The Lonely Hunter Novels & Stories

Hunter knew all too well that every decision comes with its consequences. He made a deal with the Patels' to get rid of Ludo but he didn’t hold his end of the bargain. Despite this, Hunter was no man to be intimidated by the Patels. As a matter of fact, they were out of the picture for him because he had finally got what he sought after; the manuscript. As soon as he got home, he printed the whole manuscript out, took it with him into his carnage backyard and treated himself to some reading. He never remembered when he had read like that but he was determined to finish reading the whole story that very day.

She collapsed onto the leather, trembling and satisfied — like someone who’d finally been branded by the fire they’d always chased or craved. Hunter straightened his shirt and looked down at the girl. "Tell Mario to bring me something cold." "Y-yes, sir," she breathed. He walked away, his fury dulled but not dead. He needed a drink. A few minutes later, Mario, the old bartender with rolled sleeves and a weathered face, handed Hunter a fresh glass of whiskey. "Rough night?" Hunter gave a tired chuckle. "You could say that." Mario nodded. "You keep cleaning the shadows, Devil, but they’ll always crawl back."

Hunter panicked fearing he would kill Michael so he lowered his gun and crawl to him amidst that rain of smoke and fire. “Boss, stop it’s Dad. Let me handle it.” He whispered to Dylan but nothing worked. The man was consumed with bloodlust. Failing to convince him, Hunter had no option and engaged in that bloodbath. He had sworn his loyalty to Dylan, he can’t let anyone come in his way even his own father. The loud sound of gunshots echoed in the forests for a very long time but it ended the moment Dylan staggered to the ground.

But before I could draw it, Something hard collided with the back of my neck. “Troublesome Hunter,” I faintly heard his deep voice grumble. Then, the world dissolved into blessed, silent black.

On the fourth night, beneath the waning gibbous, he found her. Curled in a hollowed-out den beneath the cliff trees, exhausted, half-starved, still caught between wolf and woman. Her silver eyes were dulled by hunger. But even then, she looked relieved and free. He hated that. Cautiously, he stepped into the hollow. The movement caused her to stir. She snarled and tried to rise to a defensive stance but stumbled. “Don’t,” he said, cold and calculating. “I brought food,” he added, tossing a wrapped bundle beside her, raw venison.

Now you want to act like I betrayed you you’re just mad because now I can leave you and prove you cheated first I have proof and you’ll get nothing from me. Suddenly the wife yells “you fucking liar none of that is true, you attacked me and he defended me and told you he loved me. You lost in and started hitting us as you went to leave I thought that was the end and I went to get cleaned up and I thought you left but I came back and he was dead in our bed.” She’s crying and then Clara says,” when I left your husband was alive and planning to leave you to be with me.”She starts to cry and continues, “ we were happy and had plans we were going to go to Colorado and start our own little horse r

_Terrified_. “_I’m _lonely_ too, Seven.” Rylan’s eyes _flickered_. _Four_. “_Good_,” Four said. “_Then _let_ me _in_. Be _less_ lonely _together_.” One _flinchd_. The chip. In his head. _Screaming_. _KILL SEVEN KILL SEVEN KILL SEVEN_ He looked at Kieran. At the _gun_. “_Do it_,” One whispered. “_Before _he_ takes _me_. Before I _hurt_ him. _Please_.”

I reflexively avoided him again. “Stay here, Jonea. I want to talk with you. And you, Marilyn Monroe, please give us some time alone.” “What did you say?” Marilyn’s voice rose an octave. “How could I leave Jonea, my most precious friend, alone with you? You’re a cold-blooded murderer!” Hunter did not respond to Marilyn’s harsh words. He was silent and seemed to be trying to restrain himself. I was really confused. Finally, I asked Marilyn to go to the restaurant and make a reservation.

She vanished around a bend. He dropped to one knee. His head throbbed. He ran a hand through his hair—laced with fragments of pine needles. He was left alone beneath the trees, watching where she’d disappeared. The late afternoon sun slanted through the branches, untouched by shadow. His chest pounded. His shirt felt like a wilderness on him. He pressed a hand to his mouth. “Damn it… I really messed things up,” he murmured, voice rough with regret. He stayed there as the woods went quiet again, the pines swaying gently above—bearing silent witness to everything that had happened.

Every wound hit me again, all at once, but still I stood, knees knocking against the weight of the pain. I held my fist firmly in place, thumb tucked beneath the neat curl of my fingers, on the outside, never the inside. The hunters did not want me, but I was too much a part of them to let them go. I was a hunter, and I would go down fighting.