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Footsteps approached from the dark. He was hunting me. I knew that clear as day. The woods swallowed every sound. Fog poured across the dead leaves. Branches snapped overhead, black claws raking the moon.

Run. Just run. If I stopped, he’d be on me.

I didn’t even know what I’d do if he caught up. Scream? Beg? Or just let it happen.

I ran and ran, dodging trees. Leaves slapped my skin, branches caught my hair. I lost track of direction after the first turn. Only the moon gave me anything to cling to.

Behind me, the miner’s boots got louder. He wasn’t even trying to hide his steps. He meant for me to hear. To know he could close the distance whenever he wanted.

I looked back once. Just once. The miner’s outfit was right there, black stains on the shirt, splatters of red that could’ve been paint, could’ve been something else. The deer skull was white in the dark, bone jaw stretched too wide, antlers black against the fog.

I hated wanting to be caught.

But I ran anyway, desperate, all instinct. I crashed through a mess of underbrush, thorns dragging lines across my thighs. I didn’t slow down. I couldn’t slow down.

He was behind me. Closer now. The pickaxe dragged along the ground, stones sparking against the blade. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. I wasn’t getting away.

It didn’t matter how far I ran.

I tripped, slammed into the rough trunk of a tree. My hands scraped bark. Blood welled up in little lines across my palm. I gasped. The pain was a high, a bright edge to cut through all the fear and want tangled in my heart.

Then his hand was in my hair. Fist tight, yanking me up. My feet barely touched the ground.

“Keep running if you want,” he rasped. “You know how this ends.”

I tried to twist away. My body didn’t even fight hard. The effort was pathetic. I was small, weak. He was a monster, arms like steel, gloved hands bruising my skin with a single touch.

He shoved me hard against the tree.

I moaned. I didn’t mean to. It ripped out of me.

He pressed his whole body against mine. I could feel him straining inside the worn miner pants. The weight of him crushed me. Air vanished.

“You think you can run from me, bluebird?” His hand wrapped around my throat. “You belong to me. You always will.”

I tried to push back, but he just pinned me harder. “You’re sick,” I blurted. My thoughts spun.

He laughed. “Then what does that make you, hm?” He tilted his head. “Here you are, pinned against a monster, and you’re fucking soaked for me.” His fingers rubbed along my cunt through my jeans.

I whimpered.

He wrenched my legs apart with his boot, just kicked them open. Hands gripped my hips. I felt the pressure of his cock through his pants, rutting against me.

“You like being hunted,” he whispered in my ear. “Did he ever chase you like this? Did Brandon ever make your cunt drip just from running scared?”

“No,” I gasped. Brandon could never make me wet like this.

The mask pressed to my cheek. I could feel the cold and bony texture of the skull. His fingers undid the buttons of my jeans, then he yanked them down, along with my panties. Cold air hit my cunt and I shivered.

His fingers rammed inside. I moaned as loud as I could. Nobody would hear me. Nobody would care.

He fucked his fingers in deep, curling them until I shook. Every thrust hurt. It was too much. But I wanted more. I really was fucking sick.

“You make such a mess, little bluebird. Every fucking time.”

He opened his pants. The zipper sound ripped through the hush. He fisted his cock for a second, then lined it up and shoved into me.

I nearly blacked out. The pain was excruciating. He was so fucking rough when he pushed in. Every nerve ending caught fire. Thank god for the hand on my throat or I would’ve collapsed.