Chapter 33 #2
The lane opens into a small clearing. Trees ring it on all sides, tall pines and oaks, their branches whispering in the slight breeze.
The ground is mostly packed earth with patches of grass; there’s enough space to park the bike and move around without being seen from the road.
I know because I’ve used this place before, for reasons that would make most people sleep with the lights on.
For once, that’s not why I’m here.
I cut the engine, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears. Brendon’s arms stay around me for a few seconds, like his body hasn’t gotten the memo that we’ve stopped. Then he loosens his grip and eases back, swinging one leg over and dismounting clumsily.
His feet hit the ground, and he wobbles a little. I catch his wrist before he can do something graceful like fall on his ass. He glares at me through the helmet visor, then yanks the helmet off completely, hair now sticking up in twenty different directions.
“Never make me do that again,” he says immediately.
“Hey, you tolerated it,” I say, taking the helmet from him and setting both on the bike.
He looks around, arms crossing over his chest. “Why are we in the middle of a forest?” he asks slowly. “At midnight. On a weeknight. Before your away game. With no one around to hear me scream.”
His tone is flat, but I can hear the thread of genuine unease under the sarcasm. His eyes flick to the trees, the darkness beyond the circle of cleared ground, then back to me.
“You brought me to a murder site, didn’t you?” he says. “This is where you dump bodies. Oh my God.”
I snort. “Relax. I don’t shit where I eat.”
“That is the worst metaphor you could’ve picked,” he says, face screwing up.
“Also, inaccurate,” I correct. “It’s not a dump site.”
It’s a kill site. Although, I won’t mention that little bit.
He tilts his head. “So it’s… what. A scenic overlook?”
“Something like that,” I say, grinning. “I wanted you somewhere no one can interrupt us. No cellphones. No people in the hallway. No mother.”
His shoulders ease a fraction at that last part, and I see the relief flicker across his face before he schools it.
“Still feels very ‘start of a horror movie’ out here,” he mutters.
“Didn’t you tell me once that you get off on fear?” I ask casually.
He chokes. “I… no… fuck you, I did not say it like that.”
God, I love that he curses so openly in front of me now—proof that I’ve ruined this good boy for anyone else.
“You did,” I say. “You get keyed up when you’re scared. You like the edge. You like not knowing if I’m going to kiss you or choke you.”
“That’s not—” he starts, then stops, cheeks visibly flushing even in the dim light. “Shut up.”
I laugh quietly, the sound rolling out into the trees. “Come on,” I say, stepping away from the bike and into the middle of the clearing. “We’re going to play a game.”
He stays where he is, hands shoved into his hoodie pocket, shoulders hunched. “Ugh, your games,” he says. “They always end with me on my knees, or on my back.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I say.
“I have class in the morning,” he says stubbornly.
“You can grade essays when I’m on the bus tomorrow,” I say. “Tonight, you’re mine.”
He swallows, and his eyes dart around the clearing again. “What kind of game?” he asks, and this time I hear the curiosity tangled up with the fear.
“The kind you’re built for,” I say.
I reach behind me, under my hoodie, and pull the hunting knife from the sheath at the small of my back.
It’s not subtle—eight-inch blade, wickedly curved, handle worn to my grip. The metal catches what little light there is and throws it back, a thin silver glint in the darkness. I hold it up, letting him see it clearly, hiding nothing.
His eyes widen, and he goes very, very still.
“Dom,” he says slowly. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Remember what I told you,” I say, voice sliding into that calm place it goes when I’m working. “I will never put you where my work goes. I will never hurt you like I hurt them. You know that, right?”
He swallows. “I… yes,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “Intellectually, I know that. Emotionally, my fight-or-flight is screaming.”
“Good,” I say.
He stares at me. “Good,” he repeats weakly. “That’s not a comforting word in this context.”
I offer him a slow, lazy smile, the way I smile when I’m about to do something terrible to someone who deserves it.
It feels different with him, though. There’s a curl of heat under it that has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with the way his chest is rising faster now, the way his pupils are swallowing the green.
“Run,” I say.
He blinks. “What?”
My fingers tighten on the knife handle. “Run, baby,” I repeat, letting the killer-calm slide over my features, wiping everything soft away. “You’ve got a thirty-second head start. Make it count.”
For a heartbeat, he just stands there, staring at me like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“This isn’t funny,” he says.
“I’m not joking,” I say, and this time I let him see it—the part of me that chases.
The part that doesn’t stop until the thing in front of me is on the ground.
The part that has nothing to do with football, and everything to do with alleys and bodies.
It’s all there in my eyes, and I know he sees it now, because his breath catches.
“Dom,” he says, voice small. “Dominic.”
“Twenty-five seconds,” I say calmly.
His gaze snaps to the trees, then back to me.
His brain is working overtime; I can see it flashing through possible outcomes.
He knows me well enough to understand two things at once: one, I would never kill him, and two, I am completely capable of tackling him to the ground and doing something insane without warning.
“You’re serious,” he whispers.
“Twenty,” I say.
He sprints off, and it’s like someone cut a string.
One second, he’s rooted to the spot, the next he’s gone, tearing across the clearing and into the trees.
He doesn’t look back, he just runs. Picking the narrowest gaps between trunks, trusting his smaller frame to slip through, where mine will have to push.
I grin, feeling something spark in my chest that hasn’t flared this cleanly in a long time—Chase.
I give him the full thirty seconds. It’s harder than it sounds, when every cell in my body is screaming to go after him now—to hunt, and feel that quiet satisfaction when I drag him down.
I count it out in my head, listening to the rustle of underbrush, the crack of twigs under his feet.
He’s not quiet; he’s never had to be. But he’s fast.
At thirty, I move.
The forest swallows me easily. This isn’t my first time threading through trees at night with a blade in my hand and someone ahead of me. The difference is that tonight, the person ahead of me is someone I love, and I’m not following the scent of blood. I’m following the sound of his breathing.
He’s quicker than I gave him credit for.
Even with the head start, he’s taken advantage of his size, ducking and weaving between trunks I have to shoulder past. Branches snag at my hoodie.
Earth shifts under my boots. The moonlight filters through the canopy in strips, enough to keep me from slamming into a tree—not enough to make it easy.
I listen, more than I look.
His footfalls are light, but not silent.
Every now and then, I hear a soft curse, his breath coming in sharp bursts, harsh in the stillness.
My own heartbeat picks up, not just from the exertion, but from the thrill.
This is the part I’ve always loved; the moment between the decision and the impact. The chase.
Somewhere ahead, there’s a crash, louder than the others. He must’ve hit a patch of loose rock or a fallen branch. I adjust course, moving toward the sound. A branch whips across my cheek, stinging, but I barely feel it.
“Fuck,” he gasps, voice carrying faintly back to me.
“Language!” I call, just loud enough for him to hear.
There’s a strangled sound, half laugh, half sob and he pushes harder. I can tell by the way the noises get more frantic, more frequent. He doesn’t know these woods like I do. He doesn’t know where the ground dips, where the underbrush thickens, where the creek cuts through.
“Dom,” he yells once, breathless. “This is insane.”
“You’re doing great,” I shout back, and mean it.
I could catch him sooner. If this were real, if I wanted him down, he’d be down already.
I hold back enough to let him feel everything.
The fear, the adrenaline, the way his lungs burn and his legs protest, and his brain screams at him to keep going because something is behind him that won’t stop until he’s down.
“Please don’t kill me,” he pants, voice high and strained.
“If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t see me coming, Little Sin.”
“That is not comforting!” he yells, but there’s a hysterical edge to it that tells me he’s no longer feeling fear.
We burst into a slightly wider section of woods, trees spaced just enough that the moonlight spills in more generously. He stumbles into it first, hoodie catching on a low branch and wrenching him sideways. He rips free, but it costs him half a second.
That’s all I need.
I push harder, closing the gap between us in a few long strides.
He hears me at the last second, glancing back over his shoulder, eyes wide, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
Our gazes lock for one dizzying moment—prey and predator, sin and sinner, whatever the fuck we are—and then I lunge.
I tackle him.
Gently.
My shoulder hits his midsection, arms wrapping around his thighs as I take us both down.
I twist mid-fall, taking the brunt of the impact on my side, making sure he lands on me instead of the ground.
We slam into the earth in a tangle of limbs, the air whooshing out of both of us.
The knife is still in my hand, but my grip is tight, blade angled away from him.