Page 127 of Haunted Spurs

I grip the raw leather mask production gave me, feeling the rough grain of the hide under my fingertips. I look back at Selene, who is lacing up her dark boots, ready to run through the mud.

Me, masked, hunting my woman through the trees, fully aware of what she just promised me if I'm fast enough to catch her?

Fuck... this is a seriously, fucking exciting challenge.

Selene

Cold mud splatters against my calves with every stride as my boots sink into the soft forest floor.

Elm Hollow's damp air scrapes my lungs, but I don't slow down. I can't. A production drone is buzzing right above my head, a mechanical fly monitoring me to make sure I'm following the rules. That I'm actually running away.

And the truth is... I'm running like my life depends on it.

The atmosphere is a masterpiece of terror. Fog rises from the ground, wrapping around the twisted trunks of the ancient trees, turning the woods into a maze of hostile shadows. Bare branches brush my arms, snagging the fabric of my sweater, while the unnatural silence of the vegetation is broken only by my ragged breathing and the dull thud of footsteps behind me.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Heavy footsteps.

I look back for a fraction of a second, my heart pounding in my ears.

Through the curtain of white fog, I see him.

The massive silhouette of a man dressed in black, his face completely erased by a raw leather mask, advancing through the trees.

He moves with the fluidity and power of a predator.

He is the perfect, physical incarnation of every dark lord I have ever birthed in my novels.

A shiver of terror races up my spine, twisting in a sick, twisted way with an arousal that liquefies my insides.

I dodge to the side, trying to skirt around a thorny bush to lose him.

But he's too fast. Too strong.

A hand made of steel shoots out of the dark and clamps down on my hip like a vice.

A sharp, genuine scream escapes my lips. I am yanked backward with a force that nearly lifts me off the ground. The impact against his rock-hard chest knocks the wind out of me.

"Caught you," a low voice growls, distorted and muffled by the leather of the mask, directly against my ear.

The drone buzzes away, moving toward another area of the woods, probably deeming the hunt over. And as soon as the camera's red eye disappears into the branches, Ron stops performing for the audience and starts performing strictly for me.

With a fluid, brutal motion, he spins me around and shoves me against the rough, damp trunk of a massive oak tree.

The impact makes me gasp, but there is no pain, only pure pressure. Ron crushes the entire length of his body against mine. His hips slot perfectly against my center, his erection—hard as iron against the denim of his jeans—pressing exactly where I throb and burn for him.

I part my lips, panting.

I look up. The leather mask is terrifying from this distance. Inhuman. But through the eyeholes, the blue of his gaze is a stormy sea, saturated with a lust so dark it makes my knees weak.

"You lose, Queen of Darkness," he whispers, his hot breath filtering through the leather and tickling my chin.

His hand slides off the trunk, grips the back of my neck, and his fingers tangle in my hair, pulling slightly. His other hand wraps around my throat. A firm, possessive grip that perfectly mimics our game from last night.

"And now..." he murmurs, tilting his masked face toward mine, rubbing the rough leather against the delicate skin of my cheek in a contrast that makes me moan. "I think it's time to collect my prize. Do you remember what you promised me?"

My breath catches in my throat. "Don't you dare, not here..." I pant, even though my hands are already gripping his biceps, my nails digging into his shirt.