Page 102 of Primal

“Which is?”

“You. Screaming.”

She stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“He wants a show. Run in crying about how I ‘hurt’ you. He’ll be too busy gloating to see me come through the back.”

The wind shifts. My muscles lock. I’m back in the goddamn trailer. Black velvet walls pressing in.

I blink. No more bergamot. Air’s clean.

Payton doesn’t notice—she’s too busy glaring at me. “You want me to be bait?”

“I want you alive. Give me ten seconds to flank him.”

Her throat works. “Then what?”

I tilt my head. “Then I show him who’s better at playing Ghostface.”

Her teeth catch her bottom lip.

“You keep staring like that, we’re gonna give the motherfucker one hell of a show.”

She rolls her eyes. Drops her gaze. “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“If you do get him … make it hurt.”

Justice or revenge? Either way, her words go straight to my cock. I knew she had teeth.

“Count on it.” I catch her chin. “If this goes sideways, you run. Hide.”

“I’m not leaving Kristy. Or you.” She shrugs her hoodie off one shoulder. Rakes her hair into an even bigger mess. Her hand darts to my wound, fingers sinking in.

I hiss.

She swipes the blood across her cheekbone. Two stripes. “Traumatized enough?”

Disheveled and fake-broken. Eyes still blazing.

I yank the mask up over my mouth. Lick her fingers clean. “Now he’s really fucked.”

A flush rises up her throat.

“Well, well,” someone drawls. “Look what the devil dragged in.”

I’m already moving—blade out, body shielding hers.

The Reaper steps into view, scythe gleaming.

“Run along, Grim,” I growl through the modulator. “We’re busy.”

He tilts his mask. “Miss me, Thirty-one?”

Payton stiffens. “Wesley?”

The fuck? They’ve met?