13. Jace
THIRTEEN
JACE
Sun falls.
It’s seven-thirty, and there’s still no egg.
I knew she’d join me. Once she realized her own desires, it was a matter of convincing herself. Payton thinks through every little thing before making a decision, but she’ll only choose what she feels is best.
There’s still a half-hour, but agitation is the most unwelcome twist to my gut. Anticipation of what’s to come. Old fantasies—though none were ever quite this level of depraved—will be played out tonight.
I remain in the shadows, phone gripped in my hand as the minutes go by, each one feeling endless.
Finally, we reach seven-fifty. Ten more minutes.
Nine…
Eight…
I push off the tree, approaching the house. I have every intention of following through on my deal and giving her the head start, but I want to be closer when she runs. Fear is half the thrill, but Payton’s fear makes me groan thinking about it. When I face her tomorrow, will I be able to talk with her like a friend when I’ve been buried inside her pussy? When I know what she feels like when she comes. How she sounds. What she looks like.
My tongue sweeps along my bottom lip, my cock twitching in anticipation.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this, and the last woman didn’t fully understand what she signed up for, quickly learning this isn’t something she’s interested in. The night ended earlier than anticipated.
Payton, I already suspect, will be perfect. If I have one reservation, it’s that she is unaware the man in the wolf mask is me.
At seven-fifty-seven, the door opens, and Payton steps out onto the porch, her gaze flitting to the trees fencing her home. She passes over me three times, but being too far away, too tucked into the shadows, she can’t spot me.
But I see her. My prey. My little rabbit.
She’s dressed in sensible clothing: yoga pants that merge with bright-pink sneakers—a point in my favour—a sweater zipped up halfway, and signs of a sports bra peeking from beneath.
It makes me smile, because it’s proof she’ll try .
Seven-fifty-eight. Two more minutes.
She steps off the porch.
Seven-fifty-nine. She scans the woods again before choosing a direction, taking off into the night, heading behind the house. The shadows quickly swallow her up, and then she’s gone from sight.
The time on my phone changes to eight p.m.
Time to hunt.
Five minutes is my standard waiting time, but with Payton, I’m torn between breaking my own rules and following her sooner or giving her more time, letting her get as far away as she can.
The minutes tick away agonizingly slow. Finally, it’s seven minutes past eight, and I slide my phone safely away in my chest pocket beside the switchblade.
I ensure the mask is tied tight enough.
Then, I hunt.
Run, little rabbit, run. I’m coming for you.