Page 72 of Stream & Scream
Especially not with Olivia.
I don’t make promises. Not to anyone. Not in this line of work, not in this fucking life. Words are cheap and breaking them is easier than breathing. But I sure as fuck don’t make promises I can’t keep.
And I promised her. With my hands on her skin, with my breath in her ear, with blood already staining me, I promised her that I’d come back. That she was mine.
If I don’t keep that? Then I’m not a hunter. I’m not even a man. I’m just another corpse waiting to be buried under someone else’s story.
The forest tries to hold me back. Roots snarl underfoot, teeth waiting to trip me, to slow me. I don’t give them the satisfaction. I rip through all of it—faster, harder, ankle screaming, lungs burning like a furnace.
The air tastes like rot and iron. Cold wind carries pine sap sharp as knives, the damp earth steaming under my boots. The trees loom tall, black ribs spearing the night, closing in like the whole forest wants to swallow me. Doesn’t matter. I chew through it. I don’t stop.
Every ridge is an enemy. Every shadow a mouth. Every breath is another second she could be screaming without me there to shut it down.
I wonder if they cut the feed before they dropped the secondary into my woods. If the viewers saw the switch, or if the signal went dark. Maybe they’re panicking in the chat right now, wondering if the show’s real. Wondering if their neat little bloodbath turned into something worse. Something they can’t control.
Doesn’t matter.
I’ll make them believe.
I’ll paint the woods red if I have to. Burn their empire down. Salt the ground until nothing grows.
Because she’s mine.
And I’ll tear the whole fucking world apart before I’m too late again.
The cabin waits somewhere ahead, crouched in the trees like a secret. Lantern light flickering inside. Maybe her shadow still moving against the wall. Maybe not.
My knife is slick in my hand. My rifle rides my back like a promise.
And I’m coming for it all like a fucking storm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Olivia
Sunday night.
The first bullet shatters the window with a deafening boom, sending glass and chunks of rotting wood exploding inward like shrapnel from a grenade.
I scream as I dive behind the overturned desk that's been serving as my primary defense, heart slamming against my ribs. He’s not back yet. He’s not fucking back yet.
"Come out, come out," a deep male voice calls through the window frame. "Your new little boyfriend left hours ago, but he’s not back yet. Why is that? Did he forget about you already?"
Countless shots are fired through the door, and the old wood practically disintegrates. The bullets spray all around the room, whizzing past me, but none of them hit me.
My hands shake as I cling to the flare gun.
I have to buy myself more time. Just long enough for him to get back to me.
I aim the flare gun at the ceiling and pull the trigger.
The projectile launches with a sharp pop, trailing sparks and smoke as it pushes through the old ceiling, exiting into the skyabove. Bright red light blooms outside the broken roof, painting the forest in hellish colors. It should be visible for miles.
Please see it. Please be close enough. Please care enough to come back for me.
Please.
"Smart girl," the voice outside says, and there's amusement in his tone that sends chills rolling through my body. "Calling for backup. Too bad your boyfriend's too busy playing with other toys to notice."
