Page 30 of Stream & Scream
Close.
Close enough to smell her skin beneath the smoke. Her lips twitch in her sleep as I press two fingers gently to her mouth, streaking her with the proof of what she made me do.
She stirs.
Brows twitch. Lips move.
They purse softly, rubbing together like she’s tasting me.
She doesn’t wake.
Not yet.
But she will.
She’ll open those eyes to a new day, to a world where the rules have changed and the show no longer owns her.
Because I do.
She’s not just a player anymore.
She’s mine.
CHAPTER NINE
Olivia
Saturday morning.
Iwake with the sick, crawling feeling that someone has been watching me sleep.
The sensation hits me before I'm fully conscious, that primitive awareness that every prey animal develops when predators are near. My body knows something is wrong before my brain catches up, every nerve ending screaming danger in a language older than words.
I don't move at first. Don't open my eyes, don't shift position, don't do anything that might alert whatever presence I'm sensing to the fact that I'm awake. Instead, I lie perfectly still and try to figure out everything my senses are telling me.
My blanket feels wrong. It's still covering me, still wrapped around my shoulders and torso, but the position is slightly off. Like someone adjusted it, straightened it, tucked it more carefully around my body while I was unconscious.
The thought makes my skin crawl.
I force myself to breathe normally, to maintain the slow, steady rhythm of sleep while my mind races throughpossibilities. Did someone find my hiding spot? Did they stand over me, watching, maybe even touching, while I was helpless and vulnerable?
And if so, why am I still alive?
The stick I'd been clutching when I fell asleep is still in my hand, but it feels different too. Repositioned, maybe. Like someone examined it, tested its weight, judged its effectiveness as a weapon.
My eyes snap open, and I immediately scan the small space between the oak tree's base that served as my shelter for the night. Everything looks normal, but the wrongness persists, that certainty that someone has been here, has violated my space in ways I can't quite identify.
I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting the night spent sleeping on hard ground. My tracksuit is damp with condensation and stained with dirt and plant matter from last night’s trek through the forest. The fabric clings to my skin in uncomfortable ways that remind me how exposed I am out here, how vulnerable.
The morning light filtering through the canopy is pale and watery, suggesting early dawn rather than full sunrise. I check my wrist device—6:47 a.m., Saturday. I've been unconscious for maybe four hours, though it feels like I just closed my eyes minutes ago. My body hurts and I feel like shit.
The device shows I'm still being recorded, of course. The red light blinks steadily, capturing my confusion and growing fear for an audience that's probably eating breakfast while watching me process the violation of my personal space. I wonder what the overnight footage shows. Did the cameras capture whoever was here?
The thought makes me want to vomit.
I pack up quickly, stuffing my blanket into the backpack and shouldering the whole mess with movements that feel jerky anduncontrolled. I need to move. I need to put distance between myself and this place.
The forest around me is different in daylight—less oppressive, more navigable, but somehow still scary. In the dark, dangers could hide anywhere, but at least the limitation was mutual. Now, with visibility extending for hundreds of yards in some directions, I'm forced to confront the reality of how vast this hunting ground really is.
