Page 11 of Primal

Prey #4, a curvy bombshell, cuts through the crowd like a shark through chum—high-gloss black latex clinging to every inch of her plus-sized glory, her walk a ‘Fuck you’ to physics and good sense. The kind of woman who’d unzip a hunter with her teeth just to prove a point.

“Vanessa ‘Scream Queen Supreme’ Graves,” Kristy murmurs. “She told her two million followers she’s planning to unmask as many hunters as she can tonight.”

“And how exactly is she gonna do that?”

Kristy giggles. “Use your imagination, babe. Word is, she’s been training—strictly face-mounted cardio.” She pats her glutes. “Says it’s revolutionary for her squat game.”

A gong shudders through the lodge.

Amanda crushes her cup. “Uh, that’s the ‘Go hide’ signal?”

A second gong splits the air, followed by feedback that scrapes my teeth.

The antlered woman’s voice booms from hidden speakers. “Prey, please assemble at the tree line for your motivational send-off.”

Beyond the firepit, torches erupt along the forest edge.

“Are those—?” Amanda points at something gleaming between the trees.

Masks, at least a dozen. Motionless. Watching.

“Hunters,” I murmur. “Getting their last peek before the buffet opens.”

Like they’re not already hard.

Kristy drains her drink. “Coolcoolcool. Anyone else suddenly need to pee?”

I scan the crowd. “Where the hell’s Lana?”

I’m about to check the restroom when the cheesy haunted house playlist glitches. A mashup of Elley Duhé’s Middle of the Night and Halsey’s Control.

One by one, the shirtless hunters slink out from the trees. Sculpted abs. Oiled skin. Chests that glow in the dark. All thirst-trap titans and murder-kink energy.

Three Ghostfaces, identical masks tilted in eerie unison. One drags his knife along a tree bark. Another adjusts his grip on a length of rope, testing its give with a slow, suggestive pull. The third just tilts his head. Dead eyeholes right onto some prey.

Nearby, a Jason Voorhees knockoff is palming the handle of his machete. When some poor soul—lucky me—makes the mistake of staring, he peels up the bottom of his mask and drags the flat of the blade across his tongue.

Then there’s The Void. Taller than the others. Twice as menacing with that black, featureless mask.

The Wolf drops to all fours like he’s auditioning for a nature documentary. Very scary. Very extra.

A Leatherface type revs his chainsaw—not aiming at anyone, just to terrify a flock of crows.

These guys are obviously built to last. Probably practice their grip strength on stress balls and small woodland creatures. The kind of men who make you forget your safe word before they’ve even touched you.

“Holy shit,” Kristy breathes. “They look like they stepped out of a ‘Magic Mike—the Halloween edition’ calendar.”

“How many hunters are there?” I mutter, still drooling over the abs parade.

“I don’t know. Count them.”

“Fifteen,” says a voice behind us.

Kristy jumps, almost spilling her drink. “Jesus, Lana. Warn a girl.”

I glance back. “Oh, good. You’re not dead in a porta-potty. I was this close to calling housekeeping.”

“Long line,” Lana mutters, adjusting her tag until it’s centered perfectly in her cleavage. “Had to freshen up.”