Page 134 of Executing Malice

The shoes are stiff, the material as white as the socks.

The white uniform is a different story. Short, plaited skirt, crop top that sits just under my naked tits with a bold, black D across the front — don’t need to be a scientist to guess what that stands for. The skirt barely covers my bare ass. I have to chuckle as I drag everything on and examine myself in the light.

A cheerleader.

Interesting choice.

I adjust the hem, tugging uselessly to cover more skin, but ultimately giving up and turning my focus on my surroundings. I flash the light forward, sweeping the woods. Nothing but endless trees, branches rattling together overhead in an almost mocking applause.

Somewhere in the distance, a twig snaps.

My heart stops.

I spin, beam jerking wildly, breath catching in my throat.

Nothing.

Only the night pressing closer.

“Dante?” My voice sounds thin, swallowed by apprehension that maybe he has actually left me here.

No answer. Just the silence I’m choking on.

I start forward, walking carefully along the sliver of path cutting through dense shrubbery. The flashlight sits clutched between my fingers, a weapon and a guide as the crunch of leaves beneath my feet magnifies, giving away my position.

A cheerleader, lost in the woods.

A killer on the loose.

A game I asked for but suddenly feel like I’m about to lose.

Still, beneath the nerves, heat coils. The thrill of knowing he’s out there ... watching.

Hunting.

Waiting for me to slip.

God, help me, but I want him.

I want him to do everything he promised until I’m healing from the marks weeks later. I want to question our stability. I want to be disgusted and turned on every time I think about tonight.

“Come out, asshole,” I yell into the trees, because fuck him if he thinks he can scare me. “Or are you too much of a pussy?”

The beam of my light skitters through the trees, slicing shadows into sharper pieces. My breath fogs in the autumn-damp air. The night hums with the crunch of my feet, the whistle of the branches clacking overhead, the frantic hammer of my pulse.

I think maybe he didn’t hear me, or maybe I pissed him off enough that he’s going to make me suffer for it.

Then ... movement.

My hand jerks. The light strobes across rough bark, narrow gaps of darkness between the trees before catching on him.

On the figure thirty feet away, motionless. The halo of white traps him in place, an unmoving silhouette cut from the very night itself.

Dante.

But not.

He’s terror in the flesh. A hulking figure clad in leather pants, skintight over his thighs. His chest gleams with crimson streaks like his last victim had fought and lost, leaving claw marks as his trophy. The stain smears over muscle, across his stomach. His mask.