Page 3 of Reckless Hearts

Candles in varying proportions are propped up on antique candlesticks, spread between the bedside table, the unused fireplace, and a small wooden console table beside a sash window. A thin trail of smoke rises from a stick of incense.

I click the door closed and assess my surroundings. He can’t be far if he’s the one doing something as reckless as leaving lit candles and incense unattended. Still, I can’t help but think it’s pretty and cosy. The luxury burgundy bedding and matching throw make it… romantic and inviting. Definitely a fucking trap.

My heart is racing as I bend to search under the bed, but it’s unlikely that anyone could hide underneath; it’s far too close to the floor.

Being named after one of the most iconic horror characters of all time means it’s within my birthright to be a total horror whore, but this is still scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.

Steam rolls through the cracked-open door of the en-suite as I cautiously approach, bracing myself for the jump scare of my life.

Why do I do this to myself?

It seemed like such a great idea at the time, to proposition a stranger to come and fulfil my depraved fantasy, I just never expected the suspense to be this good.

Don’t get your hopes up, Tatum.Put on your big girl pants and go into that room before the party’s over.

My heart gallops in anticipation as I walk toward the door, my pussy throbbing with desire, aching to be touched. Part of me wants him to show up and end this creepy game of house, while another part craves the full experience—to be pushed to my limit, my body dripping with anticipation, to embrace the fear before the final reveal.

“Fuck it,” I say out loud and push the door open.

Shower steam clogs the air, the sharp scent of menthol and camphor filling my lungs. Navigating through the haze, I reach out for something to steady myself. Finally, I find the huge glass shower enclosure. I turn off the water and lean against the cool, green tiles, waiting for the steam to clear.

There’s nobody else here.

I should be telling myself, a twenty-eight-year-old capable and self-assured woman, to get a grip. But he’s playing me masterfully, and I’m falling prey to his game.

I go to leave, but something in the mirror above the basin catches my eye.

“Trick or Treat.”

This could mean one of two things—it’s part of the party décor, or Wes has been here.

I snap a selfie in the mirror and send it toUnknown, captioning it, “Is that the best you can do?”

I’m excited to see where this is headed, but I’m also hyperaware that he could show up unannounced at any moment. The possibility that he could be anywhere, ready to pounce, sends a rush of adrenaline through my bloodstream.

Curiosity draws me back into the bedroom, where everything remains untouched. Candles and incense burn steadily, filling the air with a heady mix reminiscent of the woods, conjuring memories of the boy who took my virginity on a forest floor. The distinct scent stirs something in me—comfort and nostalgia for simpler times, when all my rage was channeled into the razor I used to grip in the bathtub. Now, tattoos cover the scars, the ink serving as a constant reminder of what lies beneath.

I shake my head to dispel my thoughts. I shouldn’t be getting sidetracked when a hot-as-hell masked man is on the loose.

I grab a candleholder from the fireplace and blow out the flame, discarding the wax pillar and gripping the long brass curves. It’s heavy in my hand, and I doubt I’ll need it, but it might be useful to have a weapon. Plus, it makes me feel like a badass.

Creeping over to the door that separates me and whatever the hell is lurking in the shadows, I venture back into the hallway, staying quiet and vigilant as I pass the first door without a hitch. As I approach the second door, a creak echoes behind me.

Fuck.

My heart plummets and then pounds, relentlessly threatening to burst through my ribcage. I slowly turn around, bracing myself to face my stalker. But there’s nobody there.

I hold my breath and turn again, only to see a figure in a white mask with fabric-covered, curved black holes for eyes and a gaping, blacked-out mouth reminiscent of Edvard Munch’s infamous painting, staring at me from ten feet away.

“Is that supposed to intimidate me?” I ask, trying to sound defiant, though my voice trembles.

He slowly tilts his head sideways—a classic serial killer move that sends my pulse into overdrive and sparks heat between my legs.

Suddenly, he lunges toward me. Fueled by adrenaline, I turn and sprint down the hallway. But just as I approach the first door, it swings open, catching me off guard and revealing another figure in a ghostly mask. A jolt of terror surges through me, paralysing my thoughts. I don’t have time to process that there are two of them, so I keep running to the end of the corridor, but—

Within seconds, a gloved hand grips my arm, dragging me backward. His arousal presses against my spine as he locks me in his grasp—one arm across my chest, the other hand clamped over my mouth. The dizzying scent of leather and smoke overwhelms me. My body betrays me, igniting a primal need that makes me crave him even as my mind screams for escape.

3

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