Page 88 of The Dead Don’t Scream

Callum presses his mouth against the back of my neck.

“And when the day ends?”

I turn in his arms.

“You earn another.”

His eyes hold mine.

“I will.”

I believe him. That might be the most frightening part of the entire night. I came to Blackwood Farm because I wanted three masked strangers to chase me through the darkness. I stayed because the men beneath the masks knew how to let me go. When sleep finally claims me between the Reaper, the Devil, and the Scarecrow, I understand the truth. The dead never woke. But I did.

Epilogue

WAKE THE DEAD

SLOANE

One Year Later

The first ribbon appears on my pillow at sunrise. Black silk. Rhys. The second waits beside the coffeemaker. Red satin. Dante. The third is tied around the front-door handle. Gold velvet. Callum. There is no note. There doesn’t need to be. It’s Halloween.

Exactly one year since I entered Blackwood Farm wearing a white dress, three ribbons, and enough secret fantasies to make Hell feel underdressed. Exactly one year since the Reaper caught me. The Devil corrupted me. And the Scarecrow decided I belonged in his maze long before I agreed. I spent the first month after the hunt sleeping at the farmhouse three nights a week.

By Christmas, I had a drawer in their bedroom. In February, Dante cleared half his closet for me and complained for two weeks about losing his “creative storage space.”It contained twelve black shirts and a box of novelty handcuffs.

By spring, Rhys added my name to the farm’s emergency contacts. Callum never asked me to move in. He simply built a fourth nightstand.The bastard knew I would understand. We fought. Of course we fought.

Rhys attempted to manage every decision until I threatened to staple his precious rules to his ass. Dante flirted whenever he felt vulnerable and learned that humor couldn’t rescue him from every honest conversation. Callum struggled with jealousy, possession, and the apparently revolutionary concept that following me into the bathroom did not qualify as giving me space.

They learned. So did I. I learned that surrender isn’t weakness. That being cared for doesn’t make me a burden. That I can choose three men without losing myself among them. Our relationship isn’t perfect. It is negotiated. Messy. Possessive. Completely fucking ours. I gather the ribbons and enter the bathroom.

A white corset hangs from the shower rod. Thin satin covers the cups, while silver boning curves down the fitted bodice. White stockings and a tiny lace garter lie on the counter. There are no panties. Dante’s contribution, obviously. A card rests between the stockings. Same rules. Same colors. Same safe word. New game. Beneath the words are three signatures.

Rhys. Dante. Callum. I smile. They believe they planned tonight. Adorable. I shower, shave, and lace myself into the corset. The neckline lifts my breasts obscenely high. The matching skirt barely covers the curve of my ass. I tie the ribbons around my wrist. Black. Red. Gold. Then I leave a message on the kitchen table. Catch me if you want your anniversary present.

I add a second line. Callum, no chain saw. A third. Dante, I’m still not wearing underwear. I consider Rhys. Reaper, make me beg. Perfect. The sun disappears behind Blackwood Farm as I slip through the private gate. The maze waits. Dead corn whispers beneath a blood-red harvest moon. Fog spills across the path. Black candles burn inside niches carved into the wooden walls. I walk deeper. No bells. No footsteps. No masks waiting at the first turn.