairs. Eyes wide with fear. And in every one of them, Hunter sat opposite, his posture relaxed, his expression patient — like a predator waiting for his prey to stop struggling.

Dylan’s fingers went cold.

It wasn’t just love. It wasn’t just control.

It was ownership.

And ownership in Hunter’s world meant one thing — if he couldn’t have you, no one could.

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