Chapter Nine
Something’s off. The forest feels empty. No, not empty. Watched. A dozen hidden eyes.
Wind’s gone. Whimpers, too. Just the hum of a generator somewhere beyond the trees and my knuckles cracking.
This is a mistake.
Should’ve kept the tape on her wrists. Left the gag in.
But no.
I let Payton see me.
Fuck.
Her body straining against the tree, my name breaking from her in a way that had nothing to do with fear. The way she arched into my hands, not away—like she’d been waiting for this. For me. And then—
Her fingers tracing my scar. As if the worst part of me was worth knowing.
Stupid.
Dangerous.
I tap my watch. Her heartbeat’s steady at 110.
Moving.
Payton Reed doesn’t stay put. Not when her grocery delivery’s missing one item and she drives to three stores just to find the right oat milk. Not when some dickhead cuts her in line. Sure as hell not after I fucked her brains out and left her dripping.
Backpack first. Then her.
If I go after Payton now, I’ll sure as fuck do something irreversible. Something that starts with throwing her over my shoulder and ends with her screaming into my palm as I make good on my promise.
Hell. Maybe that’s what she wants.
Thunder breaks through the clouds. Distant.
I roll my shoulders. Check my watch. 10:59 pm. Her battery’s down to 10%.
Fuck this place. Fuck these costumes. I should be with Payton right now, not hunting for some goddamn bag in the dark.
I cut through another tangle of bushes—and come up empty. Nothing here but trees. A broken bottle and a couple of plastic pumpkins.
I move deeper into the dark, in sync with the wind. Snap. Rustle. All the sounds bleed into the same hungry rush of blood in my veins.
Another rumble, louder this time. Closer.
Fuck it. I’ll still bend her over a log. Let her tight little cunt strangle my cock as the sky falls. This time, I won’t be gentle—not when she’s defying me with every step she takes.
11:07 pm. Still 10% battery.
Her damn backpack’s got to be close. Somewhere between the shattered water bottle (RIP) and the tree where I introduced the prick who dared to touch what’s mine to the concept of consequences.
A twig snaps. I spin, knife already in hand—
Just a possum waddling past with a half-eaten snack bar—hers?
“Where’d you steal that, you little shit?”
Lightning—and there it is. A black, lumpy shape tangled in the brush. Her backpack. Fucking finally.
I crouch, running my fingers over one of the torn straps. Mine now. Just like her panties balled up inside. I dig out the Holy Water flask and take a long sip. Cinnamon and sugar. The cheap shit from the gas station by our street.
Our street. Fuck.
I should’ve kidnapped her instead of following her here. Kept her in my basement. Kept her mine.
No witnesses. No rules.
Just Payton—naked, bruised, and begging for my cock.
I close my eyes.
She wasn’t supposed to happen.
I had a plan—keep hacking through the same crap, bury myself in algorithms until my brain shrivels up and dies. Maybe move out with Max and a dog he won’t shut up about.
But now?
I grip the strap. She knows me—not the polite, civilized bullshit I showed the world, but me. And I want more.
Want everything.
She wouldn’t say no—not with the way she stared at me. Maybe I don’t know Payton Reed the way her friends know her, but I sure as hell see the truth buried beneath. That greedy glint in her eye—not for a man with a 401K and a house in the suburbs, but one who runs on rage and hunger.
And I’ve got a lifetime supply of both.
I push to my feet. Sling her backpack over my shoulder. I’ve carried her groceries before. Held her mail. Fixed her printer. Now I’m fetching her underwear. Progress? Maybe. Proof I’m a fucking creep? Definitely.
A groan cuts through the dark—not some performative whimper but the real shit.
I stalk toward the sound.
The prick I stabbed is sprawled behind a rotting log, mask askew. The crack down the middle is mine. The wound in his thigh too—crusted black now. But the second gash under his ribs? Fresh. Glossy.
The fuck?
I toe his boot. “Still breathing, asshole?”
Nothing.
I crouch and tap his cheek with my knife. “You gonna haunt me or what?”
A wet rattle. His fingers twitch toward his stomach.
I yank him upright by his hood. His head lolls, mouth working like a fish. Up close, he smells like iron and shit and that cheap citrus body spray the college kids working here douse themselves in.
“Who gutted you?”
“Y-you …” He wheezes. “Get away from me.”
I press the knife tip under his chin. “Who cut you, princess?”
“G-Ghostface …” Blood bubbles at his lips. He claws at my wrist. “Pl-please … help me.”
Dirt under his nails. A chipped silver ring—the kind you buy at a mall kiosk when you’re nineteen and think you’ll live forever.
Fuck.
That night comes back in snapshots—Max’s blood hot between my fingers, me fighting to keep him awake as the streetlights blurred into one long streak of fuck fuck fuck—
Now, this bastard’s serving me the same glassy stare.
I tug at his hood, ice knotting my gut. “Which Ghostface?”
He shakes his head. “I-I don’t wanna die. It’s so … cold.”
My eyes flick over his belt, the pockets, everywhere he might’ve clipped that damn radio. “Where’s your walkie?”
He blinks. “Wh-what?”
“Your walkie. Where the fuck is it?”
“H-he took it.” A cough racks him, blood misting across my jeans and boots. Fucking fantastic. “Took my knife.”
I scan the trees. Just the wind and the slow, wet sound of this idiot bleeding out.
“Did he say anything?” I snap. “Before he stabbed you?”
His pupils dart side to side. “S-said … ‘wrong team.’”
My jaw tightens. Wrong team?
Meaning someone other than me’s gone off script.
Meaning Payton—
Nails dig into my arm. “S’cold.”
I look down at the guy. At the shitty mall ring and a half-faded tattoo of some band logo on his thumb.
“He-help …” His Adam’s apple bobs.
Guy’s bigger than me. Toss him over my shoulder? Gut wound like that … no point. He’d bleed out before I got five feet.
Help him back to base, step by painful step? Fuck no. Payton’s wandering in these woods with some knife-happy killer in a mask just like mine.
A tourniquet won’t do shit for a gut wound.
I rummage through Payton’s backpack. The panties? Useless unless I’m bandaging a paper cut. The blindfold, though? Thick enough. Fancy. Might’ve cost her fifty bucks to not see shit. At least now it’ll buy this poor bastard a few more minutes of life.
“What’s your name?”
“Tr-Trevor.”
His eyes widen as I shove the blindfold against the hole in his gut.
He bucks, howling.
I grab his hand and press it to the cloth. “Wanna live, Trevor? Keep pressure on this. Don’t pass out. Got it?”
He whimpers. “Don’t … leave me.”
I unscrew the flask and press it to his lips. “Drink.”
He chokes on the first swallow. I tilt his head back, forcing more down his throat.
“Wh-what is it?”
“Holy water.”
He chokes out a shaky laugh.
I toss him the flask. “Take more if you start fading.”
His chin drops in a weak nod.
I turn, already moving.
Not fast enough.
Some sick fuck’s wearing my face. Gutting players like game meat. Deciding who lives, who bleeds.
Time to find my girl before he does.
11:26 PM.
Signal lost. Device offline.
What the fuck? She had 10% battery left last I checked.
I slam the tracker. No blip. No ping.
Someone’s jamming me.
I yank out a repeater from the hidden pocket in my jeans. Compact guts. Matte-black casing. Fat as a phone but does the job.
I flip the switch. It hums low, working its ass off to cut through the static.
The LED flickers—one weak pulse, like a dying heartbeat, then—
Gone.
The jammer’s military-grade. Solid. Unbreakable.
And now I’m blind.