Page 57 of Primal

Or try to.

He catches my thigh effortlessly, hitches it over his hip. “Let’s see how long that fire lasts when I drag every moan out of you.”

“Nonono, wait. I’m not—I’m not in purgatory.” I claw at the player tag around my neck. “Th-this is a mistake.”

He doesn’t even glance at the tag. “Mistake?”

“I’m not part of Group 5. I didn’t sign up for—this. I had limits. I had a fucking safe word.”

“And you used it,” he murmurs, almost reverently. “This place doesn’t care what you signed up for. It knows what you need.”

His hand leaves my thigh—only to curl around my throat.

“I don’t need this.”

“Stop denying yourself.” He presses in closer. Cock hard against my belly. Mask brushing my ear. “The darkness will taste even sweeter …”

Enough of this nonsense.

“You sound like every DMs-after-midnight creep,” I cut him off. “Minus the punctuation and plus the erection.”

He keeps quiet. Annoyed? Amused? The mask gives nothing away.

“And FYI? If darkness tasted sweet, I’d already be addicted. But I’m not on my knees, am I?” I shove at his chest.

That head tilt again. Like I’m a puzzle he gets to take apart. “Still pretending,” he purrs. “But it’s coming. The moment you snap. When the fight dies and the surrender blooms.”

This fucking guy.

“Wrong group, asshole. I swear.”

He steps back half an inch. Peers at my tag for all of two seconds—and then peels off his mask.

Full lips. A scar carved just below one corner.

And a wicked smile that doesn’t reach his amber eyes.

“Well, fuck,” he says. “Looks like I got the wrong toy.”

Damn right.

“You’re not one of the Stags,” he murmurs, rolling the tag between his fingers. “But you ran into my arms anyway.”

I try to step around him.

He blocks me with his body.

“The question is …” He grins, sharklike. “Do you want to go back to your group? Or you wanna have some fun?”

“I’d like to not die tonight, thanks.” My voice comes out steadier than my hands. “Point me to the entrance.”

The Reaper—maskless Reaper, that scar cutting through his stubble—studies me. Then he jerks his chin toward the trees. “Two hundred yards northeast. Red lanterns mark the staff trail.”

I edge backward. “Great. Bye forever.”

His mouth twitches. “Name’s Wesley.”

Bullshit. Hunters don’t remove masks. Don’t give names. They definitely don’t look like regular guys with Spotify playlists and student loans.