• And Rule #4: If we catch you, we kill you. How you die is up to your captor.”
The gasps and cries pour out. I hate this part. Most people who are loaded in the trailer know it’s time to meet the CryptKeepers. So, I never understand why they fucking cry and shit. Save your energy for escaping, even if there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that you’ll do that.
Time ticks down, and I sound the horn. Naked bodies, tits and ass bouncing, speed off in different directions. I don’t pay any attention to which direction because they all have trackers inserted in their arms. They don’t know that, of course, because where’s the fun in that?
Fredrick and Mikah step out into the light, stopping once they reach us. We spend the next ten minutes drafting who gets which girl. I don’t bother joining in, fine with whichever bitch I end up with. The exciting part of my night ended like twenty minutes ago.
I don’t even bat an eyelash when I’m given my prey for the night. I opted instead to walk in the direction of the tracker on my phone as I pull the white and black mask that has every dark and twisted soul who’s ever thought the bad guy is always hotter wet, over my head.
The moonlight disappears, blocked out by the canopy of trees. Another ten to fifteen minutes go by before I decide to take a quick nap. What’s the rush? The collars they have on set off incapacitating voltages—another cheat code.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been zoned out, but Mikah’s yapping about checking in comes through my comms before it’s replaced with static.
Pulling the earpiece out, I check to make sure it’s still fully charged, and it is. Then I tap it to see if the device is just old, but that does nothing either.
A branch snaps to my left, and I spring up on my feet, double-checking my knives are in place. I smirk when I feel the ten-inch blade in its sheath on my belt around my waist. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve fucked with this to see if they could handlemyten inches.
Not bothering to check my phone, I taunt, “Your will to survive must be set to suicide if you’re running back towards the barn,” but get nothing. Another branch snaps, quickly followed by the crunching of leaves, and my hackles rise with excitement. Maybe I lucked out and got a scrappy fighter.
The idea of wrestling a naked girl to the ground before forcing my cock into her ass—I already had pussy—wakes my once slumbering dick to life.
Quietness looms—anticipation of the kill causing my pulse to skitter.
“You can come out now,” I croon. “I promise to make you come at least three times before I slit your throat.”
Compromise is key in situations such as this.
No response.
“Four times, then,” I try.
Again, no response—no movements.
Ready to heighten the stakes, I pull out my phone, peering down at the tracker, only to find there’s no signal.
“Interesting,” I mumble.
No comms—no cell service.
There’s nothing, until I’m tackled to the ground, thighs wrapped around my neck, and my right arm, and I cry out in pain as I feel the immediate tear of muscle and dislocation of at least one joint.
Flying Triangle Chokehold.
I can barely breathe, but color me impressed. It’s been a very long time since someone got the best of me.
Strike three.
I’m struggling to catch a semblance of air when whoever tackled me releases me.
Confusion mars my face.
Why the fuck did they let me go?
My answer comes before I inhale. A fist repeatedly slams into the side of my face.
“You sick twisted fuck,” a feminine voice sneers, but I’m too disoriented to make out half of whatever vitriolic words are spewed at me.
“Killed… owe… die… tonight.”
