Page 297 of Primal

Focus, you bastard.

Somewhere out there, Payton’s running. The motherfucker’s waiting. And I’m the only goddamn thing standing between them.

The trail ahead bleeds red.

Lanterns.

Set low to the ground, flickering like a pulse. Or a countdown.

He’s got Payton.

I pin my gaze to the tree line and move—one foot in front of the other. Walking feels like dying. Stalling means she dies.

Payton, in her tank top and denim skirt. Hair matted. Face streaked with tears. Begging me to make it stop.

He touches her? He’ll feel it. Every cut. Make him stay awake while I split him open.

I go down hard—knees cracking dirt, teeth slamming together. White flashes behind my eyes. My hands skid, gravel grinding into skin.

The mask catches when I suck in air—wet, sticking to my mouth. Can’t tell where my face ends and it begins.

I bite down anyway.

Push up.

A shape slithers between the trees—not a person.

A pig.

I shake my head.

“Kade?”

I turn so fast the world tilts.

She tumbles into view. Her clothes are intact—hoodie, tank top, that fuck-me skirt. Eyes wide. Wild. Locked onto mine.

She’s safe.

She’s here.

I meet her in three strides, arms banding around her waist, tugging her in. Her warmth. Her scent. It’s her.

Payton pulls back, fingers grazing the mask. But she doesn’t peel it off.

Why not?

“Are you okay? I saw you on the cameras. You were …”

Cameras?

She’s lying. You know the truth, boy. Look closer.

“Kade?” Those pupils dilate. Wide. Black.

The lanterns lick up her spine, casting a shadow too tall. Wrong.

I shove her away. “You’re not her.”