Chapter Twenty-Three #2
So I stand there. Fists clenched. Jaw locked.
And I watch that bastard lift her skirt.
No panties. Of course. I tore the first pair off her. And the other’s still zipped in the backpack I never brought her.
She stands there, bent over marble, her stillness the only thing he can’t rip from her.
Derek whistles low. “Now that’s better.” He steps back. “Make it nice and red, Ghostface. Or I will.”
Payton shifts. A tilt of her head. A glance over her shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare let him do it.’
And in that single look, I see it. She’s still fighting—just in a different way.
This time, when my palm meets skin, the whole chapel flinches.
Her breath stutters. Her spine arches. And the sound she makes?
It’s not pain.
It’s power.
I push the next slap louder. Harder.
This is how we fucking stay alive.
I pour it in—the fury I can’t spend, the helplessness chewing through my ribs.
Again.
And again.
Her flesh’s warming under my hand. Her breath catching just so. The ghost of a whimper she doesn’t let out.
Derek circles us, knife dragging along the altar’s edge. “Now that’s more like it.”
Her ass is flushed. Those marks. Mine.
My cock stirs—enough to make me want to claw out of my own skin.
His gloved hand brushes her reddened ass—
I step between them before I even register the taser jabbing my spine.
“Back off,” Amanda hisses.
Derek laughs, tapping the tablet balanced on the altar. “Let’s skip to something more … interesting.” The screen lights up with another one of her checked boxes.
anal play.
My stomach turns. Bullshit. Not here. Not like this.
“What’s the matter?” Derek jerks his chin. “Can’t get hard for your girl?”
Payton’s fingers dig into the marble. Her breath stutters.
Derek sighs. “Dollface. Motivation.”
Amanda steps in, taser grazing my ribs. Her other hand dives for my zipper.
Like hell. I seize her wrist. “Don’t.”
The taser kisses my neck.
White fire rips through me. The world knives inward.
Amanda yanks my jeans open and shoves them halfway down. She jerks me off like she’s polishing another trophy. One more notch on whatever fucked-up scorecard she and Derek keep. Her black leather glove’s thin enough every stroke feels like skin on skin.
My body goes rigid—blood rushing where it shouldn’t, when it shouldn’t.
I want to puke. Bash my skull against the altar until it’s just red and silence.
Still, my nerves light up—craving only friction.
Don’t.
I grind my teeth. Think of the dead. Think of the blood still drying on the pews. Think of Payton.
Amanda doesn’t relent, as if she’s coaxing something useful from the filth.
And it’s working.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
The taser trails down—right under my sack. A crackling threat licking every exposed hair.
I hate it. Hate her. Hate every fucking jerk of her hand.
Hate the choked sound Payton makes when she looks back at me. At us. A tremor runs through her. Her armor’s cracking.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Amanda’s thumb swipes over the tip. I bite my tongue until copper floods my mouth—the groan slips out anyway.
“Looks like we found your ‘On’ switch, Thirteen.”
Payton turns. Folds forward, face pressed to the altar. Not pretending. Just … still.
As if she’s already gone elsewhere. Somewhere I can’t follow.
Another swipe. Another squeeze. One last stroke.
Then the bitch finally lets go and steps back.
I force my breath steady. Willing Payton to do the same. To trust me. Believe I can fix this. Stop it.
Except it hasn’t even fucking started.
I step behind Payton. My hands hover over her hips.
She’s trembling now. The kind that begins deep in the ribs and rattles outward.
Derek taps the knife against the tablet. “Problem, Thirteen?”
Payton’s fingers flex against the stone. Her shoulders stay locked. The way she’s breathing …
She’s terrified.
And I’m about to be the reason it gets worse. Way worse.
Derek tsks. “Clock’s ticking, Thirteen.” He lifts his chin. “Dollface. Bring the butcher.”
Amanda stalks down the pews.
Leatherface jerks upright, twisting against the zip ties. “Nonono—fuck—please—”
She levels the taser at his chest, eyes dead behind the mask. “Move.”
He scrambles to his feet.
“Josh, don’t—” Wesley lurches after him.
“Please,” Josh pleads over his shoulder, boots scrabbling against gore-slick stone. A dark stain blooms between his thighs.
Behind him, Amanda nods. “Keep walking.”
“Josh, stop!” Wesley staggers halfway into the aisle. He folds to the floor, choking on spit, maybe blood.
The rest watches. No one dares to move—not while the taser crackles in Amanda’s grip.
“Leave him alone, you sick fucks,” Wesley shouts.
Derek twirls the knife. “Feeling left out, Death?” A chuckle. “Come on and join us. Give the afterlife something to gossip about.”
Wesley pushes to his feet, sways—then crumples beside Kristy with a groan.
Derek tilts his head, his knife catching the chapel’s light. “No? Guess it’s back to our leading man.”
Payton’s fingers twitch on the marble—like they want to curl into fists but can’t quite remember how.
Now.
I whirl. One moment I’m diving for the scythe—
The next, the fucking muzzle digs into my temple—burnt metal flooding my nose.
The scythe clatters, missing me by mere inches. If I’d reached for it, the blade would’ve split me open.
The bastard waited. Let me hope—just to rip it away.
“Easy there, Thirteen.” A nudge of the barrel. “She needs a cock, not a corpse. Now, showtime.”
I inch back, keeping my eyes low. Low enough I don’t have to see Payton’s face.
My spine hits the altar.
“This part works best when both of you are ready.” Gun holstered.
Knife out. Derek taps the blade to the tablet like he’s ticking off bullet points.
His voice dips—slippery now. “And our girl? Not quite there yet. Maybe you’re not pressing the right button, Thirteen. Looks like we need a little extra.”