Page 49 of Primal

I grip the strap. She knows me—not the polite, civilized bullshit I showed the world, but me. And I want more.

Want everything.

She wouldn’t say no—not with the way she stared at me. Maybe I don’t know Payton Reed the way her friends know her, but I sure as hell see the truth buried beneath. That greedy glint in her eye—not for a man with a 401K and a house in the suburbs, but one who runs on rage and hunger.

And I’ve got a lifetime supply of both.

I push to my feet. Sling her backpack over my shoulder. I’ve carried her groceries before. Held her mail. Fixed her printer. Now I’m fetching her underwear. Progress? Maybe. Proof I’m a fucking creep? Definitely.

A groan cuts through the dark—not some performative whimper but the real shit.

I stalk toward the sound.

The prick I stabbed is sprawled behind a rotting log, mask askew. The crack down the middle is mine. The wound in his thigh too—crusted black now. But the second gash under his ribs? Fresh. Glossy.

The fuck?

I toe his boot. “Still breathing, asshole?”

Nothing.

I crouch and tap his cheek with my knife. “You gonna haunt me or what?”

A wet rattle. His fingers twitch toward his stomach.

I yank him upright by his hood. His head lolls, mouth working like a fish. Up close, he smells like iron and shit and that cheap citrus body spray the college kids working here douse themselves in.

“Who gutted you?”

“Y-you …” He wheezes. “Get away from me.”

I press the knife tip under his chin. “Who cut you, princess?”

“G-Ghostface …” Blood bubbles at his lips. He claws at my wrist. “Pl-please … help me.”

Dirt under his nails. A chipped silver ring—the kind you buy at a mall kiosk when you’re nineteen and think you’ll live forever.

Fuck.

That night comes back in snapshots—Max’s blood hot between my fingers, me fighting to keep him awake as the streetlights blurred into one long streak of fuck fuck fuck—

Now, this bastard’s serving me the same glassy stare.

I tug at his hood, ice knotting my gut. “Which Ghostface?”

He shakes his head. “I-I don’t wanna die. It’s so … cold.”

My eyes flick over his belt, the pockets, everywhere he might’ve clipped that damn radio. “Where’s your walkie?”

He blinks. “Wh-what?”

“Your walkie. Where the fuck is it?”

“H-he took it.” A cough racks him, blood misting across my jeans and boots. Fucking fantastic. “Took my knife.”

I scan the trees. Just the wind and the slow, wet sound of this idiot bleeding out.

“Did he say anything?” I snap. “Before he stabbed you?”