Page 14 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Jaxen

Saturday night.

T hey don’t know what it feels like to need someone like this.

Not want. Not crave. Need . Down to the marrow, down to the fucking animal buried inside your skin.

Not just your heart, not just your dick, but everything.

Teeth and blood. The part of you that was never civilized to begin with, the part that only exists to hunt, to claim, to keep .

That’s what she is to me.

Liv.

The audience thinks this is about survival.

The producers think it’s about control. But I’m not playing their game.

I’m following instinct. Every move I make, every scream I drag out of someone’s throat, is for her.

Every corpse is a gift. Every kill is a warning.

I don’t give a fuck about safe zones, alliances, or winning.

The only thing I want is her, on her knees, breathless and ruined, whispering my name like it’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

She didn’t light a fire. Smart.

The cavern she found swallows light whole, damp walls slick with moss and shadow, the air sharp with minerals and fear. From where I stand at the mouth, it looks like the earth itself opened a ribcage and swallowed her inside.

She’s curled against the rock wall, half-hidden by ferns that drape down like curtains. No defenses, no perimeter checks, no traps set. Just exhaustion. She ran until her body quit, then collapsed where it was dark enough to pretend she couldn’t be seen.

But I see her.

Even with her arms wrapped tight around herself, dirt smeared on her face, she’s mine in every line of her body. Her chest rises in shallow rhythm, lips parted. Dreams tug her under, and I’d bet my last bullet I know who she’s dreaming of.

Her shoulders twitch now and then, restless even in sleep. Knife still clutched tight against her chest like a toy, like she thought it might save her if anyone came. But it wouldn’t. Not against me.

She thinks she disappeared into the dark.

She doesn’t know the dark answers to me.

That’s the thing about fear, it’s primal.

It speaks before the brain catches up. She might be furious.

Might tell herself she hates me. But her pulse doesn’t lie.

The sharp rhythm of it, visible even at a distance when she presses a trembling hand to her throat, tells me everything.

No one’s ever looked at her the way I do.

No one’s ever stalked her with this much patience, this much hunger.

And when I finally take her, she’ll understand.

She just hasn’t said it yet. But she will. They always do.

The comm in my ear buzzes to life, static whining like a fucking mosquito. “Hunter. Status?”

I don’t answer. I breathe slowly and measured into the mic and tap it once with my finger, letting them hear the rhythm of my patience. Static hisses, then a voice cuts in—Milo. Always Milo. Too smug, too sure he’s the one pulling strings when he’s never stepped foot out here in the dark.

“You had an opportunity,” he says, voice clipped, professional, irritation sharpened to a blade. “She was right there, and you hesitated. Don’t make me spell this out again—you’re here to kill, not play favorites.”

I let the silence stretch. Let him think he’s in control for half a second.

They’re salivating behind the glass of their control room, pacing their sterile chairs, wondering why I haven’t slit her throat yet.

They think hesitation is weakness. They think I’ve gone soft.

But I haven’t. I’ve gone sharp. Every second she breathes is a blade I hold at their throat.

Every choice I make is a cut across their script.

And when I finally decide to bleed someone, they’ll understand who really controls this show.

The comm crackles again, their voices clipped and demanding, chewing through the static like vultures tearing at meat. They want results. They want blood. But I’m not ready to give them hers. Not yet.

I stay crouched in the tree line for a while longer, eyes fixed on the way she curls tighter into herself like she can sense the storm circling. I could watch her all night. But the producers won’t let me. They need a body. A message. Something to remind the audience why they tune in.

I’ll give them one.

I peel away from my perch, slipping back into the trees.

My boots move silently over the damp forest floor, every step calculated, every inhale steady.

The further I get from her, the louder the woods feel—the chirp of crickets, the drip of water, the echo of something waiting to die.

Blood buys me silence. And right now, silence is what I need if I’m going to keep her mine.

I slip a hand to the console at my belt, thumb dragging across the cracked little screen.

The drones scatter above the canopy, their lenses mine to control.

One by one, I flip through feeds. Contestant Four—huddled under a tarp, shivering.

Not enough fight in him, not worth the effort.

Contestant Seven—snoring in the open like a gift-wrapped corpse. Too easy.

Then, Cody. Contestant Ten. Loudmouthed, self-important fuck with a jaw too square for his IQ.

“What’s up, stream team?” he brags, flexing his biceps. “Still alive, still better looking than half of you out there.”

Pathetic.

I watch him laugh at his own voice, oblivious to the fact that the drones have already chosen him.

That I have chosen him. Decision made. Target locked.

The feed blinks red as I tag him, the drone circling tighter overhead.

He doesn’t even glance up. Too busy playing to the audience to notice death lining him up in its sights.

Fine. I’ll give them their kill, and Cody will give me my silence.

I find him by the stream, crouched over his wrist-cam, talking like anyone’s listening.

He’s made a selfie stick from a branch and some wire, holding it out so the audience can drink in every angle of his sweat-slick face.

He winks. Flexes. Runs his fingers through damp curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.

The water behind him runs clear and cold, moonlight scattering silver across the surface.

He dips his canteen, raises it like he’s filming a beer ad, and takes a drink.

He thinks this is his fucking stage. That people tune in for him.

I watch him longer than I need to, letting the hunger build.

The woods are alive around us—frogs croaking near the bank, owls calling in the distance.

I circle him slowly, each step silent, boots sinking into earth.

My helmet hides my breath, funneling it back warm against my skin.

My pulse is steady. My hands are steady.

The knife at my hip feels like part of me, balanced and waiting.

Cody talks, and talks, filling silence with his own voice like it keeps him safe. “Still haven’t seen the big bad hunter. Guess I’m too good looking to kill, right? Can’t say I blame him.”

He laughs at his own joke.

I bare my teeth in the dark. It’s time.

One step closer. Two. Three . The last thing he says cuts off mid-sentence when I slam his face into the log behind him.

CRACK.

Bone snaps. Cartilage shatters. His scream rips the silence wide open, echoing through the trees.

He claws at the ground, scrambling, but I’m already on him.

My boot grinds into his spine, pinning him flat.

My hand tangles in his hair, jerking his head back until his neck stretches taut and his mouth gapes open like a fish.

“P-please?—”

“Shut the fuck up.” My voice is low, guttural, vibrating against the inside of the mask. “It’s rude to wake the others.”

The knife comes quick in a flash of steel. Moonlight kisses the blade as I press it to his thigh and carve deep.

HISS.

The cut is clean. Artery opened. Blood gushes hot and fast, spraying my gloves, spattering the log. He howls, his legs kicking like a slaughtered pig, heels thumping the moss.

“N-no, please—fuck, please?—”

“You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

He’s sobbing, begging, face streaked with blood and tears. Pathetic.

“You told them you were too pretty to die.” I tilt my head toward the drone circling above, its lens blinking red. “Guess that makes this personal.”

I drag the blade across his cheek, splitting skin wide open.

His scream tears through the night. “Not so pretty now.” I pinch his nose between two fingers, bring the blade down once, twice —clean.

His shriek gets more frantic as blood gushes down his face, pouring into his mouth.

I hold the severed cartilage up for the camera, tilting it like a trophy.

“Too pretty for this world? Not anymore.”

He thrashes, choking, gagging on blood. I slam his head into the log to still him.

“Ears next.” The first slice is quick, the ear sheared away in a spurt of red.

The second takes longer, sawing through flesh and cartilage while he howls, voice breaking.

Blood sprays hot against my mask, but I don’t flinch. I want the audience to see.

“Ugly enough yet?” I rasp, shoving his head toward the lens.

His lips tremble, forming a plea. I don’t let him finish. I press the knife flat to his mouth and carve. His scream is muffled, choked, skin tearing until his lips are gone.

I step back, admiring the mess. His face is a horror show, completely unrecognizable.

“Now look at you,” I whisper, yanking his head up by the hair.

“Not too pretty to kill. Too ugly to let live.” I lean close, voice a growl just for him.

“You’ll be remembered for this, Cody. For what it looks like when vanity rots. ”

Then I open his throat in one brutal slash. Blood pours out, soaking us both, steaming in the cool night air. His body twitches once, twice, then goes limp.

I hold his face up to the camera one last time, tilting it for the audience. “Smile for them now,” I rasp, blood dripping from my gloves. “Let’s see who’s still watching.” Then I stomp on the lens, static exploding across the feed, leaving them with nothing.

For a long time I sit beside his body, breathing.

Listening. The woods are silent now—no birds, no frogs, no breeze.

Just the hush of a forest. It always goes like this, like nature itself recognizes me.

Respects me. I wipe the blade on his shirt, fabric ripping under my hand, then slide it back into its sheath.

The blood is sticky on my gloves, drying along my throat.

I don’t care. I like it. Proof. A reminder of what I’ll do again.

Cody’s voice will stick in their skulls all night, a lullaby of failure.

Every contestant that flinches at a snapped branch, every idiot who runs blindly through the dark trying to escape something they can’t see, just makes my job easier.

Scramble, piggies. It makes you easier to hunt.

And the faster you fall, the faster I strip this game down to what it was always meant to be— her.

One by one, until there’s no one left but the audience, the cameras, and Liv. My little clickbait. My headline. My final act.

The comm crackles. “Hunter, confirm. Is Ten down?”

I tap twice. Then once more. Slower.

“Copy that,” comes the clipped reply.

They’re quiet in my ear now, satisfied for now. Cody’s screams bought me that. Blood always does. But I know how this works. It won’t last. Cody wasn’t who they wanted. He was filler. Background noise.

She’s the prize. The clickbait. The one face the audience keeps replaying, zooming in on every tremor, every glance into the dark. And I’ve left her alive. Untouched for too long.

I rise, leaving Cody draped across the log like a warning scrawled in flesh. Anyone who finds him will understand. But the producers won’t be impressed for long. They’ll start pushing harder. They’ll want her blood.

So I’ll have to give them something else instead. A mark. A memory. A piece of her they can feast on without taking the whole thing. Something to prove she’s mine before anyone else can blink.

I move back through the trees toward the cliffside. The ground is damp under my boots, earth rich with the metallic tang of blood. Shadows ripple across trunks as the firelight flickers ahead.

When I reach my perch, she’s still there. Still pacing. Still alive. She looks tired, frustrated, like she’s debating whether to run again. She shouldn’t. There’s nowhere safer than near me. Nowhere more dangerous, either.

That’s the balance. The hook. That’s what keeps her breath shallow, her pulse spiking every time the night moves. The want.

I crouch low, watching. Silent. Still. A predator in the dark. I don’t speak. I don’t blink. I just wait. Because soon, I’ll have to do more than watch. I’ll have to touch her. Leave proof for them, and when I do, they’ll stop questioning me.