Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Jude slams his stick against my shoulder. “Don’t kill him. He’s all mine.”
“Finders keepers,” I singsong, then jump off the porch.
“Motherfucker!”
I hear Jude curse, but I’m already gone, slipping between the trees I know by heart.
A lot of shit has gone down in this forest—including the old-fashioned “character building,” where Kane, Jude, and I got dumped out here and were told to fend for ourselves.
And that’s not even counting all the nights I wandered out here alone. It’s never scared me.
Just…triggered the occasional epic meltdown, but no witnesses, so it doesn’t count.
Imagine if Dad or Lenino had seen me?
RIP, my beautiful body.
Back in the present, I’m sprinting at full speed—basically the only advantage I have over Jude.
Branches and leaves smear across my peripheral vision, and then I catch a glimpse of his massive frame.
Fucking bitch.
He’s not taking my hunt.
I push harder, using every bit of leverage I have, tracking the prey by sound, by movement, by the sharp, sour smell of his fear.
The man’s steps thunder through the forest, heavy and eager, his terror cutting through everything. I can smell it. Feel it crawling under my skin.
The moon flickers behind clouds, barely giving us anything.
But I don’t need it.
I’ve always been at my best in near darkness—where no one can see me.
I catch the man’s shadow and launch myself at him without a single second of hesitation, driving my knife deep into his side.
“Hello, motherfucker. This is your grim reaper reporting for duty.”
The man screams, the sound loud and grating, but it doesn’t touch anything in me.
My vision is red, splashed by his hot blood, and my hand is steady as I shove him against the tree and stab him again and again.
And again.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish, motherfucker.
And just like that, I’m faced with the same shadow that manifests in front of me when I’m stabbing people to death.
The face in the darkness, the one I can’t see properly but know exactly who he is.
“Shh, Preston.”
Stab.
“Stay quiet.”
Stab.
“Don’t make a sound.”
Stab!
Judging by the burning in my arm, I think I accidentally cut myself during the frenzy.
Doesn’t matter.
It’s not really the stabbing that gets me high. It’s the way life leaves their eyes right in front of me. I’m the last person who sees them alive.
Their fucking god on earth.
A rustle yanks my attention, and I whirl around, ready to fight Jude over who gets to finish this motherfucker off. “You better back—”
I stop.
Because it’s not Jude.
The figure in black, leaning against a tree with his arms crossed like he owns the whole damn forest, is definitely not my best friend. The build is similar, sure, but this one wears a solid white mask, and he smells different.
Leather and forest.
Like something that stepped out of the dark just to…what?
Watch me? Hunt me?
“Who are you and how would you like to die?” I tilt my head, probably looking monstrous with blood dripping down my arms and my knife buried in the squirming man’s torso.
The stranger—and he is a stranger, because this forest is off-limits to literally everyone, even Vencor—doesn’t answer. He just straightens from the tree and crooks a finger at me.
Come find out? Is that what he’s saying?
Jude’s heavy footsteps pound somewhere to my right, and in the blink of an eye that I take to check, the stranger is already darting between the trees.
Fucking hell. I can’t believe I’m abandoning a kill, but there are bigger issues here. Such as, why is a masked stranger in my fucking forest?
I yank my knife free and sprint after him. Annoyingly, I lose him and start to slow near a large tree.
There’s a hum in the air—a tension that crawls under my skin, sliding from my spine to the tips of my fingers.
All of a sudden, a large, gloved, very familiar hand wraps around my throat from behind, dragging me back against a hard chest.
Tingles explode across every inch of my skin as hot breaths brush the shell of my ear.
“Hello again, baby.”
7
MARCUS
There’s been a slight change of plans.
It’s my attempt to adapt to the current state of affairs and all that.
When I first got here, I meant to observe.
That’s clearly changed now that I’ve yanked Armstrong against me. His back is pressed against my front, his shoulders tensing instantly.
He smells of blood and that intoxicating masculine scent that seems to go straight to my head every time he’s in my proximity.
Which is odd because I don’t really get this affected by other people’s scents.
But something about Preston Armstrong is making me a tad reckless.
Well, not reckless, but definitely more eager than usual.
Maybe it’s because I like the feel of his muscles bunching beneath mine, or maybe I just want to hear that crude mouth of his raining insults as if it’s a sport.
I might have had a dream about playing against him again.
That game wasn’t enough.
Touching him once isn’t enough.