Page 3 of The Invite
I wouldn’t have seen them in the shadows if they had shown up a second earlier. They blend in with the darkness like it bows down to them.
Like they’re one and the same.
Obviously, they aren’t here with innocent intentions or for a midnight stroll. One is literally gripping a chain as a weapon. It drags on the ground behind him.
This has to be some sort of a cosmic joke.
Although, I should’ve suspected I’d stumble on this sooner rather than later.
I’m in the heart of the masked men’s world.
In fact, this town is one of the most well-known attractions that draws a large, equally batshit crazy crowd on the night of The Massacre Ball.
The most heart-pounding carnival of the century.
A blend of haunted house and glamorous fair.
Since the ball is over than a month away, I don’t know why these two are here. Frightened and frazzled, I step backward and accidentally step on a twig.
Their heads snap in my direction.
I dive behind a tree and cower, my heart thumping faster in fear. Praying with all my might that they don’t see me. Some ingrained habits never leave and tonight, they come in handy as I take slow and measured breaths without making a sound.
Listening for their footsteps, I ponder a secure way out of here.
It’s a matter of a few feet, I can’t fuck it up.
Just run as fast as you can, Ness.
A knot forms in my belly as I cautiously rise to my feet, count to five, and dash toward the street.
In my peripheral, I catch the swirl of the chain whipping in the air a second before it wraps around my waist and yanks me backward. My ankle twists and I wait for the earth to crash into my back. Instead, I collide with a hard chest that knocks the wind out of my lungs.
“Why do they all always run?” an utterly gravelly voice says mockingly to his partner. “Then cry when they get caught. It’s getting repetitive and boring.”
Acting on instinct, I aim for his gut and thrust my elbow backward.
It never makes contact.
“Especially the fighting back part.” He croons low in my ear, curling his fingers around my upper arm in a vise-like hold. Spinning me around, the chain wrapped right underneath my breasts tightens, short of breaking my ribs, as he grabs my throat threateningly.
I squeak weakly, unable to reach for his wrist with my arms trapped underneath the metal chain. I’m at his mercy. Paralyzing fear grips every inch of my body.
Don’t panic.
They’re toying with you.
My captor’s masked face tilts to the side and I’m weirdly drawn to his sinister coal-black eyes. Every woman has a sixth sense. A gut feeling. Mine screams he’s a fearsome monster, out to hunt at a ghastly hour.
I remain motionless with my face impassive.
Predators look for weaknesses.
For terror in their victims’ eyes.
No matter what, they never show mercy.
Those three facts are written in stone. Hence, I stubbornly keep my mouth shut, refusing to give them my fear or plead for my life like those pathetic girls in horror flicks.
