Page 7 of Dark Little Game

I’m starting to feel neglected.

I’ll find a pretty girl to fuck by tonight, someone who likes to fight back when I toy with her. A woman wholikesit when I make her beg for more, but who won’t give it to me easy.

Someone with enoughfireto match mine.

My chest tightens as I gaze over the Crimson College quad. It’s all tall oak trees, stone buildings, and wrought iron fences covered in green moss and ivy.

What a fucking joke.

The type of prestige and wealth I’ve been surrounded by for my whole life.

And a new secret society that Weston and his infuriating bestie are part of.

Well, I’m part of it too, now.

Hope you’re fucking ready.

I keep my eyes focused on the giant building ahead.

The one thing that I truly need in life other than sex.

This place apparently has an excellent gym building, with rooms for dozens and dozens of different classes, rooms filled with rowing equipment, yoga studios, and multiple weightlifting rooms.

And the most important.

A fencing gym.

Somewhere I’mallowedto try to hurt someone.

Where it’s encouraged.

Where violence is nice, safe, and structured for people who can’t handle it when it’s messy, ugly, and raw.

I push open the double doors of the physical fitness building and walk inside. The smell of fresh rubber fills the air, the universal scent of athletics. The main hallway in the gym is crowded with students.

As I walk past the rows of lockers and look into the rooms, I see students swimming in a big indoor lap pool, working out on rowing machines, and a group playing volleyball.

When I get to the fencing gym, it’s the first time I feel like I’m home since stepping foot on this campus.

The gym is small but beautiful, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side that look out over grassy hills full of pine and oak trees.

Inside, there are mats on the floor and a wall full of swords.

Metal.

Weapons.

These are a few of my favorite things...

The fencing instructor is already waiting for me. He looks up, giving me a nod from the corner of the room.

“You must be Hunter Knox,” he says.

“And you’re David Hemson,” I say, shaking his hand.

He’s in his fifties, probably, with grey hair. When I transferred to this college, the fencing instructor was the first person I looked up.

Another student joins us soon after. Her shiny black hair is tied up in a high ponytail, and she’s probably onlyabout five foot three, which can make for a very agile sparring partner.