Page 16 of Primal

Fuck precision.

I sprint after the motherfucker, letting the pulse in my teeth guide me.

The list of things I’ll do starts with disembowel and ends with taxidermy. Hell, if he so much as breathes in her direction, I’ll turn his knife into a rectal thermometer.

Ghostface #3 is moving like he knows these woods—probably some tryhard who’s done this before. But I march like I own them.

Branches whip at my arms as I cut through a thicket.

Payton’s watch vibrates: 13% battery. 130 BPM.

Movement ahead. Her flaming red hair flashes between the pines.

Her sidekick must be Kristy C., according to her Instagram. She’d bring cupcakes to a knife fight. Probably give the killer a gold star for effort afterward.

They’re both breathing hard, grinning.

Ghostface #3 steps out from the shadows. As if he was waiting for his cue.

“Come on!” Kristy takes off, a shrieking whirlwind of limbs and tie-dye, her neon shorts practically a ‘Chase Me’ cape.

Payton takes a step. Then stops. She senses me.

The sheathless blade tucked into my jeans licks a cold line up my spine—precarious, punishing. The sting reminds me what happens when control slips. One wrong move, and I’ll fillet myself like an idiot.

I step into the patch of moonlight, and her lips twitch. I can only imagine the view—crooked eyeholes, flimsy hood, the whole ‘clearance-rack slasher’ vibe.

Payton, ever the sassy little brat, cocks her hip. “Eight hundred bucks and this is what they give you?” She reaches out like she might fix it, the absolute fucking audacity. A giggle bubbles up. “They could’ve just given you a napkin with eyeholes. Would’ve been the same vibe.”

I don’t move. Don’t breathe.

“Ohhh, you’re doing the ‘strong, silent type,’ huh? But Jesus, can you even see through that thing?” She closes in, about to adjust the crooked eyehole.

My hand finds her throat first, and her back hits the nearest tree.

Pupils devour the green of her eyes. Good. That infuriating mouth parts—not to sass, but to suck in air like she’s drowning in me.

For three heartbeats, we’re locked like that. That wide-eyed stare. Her chest rising and falling.

My other hand slips under her hoodie. The thin tank top beneath is a joke. Her stomach tenses, her body quivering like she’s already imagining where this goes.

I drag my palm up, slow, exploring. Her skin’s smooth. Warm. Too fucking warm.

Her hips jerk—away or into me, she can’t even decide—but I don’t let her choose. My knee slots between her legs, rough enough to punch a gasp from her lips.

My grip tightens. Fingers splay just beneath her sports bra. Her heartbeat thrums, rabbit-quick.

The second I graze her nipple, she bites her lip—hard.

I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, her kink list scrolling behind my eyes like a goddamn menu.

PRIMAL PLAY. My knee grinds higher, dragging a whimper from her throat. Check.

PRAISE. The voice modulator crackles. “Look at you. All that sass, and now you’re just trembling for me. Good girl.” Check.

SPANKING. I slide my free hand down the curve of her ass, squeeze hard. You’ll feel that one later.

EDGING. I drag my thumb back up her stomach, watching her hips chase the contact. Warming up.