Page 46 of Stream & Scream
I watch her vanish into the shadows. There’s no need to chase her. Not yet.
Because now she knows what she is—my newest obsession.
And this is only the beginning.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Olivia
Early Sunday morning.
Iran until my legs gave out beneath me.
When I finally stopped and my body refused to carry me another step, I found myself in a small clearing shrouded in early morning fog that turned everything soft and dreamlike.
Now, the sun is just starting to rise, painting the mist with shades of gold and pink that should be beautiful but instead feels surreal, and disconnected from reality.
My body aches in places that remind me exactly what he did, exactly how he used me, exactly how completely he owned every inch of me. The thought sends heat coursing through me again.
Fuck.
I liked it.
God help me, I liked being pinned against that stone and the way his hands controlled every aspect of my movement. I fucking loved the roughness in his voice when he told me I was made for this, made forhim.
The thought makes me want to vomit, but my stomach is empty and I already know all that would come up is bile.
Why me? Of all the girls here, whyme?
The question circles through my mind, picking at dark thoughts I refuse to acknowledge. He could have snapped my neck.
Instead, he let me go. He told me to run, giving me permission to flee while he disappeared into the trees to plan his next move.
But it felt like a "see you soon" rather than a "goodbye."
I need water.
I need to wash the scent of him from my skin and the taste of him from my mouth. There's a stream nearby—I can hear it running.
I strip out of my tracksuit, leaving myself standing naked in the morning mist. The water is cold, making me inhale sharply as I enter the crystal clear current. I scrub myself with handfuls of sand and gravel that leave my skin raw and red but don't do anything to erase the lingering sensation of his mouth on my throat.
There are dark bruises forming on my shoulder where he bit down, finger-shaped discolorations on my hips where he held me in place, scratches on my thighs from the rough rock he pressed me against.
I dunk my head under the water and clean myself as best I can. I feel gross. I haven’t showered since Friday morning.
When I finally drag myself out of the stream, I force myself back into the wretched tracksuit that smells like sex and sweat.
The wrist device is still there, still blinking its stupid red light, broadcasting my existence to millions of viewers who watched me get fucked by a serial killer.
They saw everything. Every moment of submission, every half-assed protest that dissolved into moans. The cameras caught all of it. I know they did.
Millions of people just watched me discover that I get wet when dangerous men pin me down and take what they want.
"No," I whisper to the camera on my wrist, but the word comes out broken. "No, no, no, no?—"
I rip the device off my wrist and hurl it as hard as I can into the forest. It disappears into the underbrush with a crash. It probably pisses the producers off, but I don’t care. I can't have that red light watching me. I don’t know what’s happening to me.
After a while, I find another clearing maybe a quarter mile from the stream, a small space between two massive oak trees that feels somewhat hidden.
