Primal

Epilogue

Lucky’s a dive bar off the highway in McMinnville, with flickering neon, sticky floors, and a jukebox that probably predates the internet. Smells like beer and fryer grease and a hint of wet dog, which might be the bartender’s actual dog curled up under the stool beside us.

The truth is, we didn’t drive all this way for curly fries or vintage tunes. We’re here for Wesley.

“Okay,” Payton admits, snagging a fry from my basket. “Fine. Maybe it’s not that bad.”

“And I’ve got just the thing to make it even better.” I pull out a Ziploc bag of gummy worms.

Her eyes go wide. “Sir.”

“What can I say?” I hand her the bag.teet “I come bearing sugar and sin.”

She pulls one out like it’s something decadent.

“You always know what I want in my mouth,” she says, all faux-innocent, tongue flicking the sugar off.

Her teeth sink in. She drags it between her lips and moans.

Fucking tease. I want to shove the whole bag down her throat just to see her choke pretty.

Better yet—pin her under this table and give her something sweeter to suck on.

The jukebox hums behind us. A few old-timers play pool near the back. One of them’s in a Freddy Krueger sweater and jorts. Mesh crop top included.

A guy near the bar is wearing a cowboy hat and a Ghostface mask that keeps slipping down his neck. He lifts it to drink, yells “Boo!” at nobody, then immediately forgets he did it.

The bartender’s dressed like a slutty devil—blood-painted cleavage, pink horns, cigarette dangling from her lips as she pours beer.

Payton eyes the scene. “This place is like a Spirit Halloween crash-landed in a swamp.”

“Exactly how Wesley would’ve liked it.”

Max would’ve loved this place too. He’d pick a fight over arcade high scores, talk shit to someone twice his size, and somehow leave with a new best friend and three orders of mozzarella sticks.

I reach over, trace my thumb along the inside of Payton’s wrist. “How was the visit?”

“Well, it was nice seeing the kids.”

“Bet they loved the stickers you made them.”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Yeah.” She smiles. “One of them drew me with a cape.”

“A cape?”

“And a crown. Six fingers per hand. I think I’ve ascended.”

“Do I have to start calling you My Queen now?”

She leans in, her breath warm near my jaw. “Only in bed.”

My mouth twitches. “Deal.”

Her fingers trail down my arm as she eases back. “How’s the deco holding up?”

“Had to hang a full skeleton family on the porch. Papa Bones, Mama Bones, and Baby Rattle. It’s deeply cursed.”

She snorts into her drink. “Let me guess. Baby Rattle’s holding a butcher knife?”

“And a bottle. Max said she’s multitasking.” I tip back my beer. “He’s throwing a Halloween party tonight. Couple kids from school, plus that one neighbor he swears isn’t annoying anymore. I left just before the fog machines hit critical mass.”

Payton raises a brow. “You sure we can trust him not to burn the whole place down?”

“He renamed the WiFi to HellFi and tried to hot-glue cobwebs to the ceiling fan. Nearly got stuck up there himself. But yeah—I think the kid can handle it without adult supervision for a few hours.”

She snickers. “Did you dress Gizmo up?”

“Went feral the second we tried to put him in a tiny witch hat.”

“What about Luna?”

“Max wanted to dress her up as Cerberus.”

Payton laughs. “Did it work?”

“One head is wearing a lampshade and the other two fell off.” I watch her pick at a fry. “Stopped by the old house after. Dropped off some Snickers.”

Her smile dims a little. “She home?”

“She was. Answered the door in that same damn robe she wore every year. Took the chocolate. Slammed the door. Didn’t throw anything this time.”

“Sounds like progress.”

“Yeah. Mostly backwards.”

Payton nudges my thigh under the table. “Still. You’re a good son.”

I give her a look. “I bribed a drunk with candy. Let’s not get sentimental.”

“Too late,” she says, popping a fry into her mouth. “We live together. With Max and our furry gremlins. I’m allowed.”

“Speaking of sentimental …” I give her a peck on the lips before sliding out of the booth.

She blinks up at me, all soft eyes and understanding. It’s time. Her palm drags lightly across my thigh as I pass.

The glow of the jukebox washes over me. I slot a quarter in and press the third button from the top.

The intro riff cuts through the static.

Payton’s gaze finds mine. We both know this song. Sweet Child O’ Mine.

We know the hand that should be reaching for the fries right now—the guy grinning around a mouthful of potatoes.

‘If we ever meet up, first round’s on me.’

The fries are criminally salty but good. Just like he said they’d be.

That shitty tattoo stares at me—X-eyed smile, inked in some blackout he never got to explain.

I close my eyes and he’s there at our table.

Wesley, the grinning bastard, mouthing every word.

When I return, Payton clinks her glass against mine. We drink to the empty space between us. To the ghost who bought the first round and never got to finish it.

We drink until the glasses sweat and the song fades.

“Where do we go now?” she murmurs.

I pretend not to hear the ache and kiss her fingers. “Anywhere we damn well please.”

But there’s only one place left to go before the night ends.

***

I kill the truck engine.

Payton’s gone quiet since the trees gave way to chain-link and dead grass. Whatever’s playing in her head, it’s not pretty.

This fucking place looks worse than I remember—overgrown and gutted. Crime scene tape’s still caught in the blackberry thorns, flapping in the wind.

“You good?” I ask, not touching her. Not yet. “We can turn around. Hit the coast. Or go home and make sure Max isn’t waging Nerf war in a fog bank.”

Her mouth twitches. “And waste all that therapy? Dr. Melfi says I should face my trauma.”

I glance at the fence. “Pretty sure Dr. Melfi didn’t mean breaking and entering.”

“She doesn’t have my hoodie.”

That gets a snort out of me. “Is that what passes for closure these days? A custom hoodie and a B&E?”

Payton opens her door like the conversation’s over. Because it is.

I grab the duffel bag and hop out.

There’s a weird buzz in the air—probably the power lines, possibly my nerves. She takes off, shoulders squared and chin tucked.

We stop at the front gate.

She tilts her head. “So what’s the plan—parkour over the fence like we’re in Call of Duty?”

I dig out the bolt cutters. “Don’t insult me. I brought tools.”

The padlock takes about eight seconds to give in. The gate creaks open with theatrical flair—almost eager for us.

Payton steps inside first, flashlight beam slicing through the dark like a middle finger to caution. New hoodie. Same color, same fit, except the back doesn’t say ‘Property of Ghostface.’

Just ‘1331.’

My number. Hers. Branded in glittery ink instead of blood.

A white tank top—barely decent, clinging in all the right ways. Denim skirt short enough to tease what I already know. No panties, just like last time. Sneakers scuffed from running for her life. It shouldn’t turn me on. But it does. Hard.

I follow her through the overgrowth. The chapel’s still standing, technically. Bare bones and black mold.

The side entrance’s boarded up, but the paneling gives when I lean on it.

Payton flashes me a look. “You already scoped this out?”

“Nah,” I murmur, slipping inside first. “Just good at finding weak spots.”

It hits me in the chest—sweat, mildew, faint copper.

She twirls the flashlight dramatically. “Shit. It’s uglier than I remember.”

“Less blood on the walls, though.”

“Yet somehow still horny.”

I scoff. Even the chapel stench can’t overwrite the heady smell of her arousal. I set the flashlight on a crate. “You gonna mock this whole experience, or are we committing to the bit?”

She saunters up, hips swinging, hands sliding under the hem of my shirt. “I dunno, Thirteen. You still got it in you?”

“Do I have to?” I groan, already knowing the answer.

She lifts a brow.

I pull my shirt off in no hurry, just to make her suffer. Fuck, my blood’s hot, but her gaze is hotter—hungry, knowing. I grab the neon body spray from the bag and shake it once, twice. Like a ritual.

Three strokes. Arrow, finger, slash. Classic. Maybe I should trademark it.

Payton watches, breath caught somewhere between reverence and heat.

“Still cursedly hot,” she mutters.

I toss her the can. “Wanna tag me?”

She grins and scrawls 1331 across my ribs. Then a little heart.

“You’re lucky this shit turns me on,” I mutter.

She leans in, whispering near my ear, “You think I wore this hoodie for nostalgia?”

I grab her wrist. “We could skip the foreplay, little fox. Let me bend you over that stump and fuck the memory of every scream you ever gave anyone but me.”

“Nice try.” She twists free, bouncing on her toes. “But if you want to rail me against a tree, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

The hard way it is.

I pull out the custom mask from my bag. Sleek. Bone-white. The mouth a twisted, knowing grin. Less Ghostface, more predator in repose. Best of all, it smells like new plastic.

Payton goes still as I slip it on.

“Ready?” I ask, voice low and distorted behind the mask.

She backs up a step, eyes glittering. Her breath stutters. “Oh, yeah. Always.”

She bolts. Sneakers hitting gravel. Denim skirt flashing thigh. That damn hoodie—mine now—snags on a thorny branch.

I let her go first. The view’s worth it, and she knows I’ll catch her anyway.

She’s fast. Smarter this time. Ducks low, cuts across the chapel ruins, forces me into the dark.

Doesn’t matter. I know every shortcut. Every shadow. The shift of her breath, the snap of a twig—she’s quiet but not quiet enough.

I find her under the old oak—same spot the screams used to ricochet. Fitting.

She’s laughing when I bring her down—giddy, out of breath, wired on the rush of it. On us.

We hit the dirt hard. She rolls, claws at my mask like she’s trying to tear the man out from under the monster.

“Got me,” she pants, straddling my waist. “What now?”

I sit up fast and grab her hips, flipping her easy. My hand slides between her legs, and fuck, she’s soaked—grinding. Her body’s been begging for this since the last time I split her open and made her thank me for it.

“Now,” I growl, “I remind you what it means to be mine.”

Her breath hitches. “You gonna mark me again?”

“Every inch. Inside and out.”

I shove the mask up just enough to taste her. The skirt rides up her thighs, exposing that strip of skin I’ve worshiped a thousand times with my tongue, teeth, cock—and still can’t fucking get enough of.

My mouth follows instinct. So do my hands. I drag my tongue down her stomach, biting every soft inch I find.

She arches like a little prey catching heaven, every twitch of her hips daring me to ruin her deeper.

Her moan splits the night and I swallow it whole.

“Say it,” I demand, nipping her collarbone.

“Yours.” Her nails dig into my shoulders. “Always fucking yours.”

And right there, in the dirt and the dark, I take her—again, and again, and again—until we forget how to be anything else.

“Fuck … that was … incredible,” she rasps, one arm hooked around my neck, the other fisted in the dirt like she’s holding on for dear life. “You’re lucky I let you catch me.”

“Yeah? You tackled me like a feral raccoon.”

“I won, didn’t I?” She grins, all teeth and fire.

Her hair’s a wreck, one knee already scraped raw.

“Still think I’m your monster?”

Her smile is wicked. “Yes. Only mine.”

I bite down a groan, burying my face in her throat.

She shivers. Sighs my name like it’s a prayer I might actually believe.

The woods don’t give a shit what we are.

The stars don’t see us bleed.

Only the ghosts remember. Tonight, they sing instead of scream.