Page 122 of Primal

Because Amanda’s got the taser angled my way, but her eyes? They’re on Payton. Watching the slope of her spine as she straightens. The way her hands twitch at her sides, fingers flexing.

And Derek’s expecting a move. Daring me to make it.

Kristy’s shifted position, her bound hands hidden behind the pew.

Hold. Just a little longer.

“Let’s make this next part interactive. Cut them loose, Dollface.”

Amanda circles Payton first, the snout of her mask brushing Payton’s cheek as she slides a blade from her robe. The zip tie snaps. Payton’s arms fall to her sides with a small hiss.

Derek nods at me. “Him too.”

Amanda stalks over, boots thudding soft on stone. She slits mine just as fast but doesn’t back off.

Instead, she leans in—snout close to my jaw. “Go ahead, stretch your wrists. You’ll want to be limber. But try anything stupid?” The taser buzzes to life an inch from my ribs. “I’ll light you up ’til you piss blood.”

I flex my hands—pins and needles exploding up my forearms.

Payton rubs her wrists too, chin up, eyes locked ahead. Her chest rises and falls. Steady.

She’s bracing. So am I.

Derek thumbs the tablet. “Payton Reed.”

Her name on his lips sounds like desecration.

“Senior Graphic Designer.” His thumb drags lower. “Side hustle … sells NSFW stickers on Etsy. WickedLittleDesigns.”

He taps the screen. A new image flares to life: a severed finger. Below it, in cracked, blood-drip font: RIDE OR DIE.

“Safe word … supercali—” He snickers, enough to make Pigface’s snout twitch. “Supercalifragilisticexpiali—ah, how do you even pronounce this shit?”

Payton stares past him, jaw tight, already tuning his ass out.

Good.

But the motherfucker’s not done. His mask brushes her hair. “Lucky for you, the next part doesn’t come with a safe word.”

The threat lingers, thick as the iron rot in the air.

Blood’s rushing through me from head to toe—like frostbite lit by fire.

Good.

Pain means I can still grip. Means I can still break his fucking neck.

“Let’s do some warming-up.” Derek jabs a gloved finger at the altar. “Bend over it, Thirty-one.”

The fuck she will.

Payton stays frozen—

Amanda’s boots scuff against stone, taser humming.

Then, and only then, Payton moves—same way she crosses the street when the light’s still red.

She bends over the marble—palms flat, braced for a storm.