Page 223 of Primal

I give her ten seconds.

Long enough to mess with her.

Long enough for her breath to hitch—not from fear, but the game of it.

She wants to be caught?

I’ll make her beg for it.

I move, then stop short, my boot hooking under the strap of the backpack she left behind. Careless. Or calculated.

Either way, it’s mine now. I grab it, hefting the weight—lighter than I expected.

Unzipping it one-handed, I take inventory: water bottle, flashlight, wet wipes, spare panties (Hopeful, are we?), lube (Smart girl), some sad-looking protein bar, a flask labeled Holy Water that definitely isn’t, and—

A knife she’d probably stab herself with by accident.

A dozen Magnums. The fuck is she expecting, a cryptid gangbang? Doesn’t matter. She won’t be walking out of here once I’m through with these.

And—well, well. A blindfold.

Game fucking on.

Chapter Five

Why the hell did I sign up for this? Oh, right—because Lana claimed this would be ‘a fun, safe place to explore my dirtiest fantasies,’ emphasis on the fun. Turns out, there’s nothing fun about a forest that reeks of damp regret and the kind of darkness that brings all your worst childhood boogeymen to life. Happy fucking Halloween to me.

My eyes have adjusted as much as they’re going to—which means I can now tell the difference between Probably A Tree and Might Be A Guy Who Wants To Wear My Skin Like A Snuggie. Progress. Not that it helps much when everything out here is a Hurt Me Plenty obstacle course of roots, spiderwebs, and god-knows-what else waiting to trip me into tomorrow.

Goddamn masked slasher reject.

At least a dozen of them lurking in these woods, all paid to chase and—if the brochure wasn’t lying—ravish willing prey like me.

The only one who managed to corner me so far? Mr. Dollar-Store-Ghostface, who couldn’t even finish a girl off properly.

“Oh, sure, run away,” I hiss to the shadows. “Real scary with your Walmart mask and fake knife.”

A twig snaps to my right.

“Kristy?” I whisper-shout into the void.

Silence.

Trust my bestie to ditch me the second Mr. Ghostface showed up. One minute she’s bragging about her contraband phone (‘Vanessa Graves might like and repost my live-stream’) pinky-swearing we’d stick together no matter what. The next? ‘Oooh, chase me, spooky man!’—poof—gone like a virgin at a gangbang, phone and all.

I swear I heard her squeal as she bolted off, that traitorous little—

So much for safety in numbers. Now I’m alone in murder-forest with no bestie, and—I slap my hip, cursing when my fingers hit nothing—no backpack either. Must’ve left it when Mr. Pin-You-Against-A-Tree-And-Grope-You-To-Oblivion (But Won’t Follow Through) told me to scram.

I should go back. My survival kit’s in there—water, lube, that protein bar I’d kill for right now, and oh yeah, the condoms. Not that I need them (I’ve got an IUD, and everyone here should be medically cleared). But options mean control.

And let’s face it, Mr. Dollar-Store-Ghostface screamed options.

Even with his ridiculous mask and that horror-porn voice filter. Should’ve been laughable.

But the things he said arrowed straight to my clit.

The way he manhandled me? God. Hard chest. Harder cock. Knee wedged between my thighs like he’d studied me in another life.