Page 13 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER TEN

Olivia

Saturday.

I find the cavern by accident, stumbling into it while trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Max's body.

It's perfect—a natural shelter carved into the rocky ridge that runs along the edge of the forest, hidden behind a curtain of hanging vines and barely visible even when you're standing directly in front of it.

The opening is narrow, just wide enough for one person to squeeze through, but inside it opens into a space roughly the size of a small bedroom.

Safe for now. From the elements. From him. One entrance, solid rock walls, and a position high enough to have sight lines across the forest below. If someone comes for me, I'll see them approaching long before they get here.

Collapsing just inside the entrance, I press my back against cool stone, my legs finally giving out after miles of running on adrenaline and terror. The wrist camera continues its steady blinking, that red light a constant reminder that my breakdown is being broadcast to millions of strangers.

I need to process what I saw and understand what I'm dealing with, what kind of predator is hunting us through these woods.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, my voice echoing strangely in the stone chamber. "Okay, you saw what you saw. Now you need to figure out what it means."

Max's camera is clutched in my hands, its screen dark but responsive when I tap it back to life. The footage is still there, still waiting.

I should delete the footage. Destroy the evidence of what was done to her, preserve some dignity for the dead, protect myself from having to watch her final moments again and again.

But I can't. Because buried in those horrible minutes might be information that could keep me alive, clues about the killer's methods or motivations or vulnerabilities that could mean the difference between living and becoming the next body.

I tap play and immediately hate myself for it.

The footage starts the same way—Max stumbling through the darkness, muttering to herself, the camera bouncing with her panicked movements. I fast-forward through some of it.

I slow it down when the killer appears.

He moves easily, emerging from the darkness out of seemingly nowhere. Even through the grainy night vision of the camera, I can see how competent each of his movements are.

His gear is professional-grade—tactical clothing that doesn't rustle or catch on branches, boots that make no sound on the forest floor, equipment that looks endlessly expensive.

This isn't someone playing dress-up for a reality show. This is someone who kills for a living.

But it's what happens next that makes my breath catch in my throat.

When he grabs Max, when he forces her down, there's something in his body language that goes beyond that of a man hired to kill. There's possession there, ownership . Control that comes from the absolute certainty that his prey belongs to him completely.

He doesn't just kill her. He claims her first.

I watch—god help me, I watch—as he forces her to her knees, as he uses her mouth for his own gratification while she chokes and struggles and silently pleads for mercy that will never come.

I’m nauseous again, but I can't look away.

When he finishes, when he snaps her neck with that small, efficient sound, he closes her eyes and positions her camera intentionally.

What did he want me to see?

I lean forward, squinting my eyes to the trees around him.

My heart drops into my stomach during the final seconds of the clip.

Dread takes over.

He was walking back to me. Those trees lead the way back to where I was sleeping.

I rewind the footage and watch it again. I have to be sure.

And again.

My hands shake as I set the camera aside, but my mind keeps replaying what I've seen.

He killed her. He fucking killed her.

But he didn’t kill me.

Why?

I think about waking up with that crawling sense of violation, the way my blanket felt like it had been adjusted. He had been there and had stood over my sleeping body.

But instead of killing me, he'd... what? Taken care of me? Fixed my blanket?

He could have done to me what he did to Max. Forced me to my knees, used my body for his pleasure, snapped my neck when he was finished. But he chose not to. He let me sleep peacefully while he went hunting other prey.

Why am I different?

Maybe he spared me because he has plans. Maybe he's saving me for something worse than a quick death in the darkness. Maybe I'm not prey to be killed but prey to be played with, broken down slowly, reduced to something that exists purely for his entertainment.

I think about the footage again, about the way he moved with such confidence, such certainty. There was no hesitation, no doubt, no moment where he seemed anything other than completely in control of the situation. He knew exactly what he wanted and took it without apology or explanation.

There's something sexy about that level of certainty, that complete absence of the doubt and anxiety that has defined most of my life. To be so sure of your place in the world, so confident in your ability to take what you want, so utterly without fear or hesitation.

The thought disgusts me even as it fascinates me.

What kind of person finds something attractive in watching someone else's rape and murder? What kind of sick psychology allows me to see dominance and control in what should be nothing but horror and revulsion?

I hate myself for it. I hate the way my body reacted to watching him claim her so completely.

But hating it doesn't make it go away.

I need sleep and rest while I can, because tonight will bring new horrors and challenges, new opportunities for The Hunter to demonstrate his control over life and death.

But sleep feels impossible when every time I close my eyes, I see his hands on Max's body.

I wrap my blanket around myself and try to find a comfortable position against the stone wall. The camera continues its silent recording, capturing my restless movements.

Eventually, exhaustion wins out over anxiety, and I drift into uneasy sleep filled with dreams that disturb me more than any nightmare ever has.

In the dreams, I'm not the one running through the forest in panic. I'm not the one hiding in caves and jumping at every sound. I'm not the prey at all.

I'm standing in darkness, watching someone else stumble through the trees with the desperate, clumsy movements of an animal being hunted.

And I'm not alone.

There's a presence beside me in the darkness, solid and warm and radiating the kind of absolute confidence that I felt watching the footage. Strong hands rest on my shoulders, gentle but possessive, claiming me as surely as he claimed Max but without the violence, without the brutality.

In the dream, I don't fight. I don't run. And I definitely don't resist when those hands guide me closer to the hunt, positioning me where I can see everything, experience everything, understand exactly what it means to have that kind of power over life and death.

"Watch," a voice whispers in my ear, low and rough and intimate. "See how easy it is when you stop pretending to be something you're not."

In the dream, I watch. I see the prey stumble and fall, see the predator emerge from the shadows, and the moment when hunter and hunted come together.

And I'm not horrified or disgusted. I’m not repelled by the violence and the dominance and the absolute certainty of the outcome.

I'm aroused.

I wake with a gasp that echoes off the stone walls, my body drenched in sweat and trembling. The blanket is tangled around my legs, twisted by movements I don't remember making, and there's a heat between my thighs that makes me hate myself more than I thought possible.

Fuck.

I'm sick. Broken. I feel like I’m no better than the monster stalking these woods. What kind of person has erotic dreams about watching people get hunted like animals?

But even as I hate myself for it, I can't deny the lingering effects of the dream.

The wrist camera blinks steadily, recording my shame and confusion for people who have no idea what they're witnessing. They probably think I'm having nightmares about being killed.

They have no idea that my nightmares are about wanting to be caught.

Maybe that's why he spared me. Maybe predators recognize their own kind, even when that recognition is buried under layers of self-denial and desperate attempts to be normal

I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders and settle back against the stone wall, but sleep doesn't return. Instead, I stare into the darkness beyond the cave entrance and wonder comes next.