Chapter 11
My feet pound against the muddy earth.
I follow the stone-lantern path for maybe twenty yards, just long enough to be out of his line of sight from the shed door. The fog swirls around me.
He thinks I’m going to the gazebo. He really thinks, after everything he’s done, that I’ll just trot along like an obedient little dog to the designated meeting spot.
A bitter laugh almost escapes me. Only a complete and utter idiot would obey their stalker.
No, I have no reason to believe that this is a rescue mission; this is an abduction with a brief, terrifying intermission.
This park is huge, winding through acres of university property.
All I need to do is get off this stupid path, find a truly secluded spot—a ditch, a cluster of thick pines, anything—and sit there. Quietly. I’ll wait until morning. Wait until this whole sick, twisted game is over.
I veer sharply off the path, plunging into the thick underbrush. Twigs and thorns scratch at my face and pull at my clothes.
Every few feet, a strange light flickers in the distance—one of the decorative orange floods, or maybe a flashlight from one of the masked players. It casts long, monstrous shadows that dance and writhe between the trees. The air smells like damp soil and decay.
I find what I’m looking for behind a massive, weeping willow whose long, trailing branches create a natural curtain.
I slip behind them, pressing my back against the rough bark of the trunk, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I try to control my breathing, drawing in slow, silent breaths.
I just have to wait him out. He’ll go to the gazebo, find it empty, and have no idea where I went.
I allow myself a small, smug smile. I’m not his helpless little bee.
Then I hear it. A single, sharp crack of a twig. It’s too close. Way too close.
My blood runs cold. I hold my breath, every muscle in my body frozen.
I peek through a small gap in the willow’s leaves. And there he is. Not on the path. He’s moving parallel to it, through the trees, his dark form cutting through the fog with an unnerving, predatory grace.
He’s not searching frantically. He’s tracking. He’s tracking me. He knew. He knew I wouldn’t obey.
He stops, his masked head tilting as if listening to something I can’t hear. I shrink back, praying the dense curtain of leaves is enough.
He takes a step in my direction.
And I run again.
I burst from behind the willow, ignoring the branches that whip against my face.
I don’t have a plan anymore. I just run, pure instinct taking over. The ground is uneven, a mess of exposed roots and slick patches of mud.
Behind me, I hear him give chase, his longer legs eating up the distance with horrifying speed.
This isn’t like before. This isn’t him dragging me. This is a hunt. And I am the prey.
A thrill, dark and sick and utterly shameful, shoots through me, mixing with the terror.
I vault over a fallen log, my muscles screaming in protest. I can hear his breathing now, closer, a steady, powerful rhythm that promises my inevitable capture.
I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s gaining on me.
I swerve to the right, slipping between two massive oaks. I need to break his line of sight. He anticipates the move, cutting me off.
I pivot again, my sneakers sliding in the mud, and scramble up a short, steep embankment. I claw at the damp earth, my fingers digging in for purchase.
For a second, I think I’ve made it. I think I’ve outmaneuvered him.
A freight train slams into me from behind.
The impact drives the air from my lungs in a whoosh.
We tumble down the other side of the embankment together, a tangled mess of limbs. I land hard on my back, the cold, damp ground shocking my system.
Before I can even register what happened, he’s on top of me, his heavy body covering mine from chest to thigh, pinning me to the earth.
One of his hands clamps over my mouth before I can scream, the other finds my throat, not choking, but holding me fast, his thumb pressing into the hollow at the base.
He uses his grip to tilt my head back, forcing my neck into a vulnerable arch. He lowers his head until the mask is inches from my face.
“Finally,” he rasps, his real voice a low, furious rumble against my ear.
“In the position you belong in. On your back. Beneath me.” He lets the words sink in, then adds, his tone dropping into something far more menacing, “And for putting yourself, in danger, little bee… you’re going to get what you deserve. ”
“Stop talking like that,” I manage to gasp, the words muffled against his palm.
A dark, deep chuckle vibrates through his chest and into mine. “Why?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Do you like it too much?”
My entire body flushes with a heat that has nothing to do with exertion. He’s right. God help me, he’s right, and he knows it.
The shame is so intense I think I might actually combust from it. His fingers, still wrapped around my throat, begin to move in a hypnotic caress.
His thumb traces the line of my jaw, then strokes down the taut cord of my neck.
“So responsive,” he murmurs. “You pretend to fight, but your body tells me everything. It screams for this.”
He shifts his weight, and with a strength that terrifies me, he pulls and pushes me, maneuvering my body until I’m no longer on my back, but on my knees in the mud.
He’s right behind me, his solid chest a wall against my back, his powerful thighs bracketing mine.
The sudden friction of my damp jeans against the rough denim of his own, combined with the memory of what happened in the shed, sends an involuntary jolt through me.
My body moves on its own, a small, desperate, seeking motion. I press back against him.
He lets out a sound that is half-groan, half-curse. “Holy shit, Easton.”
His free hand, the one not possessively holding my throat, snakes around my waist and slides down. His palm covers my already-hardening cock through my jeans, while his other hand keeps stroking my neck. He presses himself flush against my back.
“You feel that?” he asks, his voice strained. “That’s what you do. Every time.”
My mind is a warzone. I’m not gay. I’ve never been with a guy. This isn’t even Zane—I don’t know for sure—it’s a monster in a mask. I shouldn’t want this. I can’t want this.
His hand on my groin begins to move, a slow, torturous friction against the damp fabric. “You want your stalker, don’t you?” he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. “The one who sees you. The one who knows what you need before you do.”
He presses himself impossibly closer, his own thick erection a demanding pressure against me.
I push back against him again, a soft, helpless roll of my hips.
“Y-yes, please,” I whisper.
His hips begin to move, an unsteady rhythm that mirrors the movement of his hand on my cock.
“Easton,” he breathes.
A violent shudder wracks his entire frame. His powerful body jerks once, twice, a series of tense convulsions against my back.
His grip on my throat tightens reflexively, not enough to hurt, but enough to steal my breath for a half-second.
“Don’t,” he orders, his voice tortured, desperate, almost pleading. “Don’t fucking move.”
He stays there for a long moment, completely still except for the harsh, ragged breaths he’s pulling in.
And I realize, with a fresh wave of horrified arousal, what just happened. He came. Just from the friction of our clothed bodies. He came because I rubbed against him.
He is utterly obsessed with me. And now…
now I’m afraid. Not of him hurting me. I’m afraid of what I’ll let him do.
Afraid that some broken part of me wants to give him everything.
I feel a real, visceral panic rising in my throat.
I’ll let him do whatever he wants with me now, and that thought is the most frightening thing of all.
The fear breaks the spell. I begin to struggle, shoving backward with my elbows, twisting in his grasp. “I need to go!”
He seems to snap out of his daze, his hands moving to my shoulders to try and still me. “No, no, Easton. It’s okay,” he says, his voice still rough. “Calm down. What scared you so much?”
The question is so ludicrous, so completely devoid of self-awareness, that a bubble of hysterical laughter mixes with my fear. “What scared me? What sca—”
My angry tirade is cut short by the sound of voices. Not distant this time. Close. And getting closer.
“—swear I saw him go this way.”
“Fan out. Nero wants the bookworm found. Now.”
The stalker reacts instantly. He pulls me to my feet, yanking me back against his chest protectively. But it’s too late.
Three figures burst through the trees from the direction of the path. They are tall, broad as brick walls, their massive frames straining the dark hoodies they wear.
And on their faces, they wear the same kind of blank, terrifying masks as the man holding me captive.