Page 26 of Stream & Scream
I force myself to breathe slowly and quietly, despite every instinct screaming at me to run. Running now would be suicide—I'd crash through the underbrush like a wounded animal, making noise that would pinpoint my location and exhaust me within minutes.
It’s better to wait. To hope they move on to easier prey.
The footsteps pause directly in front of my shelter, so close I’m sure they can hear my pounding heart. My grip tightens on the pathetic stick, and I try to prepare myself for what might happen if they find me.
Will it be quick? Will I have time to scream, to alert the others, to do something useful with my final moments? Or will I just become another fragment of fabric caught on a tree trunk, another mystery for the next person to discover and misinterpret?
The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable. I can feel them standing there.
Then, after what feels like forever, the footsteps move away. Slowly, carefully, but definitely away. I listen to them fade into the distance, tracking the sound until it disappears entirely into the vast silence of the forest.
I don't move for another hour.
It’s not my time. They don’t want me yet.
I whisper to myself, barely breathing the words, "You signed up for this. You signed up for this. It's just a game show. It's just television. People don't actually die on television."
But even as I say the words, I know they're lies. I didn't sign up for this—not for real hunting, not foractualdeath and whatever twisted reality show this has become.
I’m still breathing. I’m still here.
That has to be enough for now.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, knowing that tomorrow will bring new horrors, new challenges.
I listen to the forest sway in the breeze around me, hoping I'll live long enough to see the sun again. Eventually sleep claims me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Jaxen
Night one
She sleeps like sin beneath stars that don’t give a damn.
Curled on her side in that old oak tree, her blanket drawn up over her head, arms wrapped tight around her midsection like she's trying to hold herself together. Legs tucked up. Chest rising slow.
It’s the quietest I’ve ever seen her. And that’s saying something, considering I’ve been watching her for hours.
I squat behind a veil of ferns, breath shallow behind my tactical helmet. The night vision scope hums faintly, giving everything a surreal green glow. Her figure is outlined in pale lime.
And fuck if I don’t feel like a wolf beneath the moon, watching something he doesn’t deserve.
She’s so soft when she sleeps.
Mouth parted just a little. A patch of throat exposed where her blanket slipped. It pulses gently when she breathes. Innocent. Sweet.
But this isn't sweet.
My cock’s hard.
Hard from the way her thigh shifts when she readjusts. Hard from the memory of her voice, thick with attitude, slinging sarcasm like a weapon while every other contestant begged for mercy. Hard from the way shehasn'tbegged.
Yet.
The producers squawk in my ear like flies circling shit.
“You’re stalling, Morris. Push in. We need movement for the stream?—”
