Page 22 of Primal

I slap a hand over my mouth.

Custom-Mask howls, gloved hand flying to the wound as he scrambles backward. His head tilts—confused or maybe just concussed—before he fumbles for his walkie.

“Code—shit—Code Black. Hunter down. Hunter fucking down—”

Dollar-Store doesn’t give him—or me—time to process.

One boot to the chest sends Custom-Mask sprawling. Then Dollar Store’s on him—knees pinning shoulders, fists slamming into that pristine mask hard enough to spiderweb the plastic.

The blade comes free with a wet schlick. Dollar-Store stands and shoves it behind him.

Oh, fuck. Now he’s coming for me.

Run.

I take two whole steps before my damn underwear—still tangled around my legs like a lacy bear trap—snags. I flail forward and hit the forest floor face-first. Dirt in my mouth. Twigs stabbing my boobs. My pride dies a quiet, crunchy death.

Before I can blink, he’s on me.

Fist. Fabric. One savage pull. The panties don’t stand a chance. Elastic snaps loud enough to echo.

My kick connects with nothing but air.

He yanks the ruined cotton from my ankle. Sends it sailing into the darkness, probably landing in poison ivy because the universe hates me.

I scramble up, skirt lifted, cool night air kissing skin that hasn’t seen moonlight since … well, ever.

One step. Two. Almost—

Nope.

He grabs me mid-sprint. Throws me over his shoulder fireman-style.

“Let me go!”

He just laughs. Laughs.

“Keep squirming,” he says, voice low. “It jiggles when you do that.”

What the—did he just …? “Put me down, you—”

He smacks my ass. Hard.

“—unhinged, cave-dwelling, motherf—”

smack.

My teeth click like castanets. My cheeks burn.

He takes off at a sprint, jostling me with every step. The world blurs—the distant sound of Custom-Mask groaning behind us.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” I’m yelling before I can think, pounding on Dollar-Store’s back with both fists as he charges deeper into the forest.

“You stabbed him. You—with a real knife, you psycho. Are you—”

smack.

“—crazy—”