Page 74 of Stream & Scream
The bullet takes me in the thigh.
I don't even see him draw the gun until fire explodes through my leg and dumps me onto the floor, crying out in agony.
The pain is immediate and overwhelming, radiating outward from the entry wound in waves that make it impossible to think straight. Blood flows freely, pooling all around me on the floorboards.
"That's better," he says, stepping closer. "Now we can have a real conversation about what's going to happen next."
I try to crawl away from him, using my hands to drag myself across a floor that's slick with my own blood, but the wounded leg won't support any weight and the pain makes it impossible to get far.
He catches me easily, one hand tangling in my hair while the other grabs my injured thigh with pressure that sends new agony lancing through my entire body. His touch is cruel and unforgiving.
"See, your boyfriend made a mistake," he says, dragging me upright and slamming my back against the cabin wall with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs. "He thought he could play house, keep a pet, pretend this was something other than what it actually is. But this is business, sweetheart. Always was and always will be."
His free hand closes around my throat, cutting off air flow while leaving just enough circulation to maintain consciousness. Stars begin to dance in the corners of my vision as he raises me higher, leaving me dangling on the tips of my toes. He’s too fucking strong.
"I like watching the life leave someone's eyes," he whispers, his face close enough to mine that I can smell how foul his breath is. There’s excitement in his eyes. "That moment when they realize nobody's coming to save them."
The world starts going gray around the edges, consciousness fading as my brain begins shutting down non-essential functions to preserve whatever oxygen remains in my bloodstream. His face swims in and out of focus, that empty smile growing wider as he watches awareness leave my eyes.
This is it. This is how it ends.
I think of The Hunter as the darkness closes in. I never even knew his name.
The new hunter's grip tightens fractionally, and I feel myself slipping away completely. My vision tunnels down to a pinpoint of light surrounded by endless black, my thoughts becoming scattered and strange as my brain starts shutting down.
The last thing I see before the darkness takes me completely is that empty smile, those cold gray eyes, the face of a monster.
Then nothing.
Just the growing certainty that my consciousness is fading and my breath is stopping… That this ranger station in the woods will be the last thing I ever see.
But just as the final thread of awareness begins to snap, something crashes through the back window with enough force to shake the entire structure.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Jaxen
Sunday night
The second I hear her scream, I’m gone.
And not fucking metaphor gone. Not some bullshit poetic fade-to-black where a man contemplates the shape of his sins. I mean my brain detonates. I stop being a series of choices and become a single, violent fucking answer.
The window never stood a chance.
Glass erupts around me in a storm of teeth; cold air knifes my lungs as the back wall coughs splinters like ribs and I go through it, not after it—through it—and into him, yanking him off her. I take the bastard full on, all speed and weight, the tackle carrying us both off our feet. We hit the floor in a killing knot, my shoulder buried in his ribs, the boards bowing under the slam. Lantern light jerks on its hook, strobing the room—shadow, flame, shadow—so fast it feels like I’ve dropped into someone else’s nightmare.
She’s there—crumpled on the floor now—throat ringed in red handprints, mouth working at thin air, hair a wet snarl againsther cheek, fresh blood running hot down her thigh. Her fingers twitch like they’re trying to remember what to do besides claw.
And the bastard—my goddamn replacement, their cleanup crew—isn’t standing over her anymore; he’s under me, armor biting, night rig cinched tight, knife knocked askew by the hit. He grunts—breath blasted, not pain—and rolls like the trained dog he is and tries to steal the momentum, but I ride it out and pin him. I give the pain nothing.
Steel flashes. A utilitarian wedge of coated blade—half-serrated by the hilt, the kind you use to open a throat and regret later. He stabs for the quick finish—the straight shove up under the sternum—going blind on muscle memory because I knocked his view sideways. I twist; the point skates off plate, rips fabric, kisses skin and keeps going.
Not today.
We slam into the table leg; it gives with a splintery crack, dishes leaping and shattering. He grunts, just breath leaving, not pain, and rolls like a trained man does, taking the momentum, flipping us so my spine hits the boards and the room goes white for a heartbeat. My ribs complain in a hot stripe where his weight lands. I give the pain nothing.
His knife flashes, a wedge of coated steel. I twist. He slices my side instead of my heart. It burns like a hot wire. Blood floods down my hip, heat and wet at once, so fucking immediate it feels cold.
