Page 8 of Theirs to Chase

But when I look again, he’s still standing there.

As ominous as ever. His stance radiates power and dominance, his height towering—nearly ten inches above my five-five—makes me an easy prey for whatever he wishes. Anticipation pulses through my veins at the thought of punching him and running.

Would he chase me?

The thought alone heats something deep within me thatshouldn’t be stirred.

The words wanting to come forth get clogged up in my throat, leaving me staring at him in tense silence. I thought there were no scare actors left—yet here he stands.

“Scared, little pumpkin?”the voice whispers in my ear, too close for my comfort.

My heart exhilarates, speeding like a car on a freeway. It’s his voice—the mysterious man from one year ago. What the fuck is he doing here?

I do the only thing I can come up with—I push him out of the way, punching him in the face with a bad right hook, but he scrambles backward. Then, I run as fast as I can.

No longer is this a fun experience—it fucking haunts me, and it feels as if I’m running for my life.

I enter another room, this one decorated like a child’s, with teddy bears and dolls scattered all around. The walls are tattered, and only a single lamp in the corner illuminates the space. I can’t breathe, the terror takes over all rational senses.

No one is behind me when I look around, and I can’t hear anything but my own loud breaths. Did I imagine him?Fucking hell.

I continue walking through the room, seeing a teddy bear lying on the floor, all bloodied. I inspect it closer, it looks eerily much like real blood. This amusement park has topped it up to the next level.

My breath hitches when something moves in my periphery—a looming shadow, coming closer.

“Little pumpkin.”

I scramble to flee the room, but the door before me closes with a loud thud. He’s onto me now, and I let out a hoarse scream of terror, wanting to alert the others.

“No one will hear you,” he taunts, and I loathe myself for finding his voice the deepest, hottest fucking sound I’ve heard.

I realize how stupid I was for running, giving in to the chase, and giving him exactly what he wanted.

He tilts his head to the side, that pumpkin mask cruel and taunting, as he takes a step closer. I stand my ground, knowing this isn’t fucking real. How could it be?

But his touch on me as he caresses my throat with a serrated blade feels so real—it’s just a prop, right?

My chest heaves, which catches his attention because his face lowers, seemingly taking in my appearance through the mask. The long-sleeved, knitted black dress I’m wearing has slipped down to reveal the edge of my bra. He leans in closer, appearing to inhale the scent of my hair, its predominantly dark shade contrasting with the distinct platinum highlights. His gaze drifts from my silvery nostril piercing, done just a few months ago, to my hazel-green eyes, where the brown dominates.

I feel his heat through the mask, even as he stays quiet.

One hand—the one gripping the knife—pushes my waist into the wooden wall behind me, holding on to my flesh through the dress, while his other caresses my throat, dangerously close to stealing my oxygen. It’s then that I notice the tattoos adorning the hand holding my throat, an intricate design of sharp, intertwining lines and curves, like branches of thorny vines. The black ink starkly contrasts with his pale skin, wrapping around his knuckles and veins, leading up to a carved, cute pumpkin with a knife poking through it. A cold chill snakes down my spine at the unexpectant sight.

“Do you like what you see?” I can feel his smirk through his voice. “I got it just for you.”

“Y-you’re insane,” I whisper.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you once—you’ve corrupted my mind and soul.”

I shouldn’t like this as much as I do, but I fucking crave that depraved danger I’ve sought since that night. Heat poolsbetween my thighs from the chase, embarrassingly so.

I lock my gaze with the dark voids of the mask’s eyes, daring him to do anything about this. He can’t be real, yet his touch is undeniable. It’s even more real when he lifts my dress, hiking it up to my waist, and trails the knife along my thigh, eliciting a gasp from me that makes me shudder.

His fingers pull down my tights, tracing to the edge of my panties. He moves the underwear aside, giving him enough room to cup my already slick heat.

“Is it this easy to turn you on, little pumpkin? Though I should have known. You so easily submitted last year.”

His voice soothes my soul like a comforting blanket or a glass of red wine, making me all dizzy as I crave more. I should really fucking run, but he’s making it hard. His finger teases my folds, and I instantly buck against his touch. I whimper as one of his fingers touches my clit. His pumpkin mask is eerily creepy in the darkness inside the room, but part of me loves the danger and arousal it offers—the mysterious aura.

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