Page 54 of Primal

“And you’re blocking my fucking hunt.”

The words barely leave my teeth when a whistle slices through the trees—two sharp notes.

“Boys, boys. Aren’t you two supposed to be hunting?” She jogs toward us—petite frame poured into a ripped black tank and low-slung camo pants. Fists taped. Ears like she’s eaten more punches than protein. Black choker—NOT YOUR GOOD GIRL in blood-red studs. The tag dangling from her neck says #9. “What’s this, foreplay or a turf war?”

Bane stays square. Braced for an earthquake that hasn’t hit. His fingers twitch—imagining how to strangle me with his rope and still hit his performance cues.

“We’re conducting a cross-zone integrity check.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. Voice just this side of official. “Protocol breach.”

The girl snorts. “Sounds like a dick-measuring contest.”

Bane ignores her. I don’t waste my breath either.

He shifts half a step closer—enough to remind me he’s got mass and motive. The rope flexes under his fingers like it’s itching to be useful.

If I tell these two meatheads about Trevor and Jessica, two things happen.

One: panic. Screaming, second-guessing, maybe a breakdown.

Two: suspicion. I’m out of zone, off-comms. Doesn’t take much for gym-rat logic to short-circuit playing cop. Or for a paranoid freak to start pointing fingers—especially when mine are still sticky.

Bottom line, they’d ask too many questions. Wrong ones. I answer, I lose time. If I don’t, I’m the next suspect.

And if I don’t tell them? I keep control. I own the narrative. But I might have to take both of them down if they get twitchy. Bane’s built like a war crime, and #9 looks like she’s here for the brawl, not the chase.

My odds aren’t great, but I’ve won worse fights. Especially when I don’t play fair.

I tilt my head. “Oh, you poor bastard,” I murmur to Bane, soft and sweet like a lullaby before the blade. “You think this is still a game.”

His rope twitches again, eager to have the last word.

I lean in. “Wanna know what she tastes like when she’s scared? Bet she’s all salt and adrenaline. Or maybe she’s too sweet for you?”

His jaw ticks. The rope tightens.

“Enough.” The girl plants her hands on her hips. “Can we not do this alpha chest-thump right now? You’re supposed to come after me, remember?”

I snap my fingers. “Exactly. Listen to #9.”

Bane growls. Actually growls.

“You wanna play hunter or waste time flexing for someone who already knows your stats?” I take a step back, arms open. “Go ahead. Stick around. Babysit the bloodstain in the mask.”

I gesture at Prey #9. “While the prize slips right through your sweaty, dick-swinging fingers.”

The only sound is the low static of his moral dilemma frying on a circuit board. He doesn’t move.

I grin beneath the mesh. “Didn’t think so.”

One step. Two. And then I vanish—back into the trees, into the dark.

He can follow if he wants.

But he’ll be chasing a ghost.

Chapter Eleven

Not Kade. Definitely not Kade.