Page 63 of Stream & Scream
Her face drains. Panic makes her scramble again, wrists clawing into mud as she drags herself forward, useless ankle scraping behind.
I let her crawl a few feet. Enough for the cameras to drink in every pathetic sob and twitch.
Then I grab her by the hair and rip her back, her scream splitting the night wide open. I wrench her chin up so her cam catches every inch of terror in those violet-gray eyes.
“You’re not even fun,” I rasp, knife sliding free with a hiss of steel. “Discount damsel. No chase. No spark. Just filler.”
She claws at my arm, nails snapping in the mud. I slam the blade up under her ribs, hard, angling it deep.
Her body bows hard, spine curving under me. Eyes bulge wide. Hot blood erupts over my glove in thick spurts, pumping with every frantic beat of her heart. It bubbles up her throat in gurgles, choking out half-formed screams that die wet on her lips, her mouth trembling crimson.
I twist the knife slow, savoring the resistance—the drag of steel grinding through muscle, the sudden give when tendons snap like overstretched wire. It’s work and it’s music all at once. Her body jerks against me, nerves firing blind, legs kicking mud. The vibration runs up the hilt into my hand, a shudder I feel down my fucking arm.
I lean closer, voice low and cruel. “Not like her. Not like my little clickbait. She runs. She fights. She makes me hard every time.”
I wrench the blade free, feel the sticky suction of her flesh trying to keep it, then ram it back into her stomach with another brutal plunge. The blade punches through skin, tears hot muscleapart, the sound wet and obscene. The dirt darkens, painted black beneath her twitching body.
“You?” I growl, twisting again just to hear the fibers scream. “You’re nothing.”
Her head lolls, eyes glazing. Blood drips from her lips in sticky ropes as her chest stutters, then stops.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Here’s your fucking show.”
I stage her against a boulder, moonlight pouring over her slack face. Curl her lips into a grotesque grin with two fingers. Smear blood across her cheeks in crimson streaks. Puppet for the feed.
“Smile for the camera,” I whisper, brushing her hair back mock-gentle.
Better. Always better posed.
The drones blink red, zoom in close. The producers will be foaming at the mouth.
I step back, admiring the carnage. It’s almost art. Almost. But art is alive. This? This is just noise.
Then a sound. Sharp, small, but real. A gasp.
I whip around. My heart rate spikes with excitement.
And there he is.
We lock eyes across the clearing. His throat bobs. Then instinct takes over and he bolts.
I smirk under the helmet, pulse kicking, cock still heavy from the last kill. Oh, this is going to be fucking good.
Malik tears through the trees, panic making him loud. His breath rips ragged from his chest, spilling curses and broken prayers into the dark.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck?—”
I let him go, just long enough to taste the desperation crack. Then I follow.
My boots chew up the ground, wet leaves snapping, pine needles spitting under my weight. Rifle slaps against my back,pistol thuds against my side, knife riding hot and familiar against my thigh. All of it weight I barely notice now—the hunt drowns everything else. The trill’s in my blood, sharp and electric. I stalk when I want silence. I thunder when I want him to know I’m right behind him. Close enough that he can feel me breathing down his spine, but never close enough to give him hope.
“Run,” I snarl into the night, loud enough to cut through his ragged breaths. “Make it worth my time.”
He stumbles harder, sneakers sinking into the soft ground, a strangled cry tearing from his throat.
“You think you’re fast?” My laugh is sharp, manic, bouncing off the trees. “You’re fucking loud. Every step is a countdown.”
He risks one glance back. Just one. Rookie mistake. His brown eyes catch mine for a split second—wide, terrified, knowing.
