Chapter Eleven
Not Kade. Definitely not Kade.
He fixes my printer for free and carries reusable grocery bags. Packs lunches for his little brother and trims the crusts with those dinosaur sandwich cutters. Kade doesn’t slash throats—
He attacked a guy. Stabbed him in the thigh.
I skid to a stop. Hands on my knees. Breathe. Just breathe.
What about Jessica Langley?
My stomach lurches. Fuck. And now I’m lost.
‘Entrance is totally that way, Red.’ Liar. Human compass with the accuracy of a Magic 8-Ball. Future star witness at my murder trial.
Maybe Vanessa genuinely believes north is wherever her phone charger isn’t. Or—worst-case scenario—she’s making heart-eyes at I’m-The-Real-Ghostface currently turning this hunt into a fucking snuff film.
Goddammit. I should’ve grabbed Vanessa’s phone. Should’ve run with it or smashed it against a tree. Should’ve done anything except stand there like a slack-jawed extra while she strutted toward her own horror movie ending.
I spin, searching for any flash of safety—a trail marker, staff vest, anything.
My watch beeps a low battery warning. 11:48 pm. Twelve minutes to midnight, and the damn hunt ends at dawn.
Fuck this place. Screw the NDAs. If the staff won’t believe me, they can explain what’s left of Jessica to the cops. Right now, I need to find Lana and Kristy. Get the hell out of here.
As for Kade … he can handle himself. Unless he’s the one I need to handle.
Footsteps.
I whip around so fast my ankle nearly rolls. Nothing. Just trees stitched tight by darkness.
Twigs snap.
Shitshitshit. Ghostface. He’s caught up.
But the figure emerging isn’t Ghostface.
Tall. Broad. A shadow given form. His chest is bare, of course, abs sculpted and dusted in neon paint. That scythe. Bone-white mask.
The Reaper.
And the guy’s currently staring at me like I’m dinner and a show.
I back up, hands raised. “No, no, no—wait. You don’t understand. There’s a real killer out here—he just murdered someone—Jessica—he slit her throat—”
The Reaper tilts his head. Then, he intones: “Death comes for all.”
I blink. “What? No—listen, that Ghostface guy? He’s crazy. He killed one of us!”
He prowls closer. “The guilty beg. The innocent plead. All fall before the scythe.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious right now?”
Another step. “You resist. How … delicious.”
“For fuck’s sake.” My voice cracks. “I’m telling you there’s—”
He lunges.
I stumble back. The scythe slices past my shoulder. “Go to hell.”
“Such fire,” he muses, circling me. “Such passion.”
Fuck, there’s nowhere to go—just trees and teeth in the dark. I bolt anyway.
Something snags my ankle—a root, a hand, Death’s fucking joke.
I hit the ground. He wrenches me up before I can breathe—slams my spine against a tree. Bark showers into my hair.
I thrash, elbow catching somewhere near his ribs. He doesn’t even flinch. Just pins me tighter. His body paint smears across my hoodie—way too intimate for someone holding a scythe.
“Let me go,” I grit out.
“Not until you scream for me.”
“Get off me, you freak. You don’t get it—he’s out there. He’s—”
The Reaper leans down, his mask inches from my face. “You beg so pretty. Your pulse races. Your skin flushes.”
“Stop.” Shit. He thinks I’m into this. “This isn’t—I’m not—”
“You tremble so sweetly. Tell me, little moth … do you burn as bright as you struggle?”
“I’m not struggling for fun, you psychotic—ungh—”
He yanks my head back by the hair. Laughs. “No panties. You came here ready to sin.”
I twist, my knee aiming for whatever soft parts beneath all that muscle and menace.
He catches it mid-air. One-handed.
“Feisty little thing.” The scythe thunks into the dirt as his hand slides up my ass. “That’s good. Fire makes the fall even sweeter.”
“You’re insane.”
“Your body betrays you. Your pulse sings for me.” His gloved fingers graze my pussy.
I suck in a breath. “I’m not—”
His fingers. Inside me. “You were soaked before I even touched you. So tell me, little sinner—are you aching for Death?”
“Get the fuck off me!”
He tsks, dragging his other gloved thumb over my lip. “Such a filthy mouth. Shall I silence it?”
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
He freezes.
Thank God. I exhale.
“Supercali-fucking-what?”
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! That’s my safe word, asshole.”
“Ah, but you’re in purgatory, little sinner. There’s no escaping.”
Fuckfuckfuck. Group 5 has no safe words. No limits. I scream.
“Yes, just like that,” he coos.
I knee him in the groin.
Or try to.
He catches my thigh effortlessly, hitches it over his hip. “Let’s see how long that fire lasts when I drag every moan out of you.”
“Nonono, wait. I’m not—I’m not in purgatory.” I claw at the player tag around my neck. “Th-this is a mistake.”
He doesn’t even glance at the tag. “Mistake?”
“I’m not part of Group 5. I didn’t sign up for—this. I had limits. I had a fucking safe word.”
“And you used it,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “This place doesn’t care what you signed up for. It knows what you need.”
His hand leaves my thigh—only to curl around my throat.
“I don’t need this.”
“Stop denying yourself.” He presses in closer. Cock hard against my belly. Mask brushing my ear. “The darkness will taste even sweeter …”
Enough of this nonsense.
“You sound like every DMs-after-midnight creep,” I cut him off. “Minus the punctuation and plus the erection.”
He keeps quiet. Annoyed? Amused? The mask gives nothing away.
“And FYI? If darkness tasted sweet, I’d already be addicted. But I’m not on my knees, am I?” I shove at his chest.
That head tilt again. Like I’m a puzzle he gets to take apart. “Still pretending,” he purrs. “But it’s coming. The moment you snap. When the fight dies and the surrender blooms.”
This fucking guy.
“Wrong group, asshole. I swear.”
He steps back half an inch. Peers at my tag for all of two seconds—and then peels off his mask.
Full lips. A scar carved just below one corner.
And a wicked smile that doesn’t reach his amber eyes.
“Well, fuck,” he says. “Looks like I got the wrong toy.”
Damn right.
“You’re not one of the Stags,” he murmurs, rolling the tag between his fingers. “But you ran into my arms anyway.”
I try to step around him.
He blocks me with his body.
“The question is …” He grins, sharklike. “Do you want to go back to your group? Or you wanna have some fun?”
“I’d like to not die tonight, thanks.” My voice comes out steadier than my hands. “Point me to the entrance.”
The Reaper—maskless Reaper, that scar cutting through his stubble—studies me. Then he jerks his chin toward the trees. “Two hundred yards northeast. Red lanterns mark the staff trail.”
I edge backward. “Great. Bye forever.”
His mouth twitches. “Name’s Wesley.”
Bullshit. Hunters don’t remove masks. Don’t give names. They definitely don’t look like regular guys with Spotify playlists and student loans.
“You …” I blink. “Why?”
“So when you scream it later, I’ll know you mean me.”
“Not happening.” I back up another step. “But if I do scream? Run the other way. The guy in a Ghostface mask is actually killing people.”
His smirk falters. Just for a second. Then he places his mask back on. “Then you’d better move fast, little moth.”
Twenty paces.
“Red lanterns, Thirty-one. Don’t get lost.”