Page 183 of Stay Scared

Chapter 22

Rook’s reflection reaches me before his hand does. The scratched beak rises above my shoulder in the mirror. One gloved hand locks around my wrist while the other drives a narrow blade against the soft space beneath my ribs. The point catches in my shirt.

“Do not turn around.”

His voice reaches me directly now, close enough that I can feel every breath escaping beneath the mask. Ash’s original mask still hangs from my fingers. Rook sees it in the mirror. His grip twists my wrist higher. “Drop it.” I keep looking at his reflection. The knife pushes through my shirt until cold metal touches skin.

I let the black mask fall. It hits the floor and slides beneath the mirrored wall. Rook’s head turns after it, just enough to tell me the object matters more than he wants it to.

“You came in outside Owen’s camera line,” I say.

“Owen has always confused watching with control.”

The blade shifts. Its edge drags a fraction across my ribs. My stomach tightens. Rook sees the reaction in the mirror. I hate that he sees it. His hand forces my wrist behind my back. “Move.”

He drives me toward a mirrored panel missing from Owen’s map. I look once toward the one-way glass. Owen stays hidden. Cade still holds position. Rook shoves the panel open. Darkness waits behind it. His grip tightens before he forces me through. The public camera loses us almost immediately. Rook bends just long enough to retrieve Ash’s mask from the floor. The movement pulls the knife away from me for half a second.

I consider turning. His hand catches the back of my neck before I finish thinking.

“Try it.”

The knife returns beneath my ribs. He seals the panel behind us. Darkness closes around the passage. Ash’s mask hangs from Rook’s free hand.

“You wanted that badly.”

“It was mine before Langston started pretending it belonged to him.”

“You mean before he threw you out.”

Rook shoves me forward. The passage slopes upward. His hand stays at the back of my neck now, fingers spread wide enough that I can feel the pressure through my hair.

“He panicked.”

“He survived you.”

The knife digs harder. “Careful.” I keep moving. The route bends left. Short stairs follow. Then hanging fabric brushes my shoulder. Stage curtains. A door opens, and we step into the abandoned theater beneath the torn movie screen and warped boards.

Mark’s chair is gone. My stomach drops. Rook feels the hesitation and pushes me harder. “You were busy.”

“Where is he?”

“Close.”

He takes me behind the curtain. Mark is tied to a backstage support post. Black cord secures his wrists in front of him. One ankle is anchored to a floor bracket. Fabric covers his mouth. His right hand is almost free. The cord already rides over his thumb. Mark looks at me. His eyes drop to Rook’s knife, then my trapped arm. Murder enters his face.

Rook notices. “Your producer has become irritating.” Mark answers through the gag. The sound carries enough profanity without words.

“You should have chosen someone easier,” I say.

Rook pushes me toward him. “He was yours.”

“Is that still bothering you?”

The knife disappears from my ribs. I move immediately. Rook catches both wrists behind my back and jerks them together. Plastic bites around them as the restraint ratchets closed too tight, pulling my shoulders backward until pain burns along one wrist. Rook leans near my ear. “You mistake distraction for weakness.” His breath comes warm through the mask.

I turn my face away. He walks me toward the modern broadcast camera near the stage curtain. The public feed runs on its monitor. Comments race beside it. Thousands of people are still watching. Rook puts me in front of the lens.

White tape marks the floor beneath my boots. Of course it does. He keeps himself partly outside the frame. I look at the monitor. Bruises mark my skin. The restraint forces my shoulders back, and Rook’s gloved hand rests around my upper arm while only the edge of his beak enters the picture.