Man Hunt (The Hanged Men Book 3) by Daniel May

Author:Daniel May [May, Daniel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-29T16:00:00+00:00

Next to the apology, someone had drawn a sketch of the leering sonnabend from the night before. It was a very good sketch. A speech bubble went from its toothy maw to encircle the words.

“Mary?” muttered Dio, nonplussed, fresh out of the shower with a haze of what Mars suspected was post-nut stupidity on his face.

“I assume that’s its name,” Mars had said, eyes boring into the wet nape of Dio’s neck, wanting to chew it.

Opening the box, Dio had groaned, hand flying to his mouth in horror. “Oh, noooooooo.”

Now he sat at the breakfast table in a fuckboy navy polo, nice pants, tidily combed hair.

And a pair of bright gold cowboy boots.

Dio stared at the table and its spread of scones, mini quiches, eggs Benedict and fresh fruit, and looked haunted.

“Diomedes, you are not eating,” said Helen disapprovingly. “What’s the matter?”

They sat in a cozy nook, close enough to the beach to hear the water through big windows cut into the stone. Natural sunlight snuck in, along with the sound of birds, and live plants had been made to grow in that space between in and outside. Mars would have appreciated it if he had not been… preoccupied.

Dio didn’t respond to his mother immediately. He was staring fixedly at a grapefruit as if it held some secret wisdom pertinent to getting buttfucked.

Mars — who had come dressed in a beachy wrap skirt, all the easier to shed for any possible spontaneous drilling — slipped off a sandal and glided a toe up the side of Dio’s calf.

Dio sat bolt upright.

“Ouagh,” he said, and then, “Hm, what?”

Helen — queenly in very classic, very sun-smart summer cotton — raised her eyebrows critically at him.

Before she could repeat her question or ask where on Earth his little cabbage brain was, Dio suddenly went on the offensive. It was an instinctive move, Mars thought, and was both amused and slightly impressed. It was the chessboard tactics of someone who had faced many an awkward breakfast interrogation.

“Racing Saturday horses, huh?” he said, grabbing a pear. “Does Dad know?”

His mother didn’t bat an eye.

“Bill introduced you to the girls, then?” She smiled and put her cup of espresso to her lips.

“You always said Dad was nuts for keeping those things,” he said. There was a tone almost of personal injury in his voice — the petty, indignant voice of a mama’s boy who hadn’t been told a secret.

God, Mars wanted him bad.

He drummed his nails — Baby Flamingo freshly topped off and sealed after the night’s adventures — on the table and thought about how Dio probably had a perfectly muscular, lily-white ass from riding horses. Not exactly a hobby which lent itself to a tan backside.

He thought about how that pristine, lily-white ass was going to look with teeth marks in it.

He tried to beam the image into Dio’s pretty blond dome, staring into the side of it, only to become thoroughly distracted by the round shell of his ear. Mars marked it for later with his eyes, with absolute precision, as if with the red dot of a sniper’s laser.

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