Chapter 37
Agatha
I didn’t sleep last night. Every time I closed my eyes, it was them.
The trio. The way they touch me, tear me down, make me feel alive.
I keep telling myself I’m fucked up for missing it.
For wanting it again. I grip the wheel tighter until my hands hurt, like that’ll stop the thought from circling. It doesn’t.
Behind the Lens rises up in front of me, porch wide like a lodge, bottom half pretending to be cozy. Then the top story hits sharp with black siding, all menace. The whole thing is too big, too much.
I kill the engine and get out before I can talk myself into leaving.
Inside, Nova’s waiting at reception, leaning on the counter like she’s on the cover of a magazine. Hair spilling over her shoulders, leather jacket, floral corset peeking out, green eyes sharp as glass.
“Well, well. Look what the slasher dragged in,” she says.
I snort. “You look like you got airbrushed in your sleep. Don’t start.”
“Baby, I always look airbrushed.” She winks. “Who’s got you today?”
“Chad.”
Her grin spreads. “Golden boy. Is it your calendar spread?”
“Sure is. And I let him surprise me with some of it, so pray for me.”
“Am I praying to a certain villain or just Satan himself?” she snarks.
I roll my eyes and move toward the stairs, boots thumping as I head up to the room Chad texted me he had reserved.
When I find the correct room, the door is cracked. I push it open further and step inside. He’s leaning on the bedframe, shirt half open, tie hanging loose, blond hair a mess. He smiles big, his pearly whites on display when he sees me.
“Agatha.” He pulls me into a hug, smelling like laundry soap and expensive cologne. “Got the costume?”
I lift the bag. “Always.”
“Good. Change, and I’ll show you the setup.”
I don’t bother with the bathroom. He’s seen it all.
Clothes come off quickly; t-shirt tossed, leggings kicked off.
Then I get dressed; fishnets stretch over my legs, black bra, matching panties.
The pink Pleaser strap is tall enough that I have to balance against the chair for a second before I’m steady.
A boa, pale pink and fluffy, drapes around my shoulders, soft against my bare skin.
Last is the rhinestoned Ghostface mask, glitter catching in the dim light when I pull it over my face.
I turn around and actually take in the room.
It’s not a bedroom anymore. It’s draped in roses and dark greenery.
A wicker chair with black pillows waits in the corner.
Fur rugs sprawl across the floor, candles flickering.
Animal skulls tucked here and there around the chair and rug.
An old-school house phone on the ground, cord curled, and a knife beside it.
Chad grins and hands me the phone’s receiver. “Start on your knees. Knife in the other hand. Look up like you already know he’s there.”
I kneel, boa brushing my shoulders, toes sinking into the fur.
“Who is he?” I ask. “You said to trust you, but…”
A knock interrupts me.
Kylo fills the doorway. Broad chest, shirt nowhere in sight, ink crawling over both arms and down his ribs. His beard is thick, hair messy like he doesn’t give a shit. Dark jeans hang low on his hips, and his own Ghostface mask dangles from his fingers.
He steps inside like he owns the place, which is ironic since his girl literally does.
“Perfect,” Chad says, like this is normal, like Kylo joins other cammers all the time. He presses another replica knife into Kylo’s hand. “Closet first, crack the door so we see your mask and hand. Then step out from behind the chair. Agatha will progressively undress. Then react. Simple.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
Kylo rolls his eyes. “Relax. Lo said you’d want a familiar face with all the shit going on.” His voice is flat. “I screen the vids. I help pick the newbies. I’ve seen it all already.” His stare pins me like a nail through soft skin. “Keep your cunt to yourself and Lo’ll let you keep your hands.”
My stomach knots because it’s not just him standing there—it’s Lorna’s man. My boss’s man. If I slip, if I cross a line, she’ll know. She always knows. And she’s the one who signs my checks, books my shoots, decides if I’m worth keeping around.
I can almost see her in my head, blue hair, and sharp eyes, smiling like she’s already caught me. What the hell am I doing kneeling here in fishnets and glitter, with him watching?
The mask hides my face, thank God. It can’t hide the way my chest rises too fast or the heat curling low in my belly. My body’s a traitor, answering him anyway, even with Lorna’s shadow hanging over me.
I kneel in the middle of the fur, and then my head does the worst thing possible; it drifts to them.
Evander. Garron. Corwin. The terror triplets.
They already killed one man just for touching me.
My throat goes dry. They’d do it again without blinking.
But Kylo? Jesus. They can’t. They can’t.
That would ruin me. That would ruin Lorna. My girl doesn’t deserve that.
I’m gonna have to text them. Threaten them if I have to. Tell them to keep their blades to themselves.
I suck in a breath. My chest tightens.
Wait. When the fuck did I start thinking of them as my men?
They’re not mine. They can’t be mine. I can’t even handle one man. Barely managed to survive past lovers. And now I’m entertaining the idea of three? Three obsessed, violent men who stalk me in shadows and masks? The triplets of terror?
I’m insane. Completely insane.
And still, the thought burns hot in my chest.
Chad claps his hands. “Alright. Let’s roll.”
The mask is hot on my face already, the boa now itching against my bare shoulders. I shift on my knees, the fur rug prickling under me. I hold the phone up to my ear, twirling the cord between my fingers like I'm on a mid-flirty call.
“Good,” Chad praises from behind the camera. “Tilt your head. Yeah, like you’re listening to something filthy.”
I do it, mask cocked, boa sliding. My knees ache against the floor, but I arch my back a little, pretending to gasp into the receiver. My body’s the whole story; mask or not, it doesn’t matter.
The closet door creaks. Just a sliver at first. I wouldn’t even notice if not for the mirror behind Chad, hanging crooked on the door. In it, I catch Kylo’s mask filling the crack. He waits there, still, like some horror-movie cutout.
“Perfect,” Chad says. “Stay in character, Agatha. Don’t look at him yet.”
I drag the phone cord across my chest, sliding the receiver down my body, between my legs, then back up again. Acting. Posing. The heat in my belly has nothing to do with performance, though, and that’s the part that unsettles me most.
The closet opens wider. Kylo steps out, knife in his grip. He doesn’t hurry. He just stands there at first, silent, letting me know he’s watching.
Chad hums. “Okay, Agatha, peel it off slowly. Top first.”
My fingers fumble at the clasp, undoing it, letting the bra fall. The boa slips down, feathers scattering. I arch for the camera, mask tilted just right.
Movement again. Kylo’s closer now. He’s behind the wicker chair, knife at his side, towering. I can feel him without looking, the weight of his stare.
Chad’s voice sharpens. “Now act spooked. Let the phone cord drag. Don’t overthink it—just move.”
I shift, twisting like I’m startled, the phone slipping from my hand. The cord tangles around my arm as I scramble, feet sliding on the fur. I fall onto my back, mask flashing, knife clattering away. My chest heaves, body arching like prey.
Kylo steps into frame fully, shadow swallowing me.
I can’t see his face under the mask, but I don’t need to. My legs trembling in fishnets, the cord biting into my skin, my breath sharp and shallow like I’ve really been caught.
“Yes,” Chad calls, lowering the camera. “That’s it. We’ve got plenty. You nailed it.”
I’m still tangled in the cord when Kylo reaches down and pulls me up, one strong tug like I weigh nothing. He hugs me, brief but tight, mask still on. Then he’s gone, slipping out of the room without a word.
Chad grins at me, scrolling through the previews on his screen. “Lots of shots. We’ll have a stack to pick from.”
I giggle, tugging the boa back around my shoulders. “Good. Just pick one. You’re the pro in that area, not me.”
He chuckles, already half lost in the pictures. “Trust me, we’ll make you look like a goddamn scream queen.”
I dress quickly; fishnets rolled down, bra hooked back, leggings tugged up. The Ghostface mask goes back in the bag, glitter still clinging to my fingers.
Then, I’m gliding down the stairs, the smell of wood polish sharp in my nose. Out the door, across the lot, into my car.
And the whole time, my head won’t shut up. Thinking about the shoot. Thinking about them. How the hell do I even bring this up to them? Why do I even care?
It’s always been me. No fucks given. Not since I left my parents. No one dictates what I do, what I film, who I am. Not anymore. But the thought won’t leave. I do need to make sure they know one thing; Kylo is off-limits. They can’t touch him. Not one hair on his head.
Because if they do, it won’t just fuck me. It’ll devastate Lorna. And I can’t let that happen.