Page 59 of Stream & Scream
I look down at Trent’s face, still frozen in that dumb, shocked expression, and it only pisses me off more. I should’ve gutted him slower. Made it last. Made him choke on the sound of her moans in my head while I carved him apart.
I rip his wrist-cam off and strap it across my chest. Another angle. Another eye. Proof of ownership for when I catch her again. And I will. She’s out there, shaking, dripping, thighs wet, confused.
I’ll find her.
And when I do, there won’t be any more interruptions. No one gets between me and what’s mine again.
The comm crackles in my ear.
“What the fuck was that?” Milo’s voice, smug and pissed.
“You were supposed to kill her, not fuck her again,” Janice cuts in.
“This is a slasher, Jaxen, not a fucking porno,” Rory whines.
I laugh, bitter and mean, snapping Trent’s dead arm aside like it’s nothing. “Then maybe don’t cast girls who run so fucking sweet.”
“You go off-script again, we’ll pull your stream,” Milo spits.
“You hesitate again—” Rory starts.
“I don’t fucking hesitate.”
Silence. They know it’s true.
I stand, chest tight, cock still half-hard, my whole body buzzing like a live wire. I should’ve been inside her when she screamed that last time. Should’ve painted her cunt full ofme again. But instead, I’m walking away from a dead man, unfinished, unsatisfied and burning with an aching hunger only she can satisfy.
She thinks she escaped. Thinks she got away.Cute.
But she can’t wash me off. She can’t run far enough. And the next time I catch her, I won’t stop until she’s completely fucking ruined.
The forest is completely dark now.
I move quickly. I know she’s panicking now, and she’ll be sloppy. Feet heavy. Adrenaline bleeding her dry. Pretty little runner with no idea she’s leaving me breadcrumbs.
I can still smell her. Sex, sweat, fear—all tangled. My gloves reek of her. My cock aches every time I flex my fist.
Something shifts in the dark. My boots slow, knife loose in my palm.
Not her.
I crouch low, visor cutting the black into ghost-green. A girl slumped against a crooked tree, neck bent at a brutal angle. Emily Cho. Contestant #5.
Twenty-two. Long black hair tangled in mud, dark brown eyes already glassed over. Five-two, small frame crumpled like a doll someone tossed aside.
Dead. Not mine.
I circle her, studying the way her limbs hang. No blood. No slice. Just broken like someone crushed her. Scratch marks score the bark above, nails and sneaker scrapes desperate in their angles. She tried to get higher, thought she could beat gravity. Cameras must’ve shifted, she panicked, slipped, and fell wrong. Snapped like a stick.
I suck in an amused breath as I shake my head. “Fucking idiot.”
Her long hair snags in the bark when I grab her wrist, and I yank until it tears free. I rip the cam off her arm, crush it until it breaks, and shove the pieces into the hollow trunk behind her.
I didn’t get to kill her.
Dumb girl killed herself thinking she knew what she was doing.
She’s not worth screen time.
