Page 204 of Primal

Payton flashes me a look. “You already scoped this out?”

“Nah,” I murmur, slipping inside first. “Just good at finding weak spots.”

It hits me in the chest—sweat, mildew, faint copper.

She twirls the flashlight dramatically. “Shit. It’s uglier than I remember.”

“Less blood on the walls, though.”

“Yet somehow still horny.”

I scoff. Even the chapel stench can’t overwrite the heady smell of her arousal. I set the flashlight on a crate. “You gonna mock this whole experience, or are we committing to the bit?”

She saunters up, hips swinging, hands sliding under the hem of my shirt. “I dunno, Thirteen. You still got it in you?”

“Do I have to?” I groan, already knowing the answer.

She lifts a brow.

I pull my shirt off in no hurry, just to make her suffer. Fuck, my blood’s hot, but her gaze is hotter—hungry, knowing. I grab the neon body spray from the bag and shake it once, twice. Like a ritual.

Three strokes. Arrow, finger, slash. Classic. Maybe I should trademark it.

Payton watches, breath caught somewhere between reverence and heat.

“Still cursedly hot,” she mutters.

I toss her the can. “Wanna tag me?”

She grins and scrawls 1331 across my ribs. Then a little heart.

“You’re lucky this shit turns me on,” I mutter.

She leans in, whispering near my ear, “You think I wore this hoodie for nostalgia?”

I grab her wrist. “We could skip the foreplay, little fox. Let me bend you over that stump and fuck the memory of every scream you ever gave anyone but me.”

“Nice try.” She twists free, bouncing on her toes. “But if you want to rail me against a tree, you’re gonna have to earn it.”

The hard way it is.

I pull out the custom mask from my bag. Sleek. Bone-white. The mouth a twisted, knowing grin. Less Ghostface, more predator in repose. Best of all, it smells like new plastic.

Payton goes still as I slip it on.

“Ready?” I ask, voice low and distorted behind the mask.

She backs up a step, eyes glittering. Her breath stutters. “Oh, yeah. Always.”

She bolts. Sneakers hitting gravel. Denim skirt flashing thigh. That damn hoodie—mine now—snags on a thorny branch.

I let her go first. The view’s worth it, and she knows I’ll catch her anyway.

She’s fast. Smarter this time. Ducks low, cuts across the chapel ruins, forces me into the dark.

Doesn’t matter. I know every shortcut. Every shadow. The shift of her breath, the snap of a twig—she’s quiet but not quiet enough.

I find her under the old oak—same spot the screams used to ricochet. Fitting.