Page 148 of Primal

“Ever heard of primal play? You get a safe word and a head start. Then the hunters are released.”

Kristy nearly drops her wine. “Hunters?”

Lana nods. “Professional Doms. Men wearing masks from iconic horror movies. You run. They chase. If they catch you … well. That depends what you’re into.”

I swallow. “Wait—like Ghostface?”

“Ghostface, Jason, Michael Myers, plenty more.”

Kristy gasps. “Why are we just now hearing about this?”

“Because we were barely talking, and ‘hey, wanna get hunted for fun?’ doesn’t really land in a birthday text.”

“Holy shit. This is happening. We’re doing this.”

Lana smirks. “It can get pretty intense.”

“Good,” I blurt out. “I want intense.”

It’s stupid. Reckless. I’d probably chicken out by tomorrow.

Kristy fist-pumps. “Yes! Payton Reed, are you finally embracing your kinks?”

Lana studies me, swirling her wine. “You’d be prey. Hunted. You understand what that means?”

I nod. “They chase us. If they catch us—”

“Bonus round,” Kristy quips.

“It’s not just that.” Lana’s voice drops. “They’ll push you. Make you scream. Some girls tap out in five minutes.”

A delicious kind of shiver runs through me.

Kristy grins. “Babe, if I wanted gentle, I’d date a guy who says ‘Ma’am’ during sex. Besides, Payton needs this. Think of it as … rage therapy. With cardio.”

Lana shrugs. “Fine. Just remember it’s … transformative.” Her gaze flicks to me. “But if you’re not sure …”

I lift a brow. “Let me guess, there’s a secret ravish fee?”

“Tickets cost five hundred each,” Lana says, like it’s the cost of enlightenment.

“Wait, what? I’m supposed to fork out five hundred dollars to run around in the woods and possibly get fake-murdered by hot men in masks?”

Kristy’s bobbing her head and mouthing, ‘Please.’

“Fine.”

She whoops. “Slut-O-Ween is saved!”

#

By the time the girls leave and the last wine glass gets tossed in the sink, I should be passed out. But my brain’s still buzzing, wired on cheap Chardonnay and Brett-shaped rage. The quiet feels wrong—too heavy after all that laughter.

I’m crushing an empty chip bag when movement catches through the window. Just a flicker at first, dark against darker.

I lean over the sink, pull the blinds down with one finger.

Loitering on the curb is some sleep-deprived vigilante in glasses, a beige sweater, and gray sweats. Kade.