Page 217 of Primal

Amanda does a little foot model pose. “Close. Nines.”

Kristy snorts, nudging Lana. “Since when do you care about footwear?”

“Just thinking they’d look cute with my leather jacket. If I didn’t ruin everything I wear on gravel.”

Kristy perks up. “Cool. We’re going next week. I want a pair in size seven. Payton, you coming?”

Before I can respond, Mia whistles low. “That one’s mine.”

The Grim Reaper. Flexing his gloved hands, scars mapping his torso like a legend for all the ways a body can break.

Kristy goes full stepped-on squeak toy. “You can’t call dibs on Death.”

The guy lifts a single finger and drags it across his throat. Not at Mia.

At me.

“Mmm, these men.” Vanessa licks her lips. “They were grown in a lab. I’d let any one of them violate the Geneva Convention.”

“Baby giraffe … baby giraffe … baby giraffe,” Amanda mutters.

I grip Kristy’s arm. “You remember your safe word?”

“Yeah, ‘Cupcake.’ You?”

“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”

Kristy gapes at me. “Seriously? That’s a mouthful.”

“That’s the whole point, right? I’ll only use it if I really have to.”

Kristy shakes her head and turns to Lana. “What’s yours?”

She shrugs. “Don’t need one.”

“Yup.” Mia smirks, leaning against a nearby tree. “Safe words are for pussies.”

The hunting horn’s blast rips through the night air. Every masked head snaps toward the sound with predator-perfect synchronization. The antlered woman ascends a wooden platform, unfurling a ledger.

“Five groups. Six prey each. Three hunters per group,” she announces, dragging a claw down the list. “Curated based on your … special preferences.”

I exchange a glance with Kristy. Our waivers might as well have been shopping lists: PRIMAL PLAY, PRAISE, SPANKING, EDGING, BREATH PLAY, BRAT—all bolded and ticked off with enthusiasm. I definitely checked ANAL as well, but hey, who’s judging? Besides, for eight hundred bucks, I’m not just expecting to forget my ex’s name by sunrise. I intend to leave sore, satisfied, and spiritually altered.

A staffer in a gimp mask steps forward with a tanned hide scroll. “When I call your number, please move to your zone.”

The lambs are a trembling cluster—no Amanda among them—herded by a lumbering Leatherface, a Jason with suspiciously clean machete, and a Michael Myers who keeps tilting his head at odd angles.

The hares? Vanessa’s posse meets their hunters—The Oni, The Void, and The Phantom. Hope she brought a tripod.

Vanessa blows a kiss. “Try to keep up, boys.”

Group 3? Foxy me. Kristy too. At least we’ll get to coordinate our screams.

“Prey #7,” the staffer calls.

Amanda startles. “I’m with you guys?”

Kristy fake-cheers. “Congrats. You’ve been voluntold.”