Page 11 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jaxen

Night one

S he sleeps like sin beneath stars that don’t give a damn.

Curled on her side in that old oak tree, her blanket drawn up over her head, arms wrapped tight around her midsection like she's trying to hold herself together. Legs tucked up. Chest rising slow.

It’s the quietest I’ve ever seen her. And that’s saying something, considering I’ve been watching her for hours.

I squat behind a veil of ferns, breath shallow behind my tactical helmet. The night vision scope hums faintly, giving everything a surreal green glow. Her figure is outlined in pale lime.

And fuck if I don’t feel like a wolf beneath the moon, watching something he doesn’t deserve.

She’s so soft when she sleeps.

Mouth parted just a little. A patch of throat exposed where her blanket slipped. It pulses gently when she breathes. Innocent. Sweet.

But this isn't sweet.

My cock’s hard.

Hard from the way her thigh shifts when she readjusts. Hard from the memory of her voice, thick with attitude, slinging sarcasm like a weapon while every other contestant begged for mercy. Hard from the way she hasn't begged.

Yet.

The producers squawk in my ear like flies circling shit.

“You’re stalling, Morris. Push in. We need movement for the stream ? —”

I rip the comms unit out and toss it into the brush. They’re lucky I don’t take out the satellite feed altogether.

She’s not theirs to watch.

Not anymore.

I circle her camp in silence, steps like breath. Each footfall lands without a whisper, years of training embedded in my muscle memory. My boots kiss the dirt. My shadow kisses hers.

The trees loom tall, branches like crooked fingers stretching toward the stars. The air is thick with damp pine. Every now and then, a leaf flutters down.

There’s a whir above.

One of the drones. I see its faint red blink skimming the treetops. I grit my teeth.

Too close. That fucking buzz will wake her.

Before it can dip lower, I move. One flick of the wrist, and the blade leaves my hand like a sigh. The drone sparks once, then falls, quietly, into the dark.

I retrieve the shell, dismantle the core, and replace it with one of mine. Feed rerouted. Angle locked. Night vision overridden.

The viewers only see what I want them to see.

Her.

Just her .

My little clickbait.

I settle behind a log again, resting my elbows on my knees. I could watch her for hours, cataloging every shift of her hips, every twitch of her lashes.

And maybe I would’ve.

A rustle splits the silence. I go still. Another step—snapping twigs.

My hand wraps around the hilt of my blade. Controlled. Steady.

Then she stumbles into view.

Red-dyed hair tied in a knot that’s already falling loose. Shaved undercut gleaming in the moonlight. Tank top clinging to sweat-slicked skin. Amber eyes too wide, too loud.

“Hello?” she calls out. “Anyone out there?”

My jaw ticks.

Of course it’s her.

Maxine Hart. Contestant Fifteen. Five-foot-five of fake depth wrapped in thrift-core chaos.

A few more steps and she freezes.

Liv stirs.

I stand.

“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, already moving.

She doesn’t even see me until I’m three feet away.

“Oh—holy shit.” Her eyes go wide. “You scared the hell out of—wait, are you...?”

I don’t speak. I don’t need to.

Her gaze locks on me, on the outline of my body, the gleam of the tactical lens, the monster she pretends to want but never expected to actually meet.

“Oh my god.” Her lips curl. “Are you The Hunter?”

I still don’t answer.

“Oh wow,” she laughs nervously. “That’s... hot. Kinda creepy-hot. Wait, am I allowed to talk to you? Or is this like, ‘I’m gonna kill you now’ vibes?”

My hand grips her arm. Tight.

She gasps. Not in fear—yet. It’s surprise at first. Then a flicker of something else.

Excitement.

Stupid bitch.

Her wrist cam dangles, bouncing against her hip as I haul her backward, deeper into the trees. Her shoes scrape through the dirt, catching on roots and rocks, but she doesn't resist. Liv’s silhouette fades, curled inside the base of that tree like a prayer I’m not ready to answer. Not yet.

I drag her far enough that Liv won’t hear. Far enough that I won’t lose control.

The camera’s still blinking, still streaming. Still hoping someone’s watching.

I shove her to her knees.

She stumbles, then giggles, her voice breathy with adrenaline. “Wha—okay, okay, this is part of it, right?” she says, brushing hair from her eyes. “You’re not really gonna?—”

Her voice dies when she sees my cock.

Thick. Heavy. Lined with stainless steel studs down the shaft.

Jacob’s ladder.

She stares, lips parted, eyes wide. Like she doesn’t know whether to cry or drool.

“Open your fucking mouth,” I say, voice low, flat.

She does.

Of course she does.

Maxine is the kind of girl who fucks her way to center screen. Who gets off on being seen, even if it’s her last act on Earth. She leans forward eagerly, lips parting around the head as I guide it in.

But I don’t see her.

Not really.

I see Liv.

That sweet little mouth. The one that snaps and snarls when she’s awake.

I thrust hard.

Maxine gags.

I hold her by the back of the head and fuck her face like she doesn’t need air. Like she’s just a flashlight wrapped in whimpers. Her throat spasms around me as I bottom out, those little piercing beads dragging over her tongue and palate, making her sob.

She claws at my thighs.

I growl low.

“Take it. Take all of it. You want attention? Want your little fans to see you choke on my cock? You want to be this season’s slut?”

She nods—barely—eyes streaming.

But I’m not even here .

I’m back in the woods, watching Liv’s throat shift in sleep. Imagining what she’d sound like gagging for me. What her fists would do when I forced her to take every inch, no choice, no escape. Would she scratch? Would she moan?

Would she like it?

I grunt, pace brutal now, fucking Maxine’s face with single-minded rage. Her mascara runs. Her spit coats my shaft. My balls slap her chin.

I pull out. She gasps for air, coughing.

“Please—”

“Swallow it,” I mutter.

And I unload on her face.

Thick drops splash her tongue. She flinches, mouth wide open like a bird waiting for worms. I smear the last streak across her cheek, thumb pressing into her throat until she gulps.

Then I wipe the tip off on her lips, painting her like a canvas no one will ever frame.

She blinks up at me, dazed.

“Was... was that for the show?” she pants, lips still wet, mascara streaking down her cheeks.

I lean in close, just enough for her to see my smile—razor-thin and mean. “No, bitch,” I murmur, voice low and final. “That was for me.”

Then I twist.

Her neck snaps like a fucking wishbone.

Her body crumples, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The cum-covered smile still half-formed.

I watch her twitch.

A few seconds. Maybe more. Doesn’t matter. Just aftershocks. Nerves and reflex.

No soul left in there.

I kneel beside her, pick up her limp wrist, and turn the camera to face the trees. No scream. No body. Just a blank, mossy feed.

I stand, letting my cock soften in the breeze and the weight in my chest settle for a second.

Then I glance down, gloved fingers curling. I swipe a thick streak of cum off the head, slick and still warm. A trophy. A signature.

The forest watches as I walk back toward the glow of dying firelight.

She’s there, exactly where I left her.

Liv.

Still curled inside the tree like the night wrapped her in a secret. Soft breaths. Arms tucked. Lips parted just barely like she’s dreaming of running.

I crouch.

Close.

Close enough to smell her skin beneath the smoke. Her lips twitch in her sleep as I press two fingers gently to her mouth, streaking her with the proof of what she made me do.

She stirs.

Brows twitch. Lips move.

They purse softly, rubbing together like she’s tasting me.

She doesn’t wake.

Not yet.

But she will.

She’ll open those eyes to a new day, to a world where the rules have changed and the show no longer owns her.

Because I do.

She’s not just a player anymore.

She’s mine.