Chapter 31
Evander
She perches on the cracked marble slab like it belongs to her. Legs crossed, chin high, phone sitting in the tripod in front of a large ring light. The live counter ticks up, hearts and comments already flooding the screen. She smiles at them, not at us.
“Welcome to the show, my little demons,” she purrs. “You wanted a horror set. You wanted a scare. Well, now…you get one.”
Her voice hums through the crypt, steady even though I can see the tremor in her wrist. She’s scared. She just refuses to show them, refuses to show us. That’s what makes her fire.
Corwin leans against the wall, arms crossed, grinning like a man already holding the prize. Garron stands next to him, just watching like he’s lost in his favorite show. I stand behind the ring light, front and center, taking it all in.
She stands slowly to show off the dress. My dress. She hasn't thanked me. I don’t need her to. I only need her to wear it. It fits her like a glove. With the front cut to just above her belly button, her tits look amazing, and I can’t wait to have my tongue on them later.
She keeps talking, teasing her viewers, building tension like she was born for it. “But here’s the twist,” she says. “I’m not alone tonight. I’m going to hide. And when they find me, you’ll know.”
Her eyes flick up to me as she says it. Testing. Taunting. I step closer, but still so her phone doesn’t catch me. “Tell them the rules, Little Horror.”
Her mouth curves, lips painted blood-red. “Rules are simple. I hide. They seek. When one finds me, you’ll see what happens next. If I make it long enough, maybe you’ll get something special.”
Corwin whistles low. Garron shakes his head. I feel the tension in my jaw, but I let it stay. This is hers to sell. Ours to control.
She cuts the feed with a tap, sliding the phone into the tripod clamp. “Happy now?” she spits.
“No,” I answer, calmly. “I will be when you learn what it feels like to be caught.”
Corwin pushes off the wall, digging into the bag. Three identical gas masks come out. He holds them up like trophies. “Time to play hide and fuck.”
My chest tightens, slow, hot. I take the mask from Corwin’s hand, turn it over once in mine. She flinches when I look at her. Good. She should.
“Here’s how it works,” I tell her. “You get two minutes. Run where you want. Hide however you can. When we find you, we'll bring you back here, and you don’t get to say no. You give in. That’s the rule.”
Her breath stutters, quick, sharp, but she lifts her chin, anyway. “And if I don’t run?”
“Then you wait on the slab,” I say. “And we take turns until you admit you should have.”
The crypt is silent except for her breathing. She looks from me to Garron to Corwin, weighing, calculating, already deciding whether she wants to be hunted or cornered.
I want to see her run. I want to watch her test herself against the dark. I want to watch her fail.
I hold out the flashlight, daring her to take it. When her fingers brush mine, the charge is instant.
“Choose, Agatha,” I murmur. “Run or kneel.”
Agatha
I don’t answer him. I just run.
My boots hit stone, then grass, my legs pumping before I can second-guess my decision. The cold air slaps my face, biting at my skin as I tear out of the crypt and into the open graveyard. Even the bugs go quiet, like the whole place knows I’m being hunted.
The cemetery sprawls wider than I thought. Headstones, crooked and crumbling, stretch into the dark like broken teeth. Weeds snag at my ankles. My flashlight bounces wildly in my hand until I flick it off—too obvious, too bright. The moon is enough.
I need cover. A tree, a stone, anything that swallows me whole. I dart between two monuments, ducking low behind one so eroded the name is gone. My chest heaves. Behind me, their footsteps spread out.
I crouch lower, heart pounding, ears straining.
A crunch of gravel. A whisper of weeds parting.
I shift, crawling behind another stone, eyes scanning for something better.
The crypts are too obvious. The trees too open.
My pulse spikes when I spot it—a family plot ringed in wrought iron, half-collapsed, one corner swallowed by ivy.
I slip inside, pressing my back against the vines, letting the green swallow me.
I peer through a gap.
And that’s when I see them.
They move out in three directions, masks turning black into black, every step too controlled, too patient, like they already know the end.
Shapes in black slip between the headstones, glass eyes catching the moonlight, filters jutting from their faces like mouths that shouldn’t exist. My gut twists hard.
They don’t look like men anymore. They look like nightmares, and I’m the one they came to hunt.
Corwin lopes across the far side, swinging his head from side to side like he’s scenting me out. Garron’s heavier steps beat steadily against the dirt, closer, measured. And Evander, his moves are quiet, deliberate, cutting the space between them, circling in a way that makes my breath catch.
For a second, I forget to breathe. They look wrong. Alien. And even I have to admit—creepy as hell.
But my thighs press tight anyway. Because every part of me knows exactly what happens if they find me.
And part of me wants them to.
Evander
I’m not in a rush. Garron isn’t either. He walks a few rows over, flashlight swinging low in his hand, eyes drifting across headstones like he’s out for a midnight stroll.
Corwin is the one moving like he’s got blood in his teeth. He cuts sharply across the rows, shoulders tense, the fake pickaxe jerking wildly as he searches every corner. He wants her first. He always does.
I could stop him. I could cut him off, steal her out from under him, prove I’m the one who controls this game. But the tantrum he’d throw after? I don’t have the patience for it tonight. Garron doesn’t either. Best to let the wild dog get the bone.
So I keep my pace lazy. My eyes track him from the dark.
He freezes near the back of the cemetery, and stares at a plot tucked against the fence line. A family grave with wrought-iron fencing. Four stones leaning together, names half-eaten by moss. The weeds are thicker there, tall enough to hide something small.
Corwin goes still in a way that tells me he’s found more than just broken stone. His mask tilts, round glass eyes catching the moon. His fingers flex once around the pickaxe, then he sets it down slowly, careful not to spook her.
I creep closer, soundless. I see the outline of her head just over the weeds, hair spilling like a flag. She doesn’t know he’s already marked her.
He lunges.
Her scream tears through the night, sharp enough to rattle in my chest. She thrashes hard, knees jerking, fists flying. For a second, I think she’ll break free. Corwin laughs low behind the mask, catches her waist, and heaves her up.
She kicks, spits, curses, every inch of her alive and fighting. He slings her over his shoulder as if she weighs nothing. She hammers her fists against his back, but he doesn’t slow.
I hang back long enough to make sure she’s not hurt. Her voice is still strong and filled with venom. She wants it even if she swears she doesn’t.
We hurry ahead of him, Garron and I. Flashlights bouncing, boots chewing up the path back to the crypt. The camera’s waiting where we left it. I check the angle, flip it on. Red light blinks. It’s ready.
Corwin stomps into the crypt a beat later, Agatha over his shoulder, hair wild, skin flushed. He tosses her down on the slab. She lands hard, eyes wide, pupils blown, chest rising fast.
She’s trying to look furious, but the shine in her gaze betrays her.
She wants this as badly as she pretends she doesn’t.