Page 356 of Primal

I leave the door unlocked. Let him try.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Lana?”

Pigface goes still.

“Go ahead, Dollface. I’ll edit it out later.”

Her gloved fingers curl under the mask’s snout. The rubber lifts, and beneath it—

Black hair, sweat-damp. Cheeks flushed pink. Same smile she had in that Instax print.

Maybe the drug’s still in my system. Blood loss can do that too. But no. This is real.

The girl in the porch cam footage three weeks ago. She and Kristy showed up 48 hours post-ghosting—arms full of junk food and bad advice.

Lana Whitaker. Corporate law golden girl. Social media scrubbed clean except for LinkedIn and a single tagged brunch photo from three years ago.

Now she’s here. Bathed in someone else’s blood. Certainly not the corpse I imagined rotting under leaves while Payton screamed herself raw blaming me.

Lana peels back the robe, rolls her shoulders.

There’s a barbell at her throat—one meant to pierce a cock. His, probably. Or someone else’s. Either way, she’s wearing it like another trophy.

This woman faked her death just to watch Payton break.

My hand twitches. Blood slicks my fingers—Josh’s. Mine. Doesn’t matter. The pain keeps me focused.

Derek’s still got the gun—raised, steady. He hasn’t looked away from me once.

The knife I used on Payton is lying a few feet away. I could go for it. Faster than the trigger. Faster than Lana. That’s the math. Her knife’s already in hand. Taser clipped to her belt. Maybe more. Kristy’s still playing dead. That antler had better be worth something.

Fuck. If I don’t move soon, this blood loss is going to drag me under.

And then it’s game fucking over.

Payton slides off the altar and nearly collapses. I lurch forward to steady her—agony knifing through my arm.

“No,” Payton chokes out, her eyes locked on Lana. “Y-you … I watched you die.”

“Oh, P. You really think I’d be gone that easy?”

Lana holds out her hand.

Derek draws a knife from his robe. Drops it into her palm.

Blade to her side. The steel vanishes into the handle.

“Retractable,” she says, wagging the hilt. “Dual-function. Stage magic meets practical use. Handy, right?”

She grins at Payton. “Corn syrup in squib packs—same shit they use on holiday murder mysteries. Dark woods, stellar acting … and you were always such a screamer.”

A glance at Derek. “He had to choke me harder just to keep me from laughing.”

Payton’s throat works. “You—”

“I what?” Lana’s smile widens. “Let you play the ‘final girl’? Gave you a chance to finally ride your neighbor’s dick?” She flicks the cock piercing with one finger, and Payton flinches like she’s been slapped. “Shame your guy can only bleed. At least Pigface put up a fight.”