Page 1 of Stream & Scream
PROLOGUE
Jaxen
Friday Afternoon. Hours before the game starts.
They unload like cattle. One by one. Shiny hair, shiny teeth, and glossy lips. Camera-ready and completely fucking clueless. I can smell the fake confidence from here—cheap perfume and silicone ambition. They stumble down the bus steps, blinking against the sun, already jostling for screen time. A few are trying too hard. Laughing too loud, brushing invisible lint from their designer jackets, glancing at the crew like they know they’re being watched and they fucking love it. It's embarrassing, really. Watching them pretend they’ve trained for this. As if hashtags and filtered thirst traps ever taught them how to survive.
My eyes flick past all of them. None of them matter. Not really.
Untilher.
I clock her the second she steps off the bus. Small frame. Long, dark hair pulled into a loose braid that falls over her shoulder like rope. Tattoos coil down her arms in black inked stories I want to read with my tongue. A septum ring glints inthe sun. Another stud rests above her lip. Piercing green eyes. Not emerald. Not jade. No. This is something wilder. Something you’d find in a predator hiding in the brush, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She’s not pretending. Not playing to the cameras. Her stance is guarded, shoulders tense and chin tilted like she knows exactly what the fuck this is and still signed up anyway.
Olivia Walden.
I’ve read the dossier. Twenty-six. 2.8 million followers. She posts videos of gothic décor, tattoo healing routines, macabre recipes with fake blood and edible roses. Her aesthetic is all ravens, velvet and dim lighting, curated to perfection. A little haunted doll that’s come to life. Most men probably want to save her. Shelter her. Clean the blood off her hands and wrap her up like porcelain. But I’m not most men.
No, I want to watch her break.
And then I want to make her beg to be broken again.
I zoom in on the monitor. The way she stands apart from the others, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip. She doesn’t mingle. Doesn’t smile. Her mouth is a flat, a stubborn line that saysfuck around and find out.But underneath all that armor? I can see it. The thing she doesn’t show on her feed. The ache. The hunger. That deep, cavernous need to be ruined just fucking right. Girls like Olivia dress the part, but none of them really know what it means to be prey until the game starts.
She’s going to learn.
I roll my shoulders and lean back in the surveillance truck. The walls hum with live feeds, each screen flickering with a different angle—drones, wrist cams, forest trail markers. It’s all locked and ready. The producers are buzzing around behind me, checking comms and confirming camera signals. They talk too much. Always do. All they care about is blood and ratings. But me? I want more.
This isn’t about a fucking paycheck. Not for me.
This is about instinct. Need. That primal twitch in your fucking spine that lights up when you spot something worth chasing. I’ve killed in wars, in training exercises, on command. Hell, I’ve done it out of boredom, just to feel something. But this? This is different.She’sdifferent.
I don’t know her story. I don’t fucking care—not yet. What I care about is the way she moves. Like she doesn’t want to be seen but knows damn well she will be. Like prey that’s smart enough to bite. She’s not flirting with the cameras or clinging to the others like they’re some kind of lifeline.
No, she’s quiet. Coiled. Watching everything. The way her mouth sets? That little flat line of defiance? That’s what does it. That’s how I know she isn’t one I’ll kill early. She’s not a filler reel or a throwaway scream. She’s the kind I’ll stretch out. Make last. Break slowly. Because girls like her? They don’t fall apart easy.
They fracture. Sharp. Loud. Beautiful. And I plan to savor every fucking crack.
I’ll feed it. With pain. With praise. With my cock buried so deep inside her she won’t remember where her thoughts end and mine begin.
“You’re drooling,” one of the tech guys says behind me, laughing nervously like he thinks we’re all in on some joke.
I don’t look at him. I just smile, slow and cold. “You watching the same feed I am?”
“Uh… yeah. I mean, I guess. She’s hot?”
“She’smine.”
That shuts him up.
Good.
Because I don’t share. Not once the hunt starts. And not with this one.
My fingers flex against the metal edge of the desk. The game starts at midnight, but I’m already braced for her. She’ll head north if she’s smart. Stick to the thicker woods, avoid the water, conserve heat. Not that it’ll help much in the long run.
She’s in the standard issue blackStream & Screamtracksuit like the rest of them, synthetic blend, show logo stamped across the back, collar zipped halfway to her throat. Her sneakers are already scuffed. Laces double-knotted.
Nothing custom. Nothing flashy. No lipstick, no false lashes. No interest in playing to the camera. She’s not trying to seduce a sponsorship deal or rack up followers with fake tears and cleavage. She’s not here to go viral—at least not the way the others are. She thinks it’s just a game. Thinks there’s a prize waiting at the end and rules to follow in the middle. She’s here to win.
