Page 35 of Stream & Scream
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and settle back against the stone wall, but sleep doesn't return. Instead, I stare into the darkness beyond the cave entrance and wonder comes next.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jaxen
Saturday night.
They don’t know what it feels like to need someone like this. Not want. Not crave.Need. Down to the marrow, down to the fucking animal buried inside your skin. Not just your heart, not just your dick, but everything. Teeth and blood. The part of you that was never civilized to begin with, the part that only exists to hunt, to claim, tokeep.
That’s what she is to me.
Liv.
The audience thinks this is about survival. The producers think it’s about control. But I’m not playing their game. I’m following instinct. Every move I make, every scream I drag out of someone’s throat, is for her. Every corpse is a gift. Every kill is a warning. I don’t give a fuck about safe zones, alliances, or winning. The only thing I want is her, on her knees, breathless and ruined, whispering my name like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.
She didn’t light a fire. Smart.
The cavern she found swallows light whole, damp walls slick with moss and shadow, the air sharp with minerals and fear. From where I stand at the mouth, it looks like the earth itself opened a ribcage and swallowed her inside.
She’s curled against the rock wall, half-hidden by ferns that drape down like curtains. No defenses, no perimeter checks, no traps set. Just exhaustion. She ran until her body quit, then collapsed where it was dark enough to pretend she couldn’t be seen.
But I see her.
Even with her arms wrapped tight around herself, dirt smeared on her face, she’s mine in every line of her body. Her chest rises in shallow rhythm, lips parted. Dreams tug her under, and I’d bet my last bullet I know who she’s dreaming of.
Her shoulders twitch now and then, restless even in sleep. Knife still clutched tight against her chest like a toy, like she thought it might save her if anyone came. But it wouldn’t. Not against me.
She thinks she disappeared into the dark.
She doesn’t know the dark answers to me.
That’s the thing about fear, it’s primal. It speaks before the brain catches up. She might be furious. Might tell herself she hates me. But her pulse doesn’t lie. The sharp rhythm of it, visible even at a distance when she presses a trembling hand to her throat, tells me everything. No one’s ever looked at her the way I do. No one’s ever stalked her with this much patience, this much hunger. And when I finally take her, she’ll understand. She just hasn’t said it yet. But she will. They always do.
The comm in my ear buzzes to life, static whining like a fucking mosquito. “Hunter. Status?”
I don’t answer. I breathe slowly and measured into the mic and tap it once with my finger, letting them hear the rhythm of my patience. Static hisses, then a voice cuts in—Milo. AlwaysMilo. Too smug, too sure he’s the one pulling strings when he’s never stepped foot out here in the dark.
“You had an opportunity,” he says, voice clipped, professional, irritation sharpened to a blade. “She was right there, and you hesitated. Don’t make me spell this out again—you’re here to kill, not play favorites.”
I let the silence stretch. Let him think he’s in control for half a second. They’re salivating behind the glass of their control room, pacing their sterile chairs, wondering why I haven’t slit her throat yet. They think hesitation is weakness. They think I’ve gone soft. But I haven’t. I’ve gone sharp. Every second she breathes is a blade I hold at their throat. Every choice I make is a cut across their script. And when I finally decide to bleed someone, they’ll understand who really controls this show.
The comm crackles again, their voices clipped and demanding, chewing through the static like vultures tearing at meat. They want results. They want blood. But I’m not ready to give them hers. Not yet.
I stay crouched in the tree line for a while longer, eyes fixed on the way she curls tighter into herself like she can sense the storm circling. I could watch her all night. But the producers won’t let me. They need a body. A message. Something to remind the audience why they tune in.
I’ll give them one.
I peel away from my perch, slipping back into the trees. My boots move silently over the damp forest floor, every step calculated, every inhale steady. The further I get from her, the louder the woods feel—the chirp of crickets, the drip of water, the echo of something waiting to die. Blood buys me silence. And right now, silence is what I need if I’m going to keep her mine.
I slip a hand to the console at my belt, thumb dragging across the cracked little screen. The drones scatter above the canopy, their lenses mine to control. One by one, I flip through feeds.Contestant Four—huddled under a tarp, shivering. Not enough fight in him, not worth the effort. Contestant Seven—snoring in the open like a gift-wrapped corpse. Too easy.
Then, Cody. Contestant Ten. Loudmouthed, self-important fuck with a jaw too square for his IQ.
“What’s up, stream team?” he brags, flexing his biceps. “Still alive, still better looking than half of you out there.”
Pathetic.
I watch him laugh at his own voice, oblivious to the fact that the drones have already chosen him. ThatIhave chosen him. Decision made. Target locked. The feed blinks red as I tag him, the drone circling tighter overhead. He doesn’t even glance up. Too busy playing to the audience to notice death lining him up in its sights. Fine. I’ll give them their kill, and Cody will give me my silence.
