Page 18 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Olivia

Early Sunday morning.

I ran until my legs gave out beneath me.

When I finally stopped and my body refused to carry me another step, I found myself in a small clearing shrouded in early morning fog that turned everything soft and dreamlike.

Now, the sun is just starting to rise, painting the mist with shades of gold and pink that should be beautiful but instead feels surreal, and disconnected from reality.

My body aches in places that remind me exactly what he did, exactly how he used me, exactly how completely he owned every inch of me. The thought sends heat coursing through me again.

Fuck .

I liked it.

God help me, I liked being pinned against that stone and the way his hands controlled every aspect of my movement. I fucking loved the roughness in his voice when he told me I was made for this, made for him .

The thought makes me want to vomit, but my stomach is empty and I already know all that would come up is bile.

Why me? Of all the girls here, why me ?

The question circles through my mind, picking at dark thoughts I refuse to acknowledge. He could have snapped my neck.

Instead, he let me go. He told me to run, giving me permission to flee while he disappeared into the trees to plan his next move.

But it felt like a "see you soon" rather than a "goodbye."

I need water.

I need to wash the scent of him from my skin and the taste of him from my mouth. There's a stream nearby—I can hear it running.

I strip out of my tracksuit, leaving myself standing naked in the morning mist. The water is cold, making me inhale sharply as I enter the crystal clear current.

I scrub myself with handfuls of sand and gravel that leave my skin raw and red but don't do anything to erase the lingering sensation of his mouth on my throat.

There are dark bruises forming on my shoulder where he bit down, finger-shaped discolorations on my hips where he held me in place, scratches on my thighs from the rough rock he pressed me against.

I dunk my head under the water and clean myself as best I can. I feel gross. I haven’t showered since Friday morning.

When I finally drag myself out of the stream, I force myself back into the wretched tracksuit that smells like sex and sweat.

The wrist device is still there, still blinking its stupid red light, broadcasting my existence to millions of viewers who watched me get fucked by a serial killer.

They saw everything. Every moment of submission, every half-assed protest that dissolved into moans. The cameras caught all of it. I know they did.

Millions of people just watched me discover that I get wet when dangerous men pin me down and take what they want.

"No," I whisper to the camera on my wrist, but the word comes out broken. "No, no, no, no?—"

I rip the device off my wrist and hurl it as hard as I can into the forest. It disappears into the underbrush with a crash. It probably pisses the producers off, but I don’t care. I can't have that red light watching me. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

After a while, I find another clearing maybe a quarter mile from the stream, a small space between two massive oak trees that feels somewhat hidden.

I collapse against the larger tree trunk and try to make sense of the chaos in my head.

His hands were so strong. He knew exactly what he wanted and took it without hesitation.

And the piercings. Jesus Christ, the piercings.

I felt them when he was inside me, metal balls that transformed an already overwhelming experience into a euphoric high. The way they caught and dragged against my sensitive flesh…

The memory sends another wave of heat through me, and I hate myself for it. My body wants him again. Over and over again until there’s nothing left to give?—

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I whisper to myself, but the words feel hollow.

I’m scolding myself for what I’ve done, but I don’t feel sorry.

Because the honest answer is that nothing is wrong with me. This is what I am. This is who I am now.

"Olivia?"

The voice makes me jump and my heart slam against my chest. I scramble to my feet, looking around wildly for the source of the sound.

Malik Carter emerges from the tree line with his hands raised in a gesture of peace, his dark eyes scanning my face.

"Jesus, you look like you've seen a ghost," he says, approaching slowly like I'm a wounded animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. "Are you okay? I heard… noises earlier, and?—"

"I'm fine," I interrupt, but my voice cracks on the words and betrays exactly how not-fine I actually am.

He stops about ten feet away, close enough to talk without shouting but far enough to avoid triggering whatever fight-or-flight response he's obviously reading in my body language. "You don't look fine."

That's because I have been through hell. Hell that felt like heaven.

"Where's your camera?" he asks, eyes hovering over my naked wrist.

"I lost it," I lie, because explaining that I threw it away after it recorded me getting fucked feels like too much right now.

His eyes narrow slightly, processing the lie. He doesn’t challenge me for the truth.

"Look," he says, his voice gentle, "I know things are getting weird out here. Really weird. People are disappearing, and I don't think it's part of the show anymore. If it ever was."

There's something in his tone that sets off warning bells in my head. Too sympathetic, too concerned, too invested in my wellbeing for someone who barely knows me. Like he's performing care rather than feeling it, following a script designed to elicit my trust and vulnerability.

"What do you want, Malik?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I want to help," he says, taking another step closer despite my obvious discomfort. "I want to make sure you're safe. There are dangerous people in these woods, Olivia. Really dangerous. And a woman alone?—"

"Can take care of herself," I finish, backing up until my shoulders hit the tree trunk behind me. The position reminds me of being pinned against the rocks, trapped.

"I'm not trying to scare you," he says, but there's something dark in his expression now, something that suggests he's evaluating my responses and adjusting his approach accordingly. He’s trying to say and do all the right things.

"I'm just saying that teaming up might be our best chance of surviving. "

Teaming up. Like Trent suggested yesterday, like everyone keeps suggesting.

"No thanks," I say, pushing off from the tree and angling away from him.

"Olivia, wait?—"

But I'm already moving, putting distance between myself and him. The only person I can trust is myself.

And even I’m questionable sometimes. I make stupid fucking decisions like moaning out into the night while a masked man in tactical gear pounds into me from behind.

The day passes in a haze of walking and thinking and trying to process the magnitude of everything that’s happened.

But mostly I think about The Hunter. About his hands and his distorted voice. And the confidence with which he walked away, leaving me to put the pieces of myself back together.

When night falls, I find a sheltered spot between fallen logs and settle in to wait out another eight hours of darkness, of listening for footsteps, of hoping those footsteps belong to him but also dreading seeing him again.

Sleep comes easier than it should, probably because my body is running on next to nothing.

But my dreams are anything but restful.

I'm back in the forest, but this time I'm not running. I'm walking through trees that part before me like I belong here, like I've finally found my home. The darkness doesn't frighten me—it welcomes me, embraces me, recognizes me.

He's waiting for me in a clearing, standing perfectly still with that mask catching in the moonlight. I can feel his eyes on me and the intensity of his focus… It overwhelms me.

"I wondered when you'd stop running," he says, and his voice carries the same rough intimacy that made me scream his name against the rocks. "Wondered how long it would take you to accept that you’re mine."

I don't hesitate or second-guess. I walk toward him.

"I'm not running anymore," I tell him, keeping my chin up as I approach him.

He reaches for me, and I don't flinch. I let his hands roam my body while his eyes are locked on mine.

"Good girl," he murmurs against my throat as he leans in, sending a delighted shiver down my spine. " My good fucking girl."

“Yours,” I surrender, my voice barely a whisper.

I wake as an orgasm tears through me, crying out into the darkness. Blinking once, then twice, I focus to steady my breathing. My body is covered in sweat despite the cold air.

Fuck.

I lie there for a long while, giving myself time to process the dream and what it means.

I want him to find me again.