Page 58 of Stream & Scream
Trent begins again, “What the fu?—”
There’s a flash of silver behind me, and before I process what he’s done, there’s a loudthunk. Trent falls to his knees, blade sticking out from the middle of his forehead. Blood pours from his head and his eyes go wide. He doesn’t even have time to reach for the blade before he’s dead. His entire body goes limp, crashing to the forest floor, where he twitches for a moment, then goes permanently still.
The whole sequence takes maybe three seconds.
Three seconds from witness to corpse.
I scream in horror, pulling away from The Hunter as quickly as I can. My brain is overloading. It’s impossible to process all of these things happening simultaneously in the same small space. It’s psychological whiplash.
I’m gonna vomit.
The Hunter steps back, still stroking his dick while he watches me, observing my reaction.
But I can't process anything except the need to run, tomove, to put distance between myself and this fucking monster who makes me lose the battle with my morality.
I gather what’s left of my torn tracksuit and my backpack, and then I run, naked and sticky with arousal and absolutely shameless, sprinting through thick trees that tear at my skin.
Behind me, his voice carries through the air with confidence.
"You can run, clickbait," he calls out to me, and there's amusement in his tone. "But I'll always catch you. You belong to me now."
I already know it’s inevitable.
And maybe—justmaybe—because some part of me wants to be caught.
To be claimed again and again, to experience his power and the vulnerability of my surrender.
But even as I run, I can't ignore the heat that's still pulsing between my thighs.
And I can't ignore the growing certainty that I'm not running from him at all.
In a roundabout way, I'm running to him.
And tomorrow, or tonight, or whenever he decides the chase has gone on long enough, I'll let him catch me again.
Because that's what toys do.
They get played with.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jaxen
Sunday night
Trent’s body jerks once. Twice. Then stills.
I crouch over it, knife still dripping, blood pooling on the forest floor. His face is a fucking mess. His eyes are wide like he’s confused.
He fucking interrupted me.
I should feel relieved or satisfied I’ve made another kill. Another ending to a pathetic existence. Instead, I’m buzzing with frustration, teeth clenched. Because I didn’t finish. Not with him—fuck him. Withher.
I didn’t finish inside her. Didn’t hear that last scream twist into begging. Didn’t watch her break and melt completely. She was wrapped around my cock like she was made for me, clinging like she never wanted me to leave, and then this idiot had to stick his face in my moment.
I rip the blade from his skull, then wipe it across his shirt and sheath it. But it doesn’t change the fact that my cock’s still hard, still aching with how fucking good she felt.
She was mine. The way her pussy squeezed around me, tight and greedy. The way her moans choked out no matter how she tried to swallow them. The way her eyes looked when I told her she belonged to me, defiant and wet at the same time. She was fucking mine, and I was seconds from finishing, from spilling in her and making sure the whole goddamn world saw her as mine. And he stole it from me.
