Chapter Four
The changing room fucking stinks. Sweat and dollar-store body spray undercut by the tang of iron. My boots peel off the tile with the kind of sound only congealed blood or questionable fluids make. Someone got enthusiastic. Or sloppy. Knowing this crew, probably both.
I check my watch. Fuck.
I’m ‘They started the horror movie before the killer got his mask on’ late.
Max’s fog machine short-circuited five minutes before go time.
Mom was three bottles deep and reenacting The Shining with Dad’s hunting knife.
Not to mention the fucking contacts I put on instead of my glasses itched like hell until I blinked one out.
Had to pull over and dig through my glove box for a spare.
And my custom mask—the one I spent six Sundays carving—is now gone.
I upend my duffel onto the locker room bench—gloves, zip ties, the Halloween Special knife. No mask.
“Motherfucker—”
Max.
Of course. That little shit must’ve stolen it. Probably figured it’d make a tragic prop for his ‘Garage of the Damned.’ Should’ve duct-taped him to the fog machine when I had the chance.
A staffer with a gimp mask that’s seen things slouches in. “Hunter #13? You’re holding up Group 4.”
Like hell I am—I stare at the assignment sheet. Payton’s Group 3. Group 4—who gives a fuck.
“Nah, I’m with Group 3.”
“Scheduling mix-up, I guess?”
I kick the bench hard enough to make the cheap plastic scream. “Fix it.”
“Hey, just play along or take a hike. Where’s your mask?”
I lean forward, stare him down. “I’ve got one. Somewhere.”
He tosses me a Ghostface mask that looks like it’s been used to strain pasta or stored under a frat house couch since the first Scream movie.
I hold it up by the edge. “How the fuck do you impress a bunch of horny ladies when you can’t even scare a third-grader with this?”
The staffer doesn’t blink. “Group 4. You’ve got three minutes.”
Tick-fucking-tock. Payton’s in the woods.
Fuck it. Bargain-bin villainy or not, I can make this iconic. Mask on. Shirt off. Now, for the war paint. Three practiced streaks down my torso—
Right pec: A crude arrow (points straight to my ‘I will end you’ face).
Abs: A single digit (middle finger, obviously).
Left hipbone: A tactical-looking slash, clean enough to pass for intentional and wide enough to hide the real scar.
Armed with my $29.99 Halloween Special, I shoulder past the staffer before he can open his fucking mouth.
He opens it anyway: “Wait.” And slaps a sleek, military-grade walkie into my palm—tactical ridges, biometric horseshit, and a screen blinking:
SYNCING TO HUNTER NETWORK …
“New this season,” he says. “GPS tracked, encrypted channels, voice modulation. Lose it and you’re paying retail.”
I thumb the modulator button and growl through the mask, “Test.”
The walkie spits it back as ‘Tzzzk—sssSSS.’
“Do I sound scary or septic?”
“Keep it on Channel 4 at all times for team check-ins,” the staffer says.
I flash him a smile and move on.
Out here, it’s just trees and the kind of quiet that knows how to stalk.
Perfect hunting weather.
A voice crackles through. “Hunter #13, where the hell are you? We’re live in ninety.”
The watch on my wrist—Payton’s synced to mine—pings. 14% battery. 112 BPM.
Elevated but not terrified. Yet.
The trees close ranks like prison bar shadows as I carve east toward Group 3’s sector.
Let Group 4 wonder where their third hunter went. They’ll figure it out when the screaming starts.
The walkie buzzes again. “Hunter #13, confirm position.”
I crack the thing open with my knife. Inside, the circuitry is pristine, corporate, pathetic.
The modulator chip is a brittle little bastard, smaller than a fingernail, wedged between circuits.
I peel the chip free, then duct-tape it inside the mask’s mouth slit—jammed against the mesh so my voice hits it first.
Crude. Ugly. Effective. The chip will modulate raw input, no walkie required.
“Payton.” Garbled into something between a growl and a death rattle. The trees flinch.
The walkie—now a gutted carcass—sputters on the ground. “Hunter #13, respond.”
I adjust the mask (third time the left eyehole’s tried to blind me) and pick up pace, middle-finger abs glowing in the dark.
Somewhere ahead, a twig snaps.
There you are.
I take one step toward Payton’s pulse.
Three other Ghostfaces materialize from the trees.
Oh, good. The committee’s here.
I spread my hands—bare, because apparently, my dumbass left the damn gloves in the duffel—in a ‘What the fuck?’ gesture.
Sounds scatter in the dark. Impossible to pinpoint.
Ghostface #1 peels off toward a crash somewhere behind us. Ghostface #2 cocks his head at a whimper to the east, then melts into the shadows.
That leaves Ghostface #3.
And me.
We stand there, masks tilted at each other. Then—
A scream. Too shrill to be Payton. Too close to ignore.
Ghostface #3 dashes toward it like his dick depends on it.
Fuck precision.
I sprint after the motherfucker, letting the pulse in my teeth guide me.
The list of things I’ll do starts with disembowel and ends with taxidermy. Hell, if he so much as breathes in her direction, I’ll turn his knife into a rectal thermometer.
Ghostface #3 is moving like he knows these woods—probably some tryhard who’s done this before. But I march like I own them.
Branches whip at my arms as I cut through a thicket.
Payton’s watch vibrates: 13% battery. 130 BPM.
Movement ahead. Her flaming red hair flashes between the pines.
Her sidekick must be Kristy C., according to her Instagram. She’d bring cupcakes to a knife fight. Probably give the killer a gold star for effort afterward.
They’re both breathing hard, grinning.
Ghostface #3 steps out from the shadows. As if he was waiting for his cue.
“Come on!” Kristy takes off, a shrieking whirlwind of limbs and tie-dye, her neon shorts practically a ‘Chase Me’ cape.
Payton takes a step. Then stops. She senses me.
The sheathless blade tucked into my jeans licks a cold line up my spine—precarious, punishing. The sting reminds me what happens when control slips. One wrong move, and I’ll fillet myself like an idiot.
I step into the patch of moonlight, and her lips twitch. I can only imagine the view—crooked eyeholes, flimsy hood, the whole ‘clearance-rack slasher’ vibe.
Payton, ever the sassy little brat, cocks her hip. “Eight hundred bucks and this is what they give you?” She reaches out like she might fix it, the absolute fucking audacity. A giggle bubbles up. “They could’ve just given you a napkin with eyeholes. Would’ve been the same vibe.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
“Ohhh, you’re doing the ‘strong, silent type,’ huh? But Jesus, can you even see through that thing?” She closes in, about to adjust the crooked eyehole.
My hand finds her throat first, and her back hits the nearest tree.
Pupils devour the green of her eyes. Good. That infuriating mouth parts—not to sass, but to suck in air like she’s drowning in me.
For three heartbeats, we’re locked like that. That wide-eyed stare. Her chest rising and falling.
My other hand slips under her hoodie. The thin tank top beneath is a joke. Her stomach tenses, her body quivering like she’s already imagining where this goes.
I drag my palm up, slow, exploring. Her skin’s smooth. Warm. Too fucking warm.
Her hips jerk—away or into me, she can’t even decide—but I don’t let her choose. My knee slots between her legs, rough enough to punch a gasp from her lips.
My grip tightens. Fingers splay just beneath her sports bra. Her heartbeat thrums, rabbit-quick.
The second I graze her nipple, she bites her lip—hard.
I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, her kink list scrolling behind my eyes like a goddamn menu.
PRIMAL PLAY. My knee grinds higher, dragging a whimper from her throat. Check.
PRAISE. The voice modulator crackles. “Look at you. All that sass, and now you’re just trembling for me. Good girl.” Check.
SPANKING. I slide my free hand down the curve of her ass, squeeze hard. You’ll feel that one later.
EDGING. I drag my thumb back up her stomach, watching her hips chase the contact. Warming up.
brEATH PLAY. My grip on her throat tightens a fraction, and her lashes flutter. More to come.
brAT. Soon to be tamed.
ANAL. Abso-fuckin-lutely.
Her breath hitches. Check.
She’s burning up. Her scent cuts through the mask’s cheap plastic. Vanilla shampoo, yes. But underneath? Her. Just her.
I palm her breast through the bra—my thumb circling the stiff peak.
She squirms and arches off the tree, but my knee keeps her caged.
I shove a hand up her skirt, fingers skating up, chasing every tremble and goosebump. And when they finally meet the damp heat between her thighs, she writhes again. Not the performative shit from earlier. This is real. Hot. Slick.
Her nails sink into my arm hard enough to leave marks tomorrow. Good. I want the reminder.
I stroke her through her panties—already soaked—drinking in every twitch of her hips. “This what you wanted? Hm?” My mask brushes her earlobe. “Eight hundred bucks just to get fucked against a tree?”
Her moan is half protest, half plea.
My fingers slip under the cotton.
She’s dripping.
Not for me.
For the idea of some anonymous predator who’ll fulfill every filthy wish on her kink list and clock out before sunrise.
I want to rip this fucking mask off. Look at me. See who’s touching you.
She paid for this.
Paid to have some nobody ravish her in the woods. Paid to let hands that aren’t mine drag over skin I’ve mapped in my sleep. Paid for an experience I’d have gladly given her anytime, anywhere—all she had to do was fucking ask.
I slide one finger into her, then two—curling just right.
Her head thuds back against the tree.
Greedy little slut. She’s not supposed to enjoy this. Not with some rented predator.
The modulator shreds my laugh into something even more wicked. “Already? Fuck, you’re desperate.”
Her gaze snaps to me. Defiance flashes in her eyes, bright and fleeting—gone the moment I add a third finger.
Her hips roll, urging me deeper. A broken sound tears from her throat.
She’s so fucking wet I could take her right here. Split her open on my cock and ruin her for anyone else. Mark her up so bad she’ll feel me come Tuesday.
I fuck her through her slickness. Circle her clit just enough to keep her on the edge.
The second I rip my hand away, she makes this half-whimper, half-choke sound, her body chasing the loss.
I push two fingers into her mouth. “Lick.”
She sucks them clean without protest. My cock twitches.
Good girl. Sweet, filthy, goddamn reckless. Too fucking bad her obedience’s wasted on a faceless stranger.
I step back, and her legs quake like they miss me already. Her lips part—to protest, to beg, who fucking cares.
“Run,” I growl.
She staggers two steps and just stares.
I reach behind me. Draw out the knife. “Run, little fox. Unless you want this”—I flip the Halloween Special in my hand, letting the moonlight kiss the blade—“buried in your pretty little cunt.”
She bolts. Leaving me rock-hard. Crashing through the underbrush, breath ragged, her mind no doubt flooding with creative curses for the bastard who won’t let her come.
I give her ten seconds.
Long enough to mess with her.
Long enough for her breath to hitch—not from fear, but the game of it.
She wants to be caught?
I’ll make her beg for it.
I move, then stop short, my boot hooking under the strap of the backpack she left behind. Careless. Or calculated.
Either way, it’s mine now. I grab it, hefting the weight—lighter than I expected.
Unzipping it one-handed, I take inventory: water bottle, flashlight, wet wipes, spare panties (Hopeful, are we?), lube (Smart girl), some sad-looking protein bar, a flask labeled Holy Water that definitely isn’t, and—
A knife she’d probably stab herself with by accident.
A dozen Magnums. The fuck is she expecting, a cryptid gangbang? Doesn’t matter. She won’t be walking out of here once I’m through with these.
And—well, well. A blindfold.
Game fucking on.