Chapter Twenty-Three
“They told you to wipe the footage. You sold the uncut version on the dark web instead. They fired you for stealing. That’s your sob story.”
Fuck knows I’m stalling. Payton’s probably on her third worst-case scenario by now—calculating the odds of jamming that antler shiv into Pigface’s throat before Derek puts a bullet in her skull.
The guy launches into his villain speech while I’m sitting here, thigh pressed to Payton’s, sweat and blood crusting on my skin, playing at being weaker than I am.
She doesn’t know how close I came though. The bullet which killed Noah would’ve taken my head off if I hadn’t dodged.
My ribs scream every time I breathe.
But pain’s merely noise. I’ve been counting Derek’s steps, Pigface’s tells, the exact distance to that scythe near the altar—because when this goes down, I only need one opening.
For now? I let my shoulders slump. Let Derek think I’m half-dead already.
I shift, just enough to brush Payton’s arm. A signal. I’m still here. Still counting.
What’s the alternative? A zip-tied suicide charge? Yeah, that’d end with my brains on the pews—and Payton’s throat slit before I hit the ground.
Not happening.
I scan the chapel again—same exits, same bodies, same dead ends.
“Thirteen …” Derek’s knife drags along the pew. “And thirty-one. Perfect.”
Just numbers. Like inmates.
Payton stiffens beside me. I don’t look at her. Can’t. If I do, I’ll lose the cold focus keeping us alive.
Derek’s knife scrapes the pew again—that same nails-on-chalkboard whine—and for half a second, I’m back in my sagging couch, nine hours ago, Max’s sneakers kicking my thigh as he channel-surfed past some slasher flick.
‘You gonna hang out with me in the garage later or brood in your cave like Batman?’
I was watching through the window. Watching Payton carry the backpack to her car, wearing that ridiculous ‘Property of Ghostface’ hoodie and a fuck-me denim skirt.
‘Not my scene.’
Max, sighing like I kicked a puppy. ‘Boring.’
Now? I’d take boring. I’d take the smell of Cool Ranch instead of blood and piss. A thousand nights of microwaved dinners and Payton’s shitty playlist blaring through the feed over this—Pigface’s snuffling behind me, Derek’s knife hovering near Payton’s knee like he’s deciding where to carve first.
The bastard gestures with his blade. “Up.”
Payton moves first, chin high even as her fingers flex against the zip ties. I follow close enough that our shoulders brush—a silent I’m here—and take stock of the carnage.
The dead keep watch from their pews.
Mia in the front row, the antler headdress tilted at that same reckless angle when she made her last stand. Her remaining eye stares ahead, fixed on some distant point beyond this hell.
Eight gone. Seven of us still breathing. And we’re far from done.
Derek gestures to the altar. “Let’s give the audience something to remember.”
Pigface—Amanda, whatever the fuck we’re calling her now—shoves Payton forward.
The scythe leaning against the altar is four steps away. Two if I’m fast enough. Zero if I die trying.
Only one shot. Make it count.
Derek fists a handful of Payton’s hair, yanking her toward Mia’s corpse. “See what happens to girls who play hero?”
She glares up at him. “I see what happens to cowards who need masks.”
The taser prongs hover behind me—close enough to feel the static lifting the hairs at my nape. Amanda. Right.
If I dive for the scythe, can I reach it and use it in time?
Not without Payton paying the price.
Because Amanda’s got the taser angled my way, but her eyes? They’re on Payton. Watching the slope of her spine as she straightens. The way her hands twitch at her sides, fingers flexing.
And Derek’s expecting a move. Daring me to make it.
Kristy’s shifted position, her bound hands hidden behind the pew.
Hold. Just a little longer.
“Let’s make this next part interactive. Cut them loose, Dollface.”
Amanda circles Payton first, the snout of her mask brushing Payton’s cheek as she slides a blade from her robe. The zip tie snaps. Payton’s arms fall to her sides with a small hiss.
Derek nods at me. “Him too.”
Amanda stalks over, boots thudding soft on stone. She slits mine just as fast but doesn’t back off.
Instead, she leans in—snout close to my jaw. “Go ahead, stretch your wrists. You’ll want to be limber. But try anything stupid?” The taser buzzes to life an inch from my ribs. “I’ll light you up ’til you piss blood.”
I flex my hands—pins and needles exploding up my forearms.
Payton rubs her wrists too, chin up, eyes locked ahead. Her chest rises and falls. Steady.
She’s bracing. So am I.
Derek thumbs the tablet. “Payton Reed.”
Her name on his lips sounds like desecration.
“Senior Graphic Designer.” His thumb drags lower. “Side hustle … sells NSFW stickers on Etsy. WickedLittleDesigns.”
He taps the screen. A new image flares to life: a severed finger. Below it, in cracked, blood-drip font: RIDE OR DIE.
“Safe word … supercali—” He snickers, enough to make Pigface’s snout twitch. “Supercalifragilisticexpiali—ah, how do you even pronounce this shit?”
Payton stares past him, jaw tight, already tuning his ass out.
Good.
But the motherfucker’s not done. His mask brushes her hair. “Lucky for you, the next part doesn’t come with a safe word.”
The threat lingers, thick as the iron rot in the air.
Blood’s rushing through me from head to toe—like frostbite lit by fire.
Good.
Pain means I can still grip. Means I can still break his fucking neck.
“Let’s do some warming-up.” Derek jabs a gloved finger at the altar. “Bend over it, Thirty-one.”
The fuck she will.
Payton stays frozen—
Amanda’s boots scuff against stone, taser humming.
Then, and only then, Payton moves—same way she crosses the street when the light’s still red.
She bends over the marble—palms flat, braced for a storm.
Derek drags a finger down her spine. “Good girl.”
I grind my teeth.
Back. The. Fuck. Off.
His palm slides between her shoulder blades. He twists her hair around his fingers and yanks—not a sound from her. Not a flinch.
And I know it kills him.
Derek pulls something from behind the pulpit and tosses it at me.
The cheap vinyl cracks as my fist closes around it. A Ghostface mask.
Fuck this. Fuck him.
“Let’s give the girl what she came for.” Derek’s voice drips through his mask. “Her favorite monster.”
“No.”
Amanda steps in, taser humming. “Put. It. On.”
I open my hand. Let it fall.
The taser kisses my ribs, but I grit past it. Not enough to drop me. Just enough to remind me I’m not calling the shots. Not yet.
“Kade.”
Payton.
“It’s okay.”
No, it’s fucking not. She wants me to wear it. Wants something else to take my place.
She steps off the altar, bends to retrieve it, grace even now. Then she closes in and lifts it toward me.
“It’s okay,” she repeats. Softer now. Almost a whisper. “I know it’s you.”
I can’t find my voice.
Not while her fingers brush mine. Not with her scent drifting through the stink.
Payton. Alive. Right in front of me.
I want this moment, whatever the cost.
If I close my eyes, even for a second, and picture a future beyond this sick chapel, she could slip away again.
And for once, I don’t want to break time. I want to fucking freeze it.
She’s offering me an exit. A way to become whatever she needs—whatever this moment demands.
I bow my neck—so she can set it on my head herself.
She lets out a shuddery breath. Her fingertips smooth under the edge, bump over my cheekbone, beneath my jaw.
In the one heartbeat before she slips the mask on, Payton Reed presses a kiss to my lips.
I should’ve said yes to that horror marathon. Should’ve been the one in her stories. Her late nights. Her skin. Should’ve been the one who filled her laughter. Her silence. Every fucking breath she wasted on some prick who never saw her.
Instead, here we are.
The world narrows into slits when she tugs the mask down.
Now, I’m not just her monster.
I’m hers.
The bitch steps closer, blocking the view. Fuck. She’s onto me. She’ll rip the mask off, expose everything—
She nods toward the altar.
The silence presses in. Everything sharpens—colors bleeding brighter.
Payton turns away first. Jaw set. Chin high.
Her palms press flat against the stone. No hesitation. Just that steel spine she’s always had.
I could go for Derek.
But what are the odds I make it two steps before Amanda drops me? Derek will carve Payton open just to watch me break.
Payton flicks a glance over her shoulder. Wildfire in her eyes.
And for the first time tonight, I’m grateful for the mask. Because the darkest part of me?
It doesn’t just want to watch. It wants to play.
Then she lowers her gaze. Presses her forehead to the marble.
Derek steps forward, giving the knife a showman’s twirl. “Now, spank her like you mean it, Ghostface.”
My blood boils. He’s quoting her—almost.
Fuck.
This was on the waiver. One of the boxes she checked between shots of tequila and laughter.
Derek leans against the altar. “What’s wrong, Thirteen? Performance anxiety?”
Amanda’s taser crackles—a warning.
Payton lifts her head, meets my stare over her shoulder.
I close the distance in two strides. My hand finds the curve of her ass.
The chapel disappears.
It’s just her. Just us—and the sharp, sweet ache.
I raise my palm. Bring it down.
The crack tears through the chapel’s dead air, amplified by stone walls that have heard too much screaming.
Payton gasps—something wicked that coils low in my gut.
Derek whistles. “Damn, Thirty-one. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Amanda hovers nearby, perfectly still.
But Payton?
She pushes back against my hand, enough to let me feel it.
Again.
The first few smacks are light. Almost playful if not for the cameras and blood-stained marble.
Payton holds position. No more cues.
Derek clucks his tongue. “That all you got?”
He pushes off the altar. “I said spank her. Not pat her like a fucking Golden Retriever.”
Then he reaches for her—
I want to snap his wrist. Break his fucking hand.
But Amanda’s still behind me. Taser hot and hungry, aimed right at my spine. One twitch, and I’ll get us both killed.