Page 19 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jaxen

Sunday morning

S he scrubs like it’ll wash me off.

The feed stutters as I rewind it again. My finger twitches the playback dial backward one more fucking time, dragging the scene into slow motion.

Grainy drone capture, pixelated and raw, but I don’t need clarity to know what I’m seeing.

Her skin is red from the creek’s cold bite.

Her dark hair is plastered wet against her shoulders in dripping ropes.

She knows the whole fucking world watched while I bent her over that stone and split her open for the cameras. There’s no pretending otherwise. No blackout feed. No mercy.

But she still tries.

Her hands are firm as she cleans between her legs. The tattoos on her arms blur and run beneath the water, black ink streaking over pale skin. I trace her with my eyes, memorizing every line, every curve of her body.

I remember the comments when I watched the feed back.

The way the chat went feral the second I shoved her open and made her cry out for me.

“Hunter’s slut.” “Clickbait bent in half.” “Replay that.” They called her ruined.

Called her mine. Some begged for me to finish her off, others begged for me to make her scream again.

And I fucking loved it. I loved that they saw what I saw.

That they loved the name I gave to her.

She’s raw from scrubbing, shaking from the cold water.

And I can’t stop staring.

My cock is already hard, straining against my gear, the Jacob’s Ladder dragging sharp little jolts along my skin with every throb. Each bar is a reminder of how she clenched around it, how she shook, how her cunt fucking begged for me.

I unbuckle without hesitation, yanking my pants low enough to free myself. My fist wraps around my cock, tight, punishing. The first stroke is slow, brutal, veins straining, precum slicking down the metal. My breath is loud inside the helmet, hot and ragged.

Not fast. Not yet. I want to savor it. Draw it out. Torture myself with her all over again. Every pull of my hand is her . Her wrists zip-tied raw, her back grinding into stone, her thighs quivering as I shoved one higher and drove into her until she came undone.

Oh, clickbait. Your pretty cunt swallowed me whole.

My thumb drags over the head of my cock, smearing precum across the studs. I groan at the memory of the way she gasped when those bars drove inside her. The way she tried to hold back, teeth gritted, until her pussy betrayed her.

My fist works faster, precum slicking my grip. The feed flickers in slow motion—her tattoos blurred beneath the water, wrists still purple with the marks I left. A brand. My brand.

And the comments—fuck, the comments—they push me over the edge. “The Hunter’s slut.” “Replay that scream.” “Clickbait ruined.”

It wasn’t enough. Not for them. Not for me. They fucking worshipped the way I claimed her. And it wasn’t enough. They want more.

I snarl and pick up the pace, pumping faster, my hips jerking into my own grip like I’m ramming into her again, over and over.

My cock pulses, every stud dragging cruelly against my palm.

My stomach coils, vision fading at the edges.

I hold myself there, right at the brink, edging, groaning low and throaty until I can’t hold it anymore.

I grunt, feral, as my release rips out of me, hot, thick, filthy, spurting across the ground in messy streaks. My fist keeps pumping through it, milking every last drop.

Mine. Mine. Fucking mine.

She can clean herself all she wants.

I’ll never come off.

My cock softens in my grip, release soaking into the dirt at my boots. I shove myself back into my pants.

That’s when the comm hisses to life.

I don’t answer. Not yet. I’ll let them wait and squirm in their sterile little box, safe behind their screens while I’m out here drowning in her.

The screen on my belt flashes red. Emergency override. No avoiding it now.

“That wasn’t what we asked for,” Milo’s voice cuts in, sharp and smug, like he’s got a leash on me. “You had her. You were supposed to finish it.”

“I did,” I mutter, yanking my gear back into place. My cock’s still aching, the echo of her moans burning in my ears. “And don’t act like the feed didn’t blow up. I saw the comments. They fucking loved it.”

Rory pipes up, nasal and frantic, the sponsors’ little lapdog. “Yeah, but no check without a body, man. The investors aren’t paying for you to bust a nut and act out your own sick fantasies?—”

“Shut the fuck up, Rory,” I cut him off.

“The hunt is half the fun. Besides, weren’t you guys just in my ear talking about how I was killing too quickly?

How you needed me to make them last, to give you content?

Well, that's exactly what I’m doing. You idiots want views, you want climbing numbers?

Then stay out of my fucking ear and let me work.

I’ll kill when I’m ready to kill. Not when your investors, or you fucking idiots think it should happen. ”

There’s silence on the other end. I can picture Milo grinding his teeth behind in the surveillance truck, his tie strangling him, his hands shaking on the console.

Then Janice, one of the director's assistants, cuts in, raspy with bitterness. “You’re unstable.”

The woods settle back into quiet. I drop against a tree, tear open an MRE, and chew without tasting when it’s ready. My visor hums.

Ping .

A new signature flashes red across my HUD. I slide a hand into my vest, pull the tablet free, and tap the cracked screen awake. Static clears, the drone network flickers online, lenses circling above.

I thumb through feeds. Empty shelters. A snoring idiot curled under a tarp. Then—movement. North quadrant.

Zoom.

#14—Gwen Lancaster.

Her name scrolls beneath the frame. Thirty. Chestnut ponytail bobbing neat while she mugs for the camera. Green eyes bright, rehearsed. Five-ten. Sponsor sneakers barely scuffed. Tracksuit spotless like she’s walking a runway, not a kill zone.

Plastic. A sponsor’s wet dream. Not a survivor.

Not long for this world.

“Another beautiful day in this haunted hellhole!” she chirps, voice bubbly, lips glossed with spit to look plump for the feed. “But don’t worry, babes, I’ve got this. Built my own shelter, caught a fish, and guess what? No killer in sight!”

She winks and flashes a peace sign.

I hate her instantly. It’s not too personal. She just doesn’t belong here. She’s nothing more than a shiny toy for the sponsors to jerk off to.

Fine. I’ll give them a better show.

The north quadrant is quiet. Trees cut the moonlight into endless silver shapes. Rocks stick out of the ground like broken bones in a graveyard. The air tastes of wet earth and iron, rot fermenting under the leaves.

I move heel to toe, boots whispering against the ground. Rifle slung heavy across my back, balanced. Knife warm at my hip. Drones hum above, red eyes blinking like they can’t wait for the feed.

Gwen kneels by a fallen tree, her little “camp” staged like a fucking catalog spread. Fire burning neat, tent angled for the perfect shot, canteen gleaming as though it’s never touched dirt. She leans into her cam, cheeks caught in the flames, smile sugar-sweet.

“You know what I’d really kill for right now?” she giggles. “A PSFL. Pumpkin. Spice. Fucking. Latte.”

The chat floods with fake laughter.

I step just close enough for my voice to reach her. “I prefer blood.”

Her head snaps up, green eyes wide. Ponytail jerks. She sees nothing.

I’m already gone. Ten feet closer. Then ten more.

Her cam shakes as she scrambles upright. Panic finally cracks her voice and she bolts.

Good girl. Run.

She runs like one of those goddamn treadmill queens. Long strides, all wasted. Stray branches claw her face, roots snag her shoes, like she doesn’t know how to move in terrain that wants her dead. Sneakers skid, breath coming fast and shallow, a high whistle breaking into sobs.

I herd her. Snap a twig to the left, she jerks right. Toss a stone ahead, she veers into the clearing like a good little puppet. Drones whirl overhead, their lenses drinking in every stumble, every gasp.

She crashes to her knees on the incline, splitting her skin wide open and sending blood sliding down her shins. She cries out, but claws back up, clutching her cam.

“Keep running,” I rasp through the modulator, voice jagged and inhuman. “The viewers want to see you run .”

Her scream tears the night apart.

I give her five seconds. Then I run. Boots silent, visor glowing with her ghost-green hue. Always ten steps behind. Always close enough to make hope feel that much more devastating.

The cedars rise ahead, spines jagged. Perfect.

I lunge from the shadows, fist tangling in her ponytail.

She screams, body jerking back, green eyes wide with terror as I slam her down into the mud.

The breath whooshes out of her chest in a grunt.

She thrashes and kicks, but I’m already on her.

My knee digs into her spine, my weight pinning her flat.

Plastic bites as I wrench her arms behind her. The zip ties cinch tight with a sharp crack, slicing skin, biting deeper when she struggles. She sobs into the dirt, hands twitching uselessly, wrists already bleeding under the strain.

“Stop fighting,” I rasp, tugging the ties once more to test their hold. “You’re not going anywhere except where I want you.”

I haul her upright by the restraints, her ponytail slapping against her face.

She stumbles, sneakers slipping, but I shove her forward until her body slams into the cedar.

Bark tears her cheek open. She gasps, broken, shoulders heaving as the drones swoop down, red eyes blinking, lenses alive with hunger.

Now she’s staged. Tied. Bleeding. Perfect.

“Smile, sweetheart,” I murmur, blade kissing her cheek. “You wanted views. Let’s give them a fucking show.”

“Please,” she chokes, voice already breaking.

I chuckle, low, menacing. “Please? You think that word works out here? No, sweetheart. Too late for ‘please.’ Mercy does not exist. You only get me.”

I start slow. The knife kisses her cheek, steel whispering across skin before I press harder. The edge parts her flesh cleanly, a crimson line blooming down her neck. She shrieks, high and raw, and the drone lens drinks in every drop.

I crouch lower, blade hovering at her thigh.

The fabric’s in the way—slick black polyester stretched tight over trembling muscle.

I slice once, deliberately, the track pants splitting open with a hiss.

Then I cut again, deeper this time, opening her meat beneath, blood pumping hot and fast until it drenches her shoe.

Her scream cracks into desperate sobs. The cam zooms in on the damage.

The chat comes to life, moving too quickly to read.

I shove her face toward the cam. “Not so pretty now, huh?”

She whimpers, shaking her head, ponytail plastered with sweat and mud.

I drag the knife across her stomach next. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to make her feel it. Blood soaks her tracksuit. Her mouth opens and closes, her voice failing, but the drones catch every twitch of her lips.

“What’s wrong? Hmm? Is this not what you came here for? You wanted fame,” I hiss, dragging the blade deeper. “Here’s your fucking legacy.”

She collapses to her knees. I haul her back up by the ties, forcing her to stand while she trembles, blood slicking down her front and dripping everywhere.

Then I slit her throat. One sharp, beautifully clean line.

Hot blood erupts in a jet, spraying across the trees, then I yank her forward, dragging her closer to the hovering drone until the lens is coated in red. The feed blurs, streaked crimson, every viewer baptized in her death.

She jerks, convulses , eyes wide, green fading as the last of her screams drown in her blood.

Only then do I shove her down at the tree’s base, slumped, wrist-cam still blinking, her ruined face angled up toward the sky.

“Clout delivered,” I growl, staring into the dripping, blood-smeared drone. “You’re fucking welcome.”

Snap.

A twig breaks behind me.

I don’t freeze. I turn slowly, gun already in my hand.

Riley Torres. Contestant #2. Jet-black curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, brown eyes blown wide. Five-six, or close to it, compact build, pale and trembling, caught halfway between fight and flight.

He saw everything.

I tilt my head, pointing the bloodied blade in his direction. “I remember you.”

He stumbles back, hands twitching like he doesn’t know whether to beg or run. “I-I didn’t?—”

“You tried to touch her. Day one. You thought she was weak. Easy prey.”

His voice cracks, high and broken. “I didn’t?—”

I step forward, blood dripping from my hands, the stink of Gwen still fresh.

“You thought wrong.”

He takes off into a sprint.

Smart. But not smart enough.

I don’t follow right away. I crouch beside Gwen’s cam, tilting it so her ruined body fills the frame, throat yawning wide, blood streaking bark, eyes glassed and vacant. Perfect for the audience to chew on while I move to the next act.

Then I rise, sliding my gun back into its holster, the high of the kill still buzzing in my veins. My laugh cracks the silence, sharp and low.

“Run, little piggy,” I call into the trees, voice warped through the modulator, carried on the drone mics. “The Hunter wants to play.”

Twigs snap ahead of me—Riley tearing through the underbrush, desperate.

I start walking, unhurried, savoring the chase before it even begins. “Don’t stop now,” I rasp, grin stretching behind the mask. “Give them a show. Make it scream-worthy.”

And Liv?

She’ll hear the echoes.

Fuck , nothing gets me harder than the fucking hunt.