Page 21 of Primal

Yes, right there.

My nipples tighten. The ache is back.

Keep going. Don’t stop.

Just when I’m ready to drown, he spins me around and pins me from behind. Grinds into me—like a goddamn mutt on a mission.

I plant my hands on the tree, but he wrenches my arms back, slamming me chest-first into the trunk. Now he’s pushing, rubbing—bark scraping my nipples raw. A gasp tears out of me. Holy. Shit. This is—

Whoosh.

My skirt’s hiked up. Fingers curl into the waistband of my panties. One tug—and down they go.

Cold. Sudden. Mortifying.

My bare ass on full display.

Oh. My. God. This is it. My villain origin story—splinters and all. Am I about to get railed into infamy?

His breath on the back of my neck is hot enough to raise goosebumps despite the mask. He squeezes my ass with both hands.

If he goes straight to anal—which I’m now ninety-percent sure I ticked on the waiver—I swear I’m haunting this forest. Then again, who needs lube when adrenaline’s doing laps through your bloodstream?

smack.

The crack of his leather glove against my ass echoes louder than my dignity shattering.

A whimper escapes me. “Fuck—”

Another smack. My knees wobble.

Okay. Yeah. I’m into this.

But just as my mouth opens for a breathy beg or a curse—I haven’t decided which—his fingers dig into my hip, dragging me closer. His other hand slides around to my front, gloved fingers pressing just there, and—

wham.

The weight behind me vanishes.

I whip around—skirt hiked, underwear around my ankles.

Ghostface is down.

And oh, he’s here.

Dollar-Store-Ghostface 2.0.

His version of an entrance? Swinging a fucking backpack—my backpack—like a flail straight into Custom-Mask’s ribs. There’s a thud. A choked grunt.

Custom-Mask barely regains his balance when Dollar-Store barrels into him again. They crash into a tree, the impact shaking loose every dead thing clinging to the branches.

What the actual hell? Is this some kind of predator turf war? Did I accidentally sign up for Ghostface Thunderdome?

I should run.

I definitely should do something.

But I’m too busy staring as Dollar-Store draws the knife from his belt and—sweet-baby-Jesus-that’s-not-a-prop—rams it into Custom-Mask’s thigh.