Page 78 of Stream & Scream
It's over. The game, the hunt, the cameras are all gone and I’m the only one left alive.
"Hi," I whisper, the word coming out as barely more than breath, but he hears it anyway. It hurts so much worse than I thought it would.
He doesn’t stop walking, but his attention shifts toward me.
"I'm here," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple that's so gentle it makes my chest ache. "You're safe. I've got you."
Safe.
"I thought—" I start, then stop, because the pain is too much. I can’t talk. The second hunter took my voice when he tried to take my life.
"I know what you thought," he says, keeping his steady pace through the rough, uneven terrain. "And you were wrong. I told you I always come back for what's mine."
Mine.
His.
We pass through the forest in a blur of green and brown, towering trees that have seen more in one weekend than they’ve seen in a lifetime.
I open my mouth to ask him where we’re going, but I stop myself, giving him a look I hope he understands. Although part of me doesn't actually care where we’re going as long as I’m with him, and we’re far away from this place.
"We’re leaving," he says simply. "Away from the cameras, the producers, the whole fucking circus."
The trees thin gradually, giving way to scrubland and then to a dirt road that looks like it hasn't been maintained for years. But it's a road, which means civilization, which means the possibility of medical care for my gaping fucking bullet wound.
A black truck sits buried between the trees, hidden from the rest of the world.
He sets me down carefully beside the passenger door, one arm remaining around my waist to provide support while the other fumbles with keys that produce a soft electronic chirp as the locks disengage.
"Can you stand?" he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice.
I test my weight on the injured leg, gritting my teeth against the fresh wave of pain that shoots through the bullet wound. It hurts—hurts like fucking hell, actually—but I can put a little bit of weight on it for a few seconds.
I nod, convincing him with my eyes.
He helps me into the passenger seat, adjusting my position to minimize pressure on the bullet wound while ensuring that the seatbelt doesn't aggravate the bruising around my throat.
The truck's interior is clean, organized. Loaded with supplies. Water bottles, first aid supplies, camping equipment, all of it arranged where it can be accessed quickly.
He slides into the driver's seat and turns the key, bringing the engine to life.
But before he can put the truck in drive, static erupts from the dashboard radio.
Not music. Not a fucking weather report or traffic update or any of the other stupid shit they play on the radio.
A voice. Male, authoritative, carrying the tone of entitlement.
"Jaxen, report status."
The Hunter’s hand freezes on the gear shift, his entire body going still.
The radio crackles again, impatience creeping into the voice that probably belongs to someone who's never had to kill with his own hands but is perfectly comfortable ordering others to commit violence on his behalf.
"God dammit Jaxen, respond immediately. What’s the status?"
For a long moment Jaxen doesn't respond or even acknowledge the transmission.
Eventually, he reaches for the radio, his expression shifting from neutral to… amusement?
