Chapter Five
Why the hell did I sign up for this? Oh, right—because Lana claimed this would be ‘a fun, safe place to explore my dirtiest fantasies,’ emphasis on the fun.
Turns out, there’s nothing fun about a forest that reeks of damp regret and the kind of darkness that brings all your worst childhood boogeymen to life. Happy fucking Halloween to me.
My eyes have adjusted as much as they’re going to—which means I can now tell the difference between Probably A Tree and Might Be A Guy Who Wants To Wear My Skin Like A Snuggie.
Progress. Not that it helps much when everything out here is a Hurt Me Plenty obstacle course of roots, spiderwebs, and god-knows-what else waiting to trip me into tomorrow.
Goddamn masked slasher reject.
At least a dozen of them lurking in these woods, all paid to chase and—if the brochure wasn’t lying—ravish willing prey like me.
The only one who managed to corner me so far? Mr. Dollar-Store-Ghostface, who couldn’t even finish a girl off properly.
“Oh, sure, run away,” I hiss to the shadows. “Real scary with your Walmart mask and fake knife.”
A twig snaps to my right.
“Kristy?” I whisper-shout into the void.
Silence.
Trust my bestie to ditch me the second Mr. Ghostface showed up.
One minute she’s bragging about her contraband phone (‘Vanessa Graves might like and repost my live-stream’) pinky-swearing we’d stick together no matter what.
The next? ‘Oooh, chase me, spooky man!’—poof—gone like a virgin at a gangbang, phone and all.
I swear I heard her squeal as she bolted off, that traitorous little—
So much for safety in numbers. Now I’m alone in murder-forest with no bestie, and—I slap my hip, cursing when my fingers hit nothing—no backpack either. Must’ve left it when Mr. Pin-You-Against-A-Tree-And-Grope-You-To-Oblivion (But Won’t Follow Through) told me to scram.
I should go back. My survival kit’s in there—water, lube, that protein bar I’d kill for right now, and oh yeah, the condoms. Not that I need them (I’ve got an IUD, and everyone here should be medically cleared). But options mean control.
And let’s face it, Mr. Dollar-Store-Ghostface screamed options.
Even with his ridiculous mask and that horror-porn voice filter. Should’ve been laughable.
But the things he said arrowed straight to my clit.
The way he manhandled me? God. Hard chest. Harder cock. Knee wedged between my thighs like he’d studied me in another life.
He didn’t rush. Didn’t paw like some frat boy hopped up on beer and ego. No—he touched me like he had time. Like he already knew exactly how to make me fall apart.
Then he turned me loose with that half-growled ‘Run.’
And like an idiot, I did.
Damn him.
Damn me for liking it.
I turn back—or at least, in what I hope is the right direction—mentally rehearsing what I’ll say if I bump into him again.
‘Eat a cactus, you glow-in-the-dark Ghostface wannabe.’
‘Hope your mask gives you a rash, you knife-happy edgelord.’
‘I’ve had scarier encounters with a fucking rat at Chuck E. Cheese.’
Leaves crunch underfoot.
I spin, heart jackhammering—and there he is. Mr. Ghostface.
I cross my arms. “Wow. A returning villain. How original.”
He lunges. Crowds me backward.
Next thing I know, I’m trapped—again. His muscular thighs bracket mine with zero give, like he was born to pin girls to trees.
Not him.
This Ghostface is bigger. Broader. And his mask? Custom molded, not a single frayed edge in sight. Professional-grade predator.
He clamps one gloved hand over my mouth, his other yanking me flush against him.
Oh.
No modulated taunts. No teasing. Just hard muscle and impatient hands. So different from the way Dollar-Store Ghostface made me work for it.
This guy? He’s all business.
And business is booming.
His arm bands around me like a fucking vise, hauling me against him so fast my denim skirt rides up to felony heights. My tank top rucks up under my hoodie, bare skin meeting his jeans—rough against my thighs, all heat and unwashed fabric and God, is that a knife holster or is he—
I gasp behind his palm.
He doesn’t loosen his hold. Just breathes me in—like what a serious predator would do.
And yet.
Yet.
My survival instincts are on strike. His grip is too practiced, his breathing too even behind that expensive mask. Like he’s working off a fucking predator’s checklist.
Pin prey.
Nuzzle her throat like you’re scenting her.
Grope EVERYWHERE.
Even the way he manhandles me is detached. Like I’m a job, not a joke he wants to unravel. No Dollar-Store-Dickhead energy whatsoever.
“You’re—ah—really committed to this whole silent killer thing, huh?” I blurt out as soon as his gloved palm leaves my mouth.
His other hand slides higher. My breath hitches—obligatory, not overwhelming.
Then he finds the exact spot that makes me jerk against him.
It should be hotter. It is hotter.
But when his mask grazes my jaw, all I can think is wrong angle. Wrong scent.
His knee slots between my legs.
“Not gonna talk to me first?” I pant.
He stops. Tilts his head—as if I’ve just asked him to explain quantum physics.
Then again, this isn’t a coffee date.
I should be melting. Moaning. Or at least enjoying the ride—because as Dollar-Store-Ghostface so kindly reminded me, I paid eight-hundred fucking bucks for this.
Instead, I’m cataloguing every mismatch—too quiet, too stiff, too clinical.
Even the heat feels secondhand.
“Have you seen my friend, Kristy?”
His knee drives higher between my thighs. His hand wraps around my throat again—quick, effortless, like he’s done this a hundred times before to prey who won’t shut up.
And that’s when he does it.
Not the usual grinding, groping, tree-humping routine.
Just the barely-there scrape of teeth through the mask’s mouth slit over my collarbone.
I squirm. Big mistake.
He wrenches my head back so fast my neck pops. That primal kick of fear finally floods my veins.
My hips shift—on a breath—but he catches it. His hand under my skirt creeps higher with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how little my protests matter right now. Bastard’s probably smirking under that mask.
A sound escapes me. Something hungry and high and embarrassing.
Okay.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe my body just needed time tuning in to this new frequency. Now that it’s gotten the memo, every nerve is on high alert.
Touch me.
Yes, right there.
My nipples tighten. The ache is back.
Keep going. Don’t stop.
Just when I’m ready to drown, he spins me around and pins me from behind. Grinds into me—like a goddamn mutt on a mission.
I plant my hands on the tree, but he wrenches my arms back, slamming me chest-first into the trunk. Now he’s pushing, rubbing—bark scraping my nipples raw. A gasp tears out of me. Holy. Shit. This is—
Whoosh.
My skirt’s hiked up. Fingers curl into the waistband of my panties. One tug—and down they go.
Cold. Sudden. Mortifying.
My bare ass on full display.
Oh. My. God. This is it. My villain origin story—splinters and all. Am I about to get railed into infamy?
His breath on the back of my neck is hot enough to raise goosebumps despite the mask. He squeezes my ass with both hands.
If he goes straight to anal—which I’m now ninety-percent sure I ticked on the waiver—I swear I’m haunting this forest. Then again, who needs lube when adrenaline’s doing laps through your bloodstream?
smack.
The crack of his leather glove against my ass echoes louder than my dignity shattering.
A whimper escapes me. “Fuck—”
Another smack. My knees wobble.
Okay. Yeah. I’m into this.
But just as my mouth opens for a breathy beg or a curse—I haven’t decided which—his fingers dig into my hip, dragging me closer. His other hand slides around to my front, gloved fingers pressing just there, and—
wham.
The weight behind me vanishes.
I whip around—skirt hiked, underwear around my ankles.
Ghostface is down.
And oh, he’s here.
Dollar-Store-Ghostface 2.0.
His version of an entrance? Swinging a fucking backpack—my backpack—like a flail straight into Custom-Mask’s ribs. There’s a thud. A choked grunt.
Custom-Mask barely regains his balance when Dollar-Store barrels into him again. They crash into a tree, the impact shaking loose every dead thing clinging to the branches.
What the actual hell? Is this some kind of predator turf war? Did I accidentally sign up for Ghostface Thunderdome?
I should run.
I definitely should do something.
But I’m too busy staring as Dollar-Store draws the knife from his belt and—sweet-baby-Jesus-that’s-not-a-prop—rams it into Custom-Mask’s thigh.
I slap a hand over my mouth.
Custom-Mask howls, gloved hand flying to the wound as he scrambles backward. His head tilts—confused or maybe just concussed—before he fumbles for his walkie.
“Code—shit—Code Black. Hunter down. Hunter fucking down—”
Dollar-Store doesn’t give him—or me—time to process.
One boot to the chest sends Custom-Mask sprawling. Then Dollar Store’s on him—knees pinning shoulders, fists slamming into that pristine mask hard enough to spiderweb the plastic.
The blade comes free with a wet schlick. Dollar-Store stands and shoves it behind him.
Oh, fuck. Now he’s coming for me.
Run.
I take two whole steps before my damn underwear—still tangled around my legs like a lacy bear trap—snags. I flail forward and hit the forest floor face-first. Dirt in my mouth. Twigs stabbing my boobs. My pride dies a quiet, crunchy death.
Before I can blink, he’s on me.
Fist. Fabric. One savage pull. The panties don’t stand a chance. Elastic snaps loud enough to echo.
My kick connects with nothing but air.
He yanks the ruined cotton from my ankle. Sends it sailing into the darkness, probably landing in poison ivy because the universe hates me.
I scramble up, skirt lifted, cool night air kissing skin that hasn’t seen moonlight since … well, ever.
One step. Two. Almost—
Nope.
He grabs me mid-sprint. Throws me over his shoulder fireman-style.
“Let me go!”
He just laughs. Laughs.
“Keep squirming,” he says, voice low. “It jiggles when you do that.”
What the—did he just …? “Put me down, you—”
He smacks my ass. Hard.