I wonder if he loves the humble gift I left in his inbox today.
My lips stretch behind the stupid white bunny mask as the wind cuts through my jacket, carrying the scent of pine, old stone, and something darker.
Smoke.
No, sin.
Because fuck me, I’ve been wound up and vibrating with excitement since I got that invitation. No clue who sent it, but I’m so fucking stoked at the idea buzzing in my head.
I brush past a low branch, snag it on my shirt, and keep walking, whistling softly. A frightened scream echoes in the air somewhere ahead, possibly someone who was caught by the Heathens’ chasing games.
The whole atmosphere is fucking intoxicating, and truly, I’d be all over this shit under different circumstances. Chasing, blood, and frightened lambs?
Where do I sign up?
Not today, though, because I’m looking for someone.
I saw Vaughn on that balcony with the four others. He had a white neon stitch mask on, and yes, they all had masks on, so, in reality, I shouldn’t have been able to differentiate him, but then again, he’s so distinctive, even behind a facade.
Nikolai was the biggest and the loudest, so I could tell he was the one with the yellow mask from a mile away.
Jeremy stood in the middle with a club on his shoulder, so the orange mask was obvious.
Killian and Gareth have similar builds, and they held a baseball bat and an archery bow respectively, two weapons Vaughn wouldn’t go near. Call it a hunch, but he’d want more control with his weapon of choice, so a gun would be his go-to, but since that’s not allowed, he had something very Vaughn, so to speak—a thick chain that’s wrapped around his neck like a serpent.
I grin wider when I catch a glimpse of him dragging a guy on the ground, his upper body bulging with exertion, his biceps flexing, the tendons almost visible through the gloves he’s wearing.
And yes, I’m close enough, kind of floating between bushes to get near. I’m the definition of a moth flying toward the flame, my wings flapping about against the window, so fucking desperate to be let in.
Or maybe I’m a junkie who’s so close to getting his first hit in weeks.
Months.
No—years. Four, to be exact.
A voice over the speaker declares the number scrawled across the eliminated guy’s mask. I quicken my pace, using the sound to get as close as possible without Vaughn noticing.
A bit more, just near enough to breathe him in?—
He lifts his head, his eyes shooting lasers in my direction.
It’s getting dark, and even though I can’t see his eyes clearly, I can see something else.
Tension crowds his shoulders, and he tightens his grip on the chain. His spine snaps upright, and he stands taller, his shoulders squared.
Not only does he recognize me, but I also unsettle him.
Iunsettle the rigid-as-a-stone, emotionless-man-of-few-words Vaughn.
Fuck me, I’m already getting high.
“Yo.” I wave, one finger at a time, then remove my mask, letting it hang in my hand. “Got to say, my heart skipped a beat when I received that invitation, and I’ve been wondering ifmaybe,possiblyyou were the one who sent it?—”
My words come to a choked halt when he runs toward me, throws his chain around my neck, and slams me against a tree. The mask slips from my hand and clatters against the ground, cold metal biting into my skin as Vaughn pulls the chain taut between his fists.
I’m a couple of inches taller than him, but the way he stares me down through the two holes in his mask is fucking intoxicating.
It’s not the staring down per se, it’s how his chest nearly grazes mine, how his loud breaths sound unhinged against his mask in the near silence.
