Page 48 of Stream & Scream
But mostly I think about The Hunter. About his hands and his distorted voice. And the confidence with which he walked away, leaving me to put the pieces of myself back together.
When night falls, I find a sheltered spot between fallen logs and settle in to wait out another eight hours of darkness, oflistening for footsteps, of hoping those footsteps belong to him but also dreading seeing him again.
Sleep comes easier than it should, probably because my body is running on next to nothing.
But my dreams are anything but restful.
I'm back in the forest, but this time I'm not running. I'm walking through trees that part before me like I belong here, like I've finally found my home. The darkness doesn't frighten me—it welcomes me, embraces me, recognizes me.
He's waiting for me in a clearing, standing perfectly still with that mask catching in the moonlight. I can feel his eyes on me and the intensity of his focus… It overwhelms me.
"I wondered when you'd stop running," he says, and his voice carries the same rough intimacy that made me scream his name against the rocks. "Wondered how long it would take you to accept that you’re mine."
I don't hesitate or second-guess. I walk toward him.
"I'm not running anymore," I tell him, keeping my chin up as I approach him.
He reaches for me, and I don't flinch. I let his hands roam my body while his eyes are locked on mine.
"Good girl," he murmurs against my throat as he leans in, sending a delighted shiver down my spine. "Mygood fucking girl."
“Yours,” I surrender, my voice barely a whisper.
I wake as an orgasm tears through me, crying out into the darkness. Blinking once, then twice, I focus to steady my breathing. My body is covered in sweat despite the cold air.
Fuck.
I lie there for a long while, giving myself time to process the dream and what it means.
I want him to find me again.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jaxen
Sunday morning
She scrubs like it’ll wash me off.
The feed stutters as I rewind it again. My finger twitches the playback dial backward one more fucking time, dragging the scene into slow motion. Grainy drone capture, pixelated and raw, but I don’t need clarity to know what I’m seeing. Her skin is red from the creek’s cold bite. Her dark hair is plastered wet against her shoulders in dripping ropes.
She knows the whole fucking world watched while I bent her over that stone and split her open for the cameras. There’s no pretending otherwise. No blackout feed. No mercy.
But she still tries.
Her hands are firm as she cleans between her legs. The tattoos on her arms blur and run beneath the water, black ink streaking over pale skin. I trace her with my eyes, memorizing every line, every curve of her body.
I remember the comments when I watched the feed back. The way the chat went feral the second I shoved her open and made her cry out for me. “Hunter’s slut.” “Clickbait bent in half.”“Replay that.” They called her ruined. Called her mine. Some begged for me to finish her off, others begged for me to make her scream again.
And I fucking loved it. I loved that they saw what I saw.
That they loved the name I gave to her.
She’s raw from scrubbing, shaking from the cold water.
And I can’t stop staring.
My cock is already hard, straining against my gear, the Jacob’s Ladder dragging sharp little jolts along my skin with every throb. Each bar is a reminder of how she clenched around it, how she shook, how her cunt fuckingbeggedfor me.
