Chapter Three: The Hunt

Chapter Three

Cyrus Pov

The color draining from her face gave Cyrus immense pleasure. He could hear her heart beating from where he stood. Somehow among the blaring sirens it was even louder, the rise and fall of her full breasts followed in the same rhythm.

He was tired of the games. He didn’t send any bloody letter to anyone, and he was sure she wasn’t there because of some letter. No one knew he was alive, to the world he is a dead man. He didn’t exist, he was worse than a dead man. A dead man is remembered, the grief of his loved ones a burning candle keeping him alive even when he is long gone. Cyrus was non-existent. Dead was too merciful a term. So how could the dead then send letters? He didn’t know what her motive was, but he was sure of one thing: she wanted him. He saw it in her eyes when he was in the bliss of his blowjob, the innocence in her eyes corrupted with pure desire. It was such a turn on, watching her deny the arousal she felt.

 He wanted the security pass to his cell. That’s why he indulged that dimwitted bimbo. The plastic surgery experiment of a security guard had always tried to get his attention. Unbuttoning her uniform hinted off her voluminous breasts, making sure her fingers brushed over his cock when she did her regular drug check.  He had been in isolation for over a year now simply because he shot a security guard’s balls with his own weapon. The little prick deserved it for raising his voice at him. Placing him in solitary confinement was a tad dramatic. I mean he was doing the female population a favor, his balls weren’t even more than 3 inches.

He needed to get away from this room. He was losing his mind. He always had to be on the move, or else the thoughts of_ her_ would come to hunt him. The death of the love of his life. The scene plays out in his head like a scary movie on replay. It tore at him, tormented him and deprived him of every ounce of peace. It was his punishment. He deserved the darkness. He failed her. In this isolation, his demons have come out to play, stretching their hands to suffocate him. He couldn’t tell what was reality or just a state of preconceived images fueled by regrets, what-ifs and loneliness.

The memories were the hardest. They came when he closed his eyes, and she was always there. The way she’d tilt her head when she was thinking over their next heist. The scent of her skin lingering when he made love to her, the warmth of her hand potent even in the cold isolation. Memories that only weigh heavier with the burden of_ her end.

The gunshots. The blood. His own useless hands, too slow, too weak to stop it.

 He needed that security access card. It was a calculated move.

Every move Cyrus made had to be calculated.

Amanda was a surprise, an unprecedented occurrence and he hated surprises.

But the way she looked at him, as he fucked the bimbo’s mouth to submission. He dared say it was worth it. She wanted him, and who was she? He had no idea. Perhaps a daughter of one of these old sleaze bags guarding this hellhole or one of the cleaners? Or those terrible lawyers his son Marcus sent in the past to unfailingly intimidate him .

But she didn’t really look the part.

Despite having that uptight look, and a face that had never seen the ugly side of morality. She lacked that air of arrogance plastered on their faces and the signature power suit that was usually used by lawyers to convey a shallow sense of confidence. Then there was that hair, it stuck out like a red stain on a white wall. In a world where power suits and sleek buns ruled, her curls were contempt of court. They were untamed and wild, making a mockery of her messy hair-up-do. It drove him crazy, the way it glowed in the fluorescent lights. It glowed like flames, and he would happily get burned while wrapping his hands with all of that hair, bending it to his will.

The vibrant red framed a youthful softness. She appeared to be probably in her mid-twenties or even younger. She was probably younger than his youngest son. His face hardened with the thought of him. His sentence should be increased with the way he was looking at her, like some obsessed pedophile. Her face showed signs of a woman who had never seen the ugly side of the world. Her full pump lips were set in a pout out of irritation, followed by the glare of her omber eyes, which had a hue of grey in them. She was completely breathtaking, an embodiment of deceit; one feature contradicting the other. The contrast was intoxicating: the girl next door charm of her delicate features against the untamed sensuality of her curls.  Her demeanor was calm. Even in the circumstances, she was restricting her outbursts, barely holding on to its reins. It appeared to be out of habit.

 He wondered how many times?

She had to tame that little beast growling inside of her.

How easily she fooled the people around her.

But it couldn’t get past him.

He studied her like a subject, appraising her with the quest of understanding, making sure to uncover every inch of her body. So his mind could pass the test of recalling these features when she was long gone.  

Maybe she got lost. This was the biggest maximum security facility in the country. It was easier to navigate through a mall on Christmas Eve.

How did she get here?

 He didn’t care, but what he was certain of was that he had to have her.

Long gone was his quest to escape this room.

Before he could think much of it, he placed the passcode he had studied for months and used the security pass to lock them in.

His curiosity superseding his sense of freedom.

It had been a while desire stirred inside of him with such an unrelenting force .The foreplay and denial as to what she really was here for; was strangely infuriating yet entertaining .

He could have driven her away.

Even asked the security men to throw her out but he wanted more .Perhaps it was the 10 years rotting in this hell hole or temporarily insanity but he needed to find out how the hell she knew he was alive and perhaps have a little fun while at it.

She was his prey and he was going to enjoy the hunt.