Page 33 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Olivia

Early Monday morning

T he first thing I feel is his warmth. He’s holding me against his chest, protecting my body from the early morning chill that would otherwise seep into my bones and reminding me exactly how close I came to never waking up at all.

The second sensation is pain. My thigh burns, each step that carries me forward sending fresh waves of pure agony surging through me. My throat feels raw, marked by hands that tried to squeeze the life out of me.

But I'm alive. Still breathing, still conscious, still existing in this fucked up world.

Because of him.

I don’t have to open my eyes to know whose arms are carrying me through the forest like I weigh nothing at all. The familiar scent, the steady rhythm of breathing, the careful way he adjusts his grip to avoid hurting me more—all of it confirms what my heart already knew.

He came back. He kept his promise and arrived exactly when I needed him most…

He saved me.

When I finally force my heavy eyes open, the first thing I notice is that he's not wearing his gear anymore.

The tactical vest is gone, the utility belts and equipment harnesses have been stripped away, leaving just a man in dark clothing carrying the girl he thinks is worth throwing it all away for.

His face is set in stone, jaw clenched as he walks. He hasn’t noticed I’m awake yet, watching him.

His eyes are locked on the path ahead, scanning anything that might pop out at us. Every dark corner could hide another hunter, every sound could mean they’ve sent reinforcements to finish what the first failed to complete.

Dawn is breaking around us, painting the forest in shades of gold and green. The screams that have haunted me since Friday night have finally stopped, leaving only silence broken by the steady crunch of his boots against fallen leaves and the shallow puffs of my breathing.

It's over. The game, the hunt, the cameras are all gone and I’m the only one left alive.

"Hi," I whisper, the word coming out as barely more than breath, but he hears it anyway. It hurts so much worse than I thought it would.

He doesn’t stop walking, but his attention shifts toward me.

"I'm here," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple that's so gentle it makes my chest ache. "You're safe. I've got you."

Safe .

"I thought—" I start, then stop, because the pain is too much. I can’t talk. The second hunter took my voice when he tried to take my life.

"I know what you thought," he says, keeping his steady pace through the rough, uneven terrain. "And you were wrong. I told you I always come back for what's mine."

Mine .

His.

We pass through the forest in a blur of green and brown, towering trees that have seen more in one weekend than they’ve seen in a lifetime.

I open my mouth to ask him where we’re going, but I stop myself, giving him a look I hope he understands. Although part of me doesn't actually care where we’re going as long as I’m with him, and we’re far away from this place.

"We’re leaving," he says simply. "Away from the cameras, the producers, the whole fucking circus."

The trees thin gradually, giving way to scrubland and then to a dirt road that looks like it hasn't been maintained for years. But it's a road, which means civilization, which means the possibility of medical care for my gaping fucking bullet wound.

A black truck sits buried between the trees, hidden from the rest of the world.

He sets me down carefully beside the passenger door, one arm remaining around my waist to provide support while the other fumbles with keys that produce a soft electronic chirp as the locks disengage.

"Can you stand?" he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice.

I test my weight on the injured leg, gritting my teeth against the fresh wave of pain that shoots through the bullet wound. It hurts—hurts like fucking hell, actually—but I can put a little bit of weight on it for a few seconds.

I nod, convincing him with my eyes.

He helps me into the passenger seat, adjusting my position to minimize pressure on the bullet wound while ensuring that the seatbelt doesn't aggravate the bruising around my throat.

The truck's interior is clean, organized. Loaded with supplies. Water bottles, first aid supplies, camping equipment, all of it arranged where it can be accessed quickly.

He slides into the driver's seat and turns the key, bringing the engine to life.

But before he can put the truck in drive, static erupts from the dashboard radio.

Not music. Not a fucking weather report or traffic update or any of the other stupid shit they play on the radio.

A voice. Male, authoritative, carrying the tone of entitlement.

"Jaxen, report status."

The Hunter’s hand freezes on the gear shift, his entire body going still.

The radio crackles again, impatience creeping into the voice that probably belongs to someone who's never had to kill with his own hands but is perfectly comfortable ordering others to commit violence on his behalf.

"God dammit Jaxen, respond immediately. What’s the status?"

For a long moment Jaxen doesn't respond or even acknowledge the transmission.

Eventually, he reaches for the radio, his expression shifting from neutral to… amusement?

He keys the microphone, holding down as he speaks into it.

"Primary target is secure," he says, his voice carrying confidence. "Contract terminated."

The silence that follows stretches until it becomes oppressive, heavy with implications that neither party dares to acknowledge.

"Jaxen, clarify the status. Target eliminated or target extracted?"

"Neither," Jaxen says, and there's dark humor in his tone now. He’s about to deliver news they won't want to hear. "Target has been reclassified as personal property. No longer available for your entertainment."

Another silence, longer this time.

"Jaxen," the voice returns, colder now, edged with authority, "you are in violation of operational directives. Return the target to designated coordinates for proper disposal or face termination of employment and associated benefits."

Termination of employment. The euphemism would be funny if it weren't so obviously a death threat wrapped in corporate language, a promise that refusing orders will result in being hunted by other professionals.

But Jaxen just laughs. Not the predatory sound I've grown accustomed to during our encounters, but something genuinely amused, like he's just heard the funniest joke of his entire life.

"Let me clarify something for you," he says, keying the microphone with one hand while the other rests possessively on my knee. "I do not work for you anymore. You can get fucked."

He pauses, letting that information settle.

"And if you ever— ever —come near what's mine again," he continues, his voice dropping low, "I will hunt down every single person involved in this operation and kill them. Slowly, mercilessly, and on camera to show the world just how fucked up you really are. They won’t mourn you. They’ll spit on your graves when they find out what you’ve done. "

The threat hangs in the air, dense and intimidating. I realize I’m holding my breath, not moving at all while they settle this.

"You're making a mistake," the voice says, but the authority is gone now, replaced by a hint of fear. "You know what we're capable of. What resources we have. You can't protect her forever."

"Watch me," Jaxen says.

Then he lifts the radio from its mounting bracket, rolls down his window, and hurls the device into the forest with enough force to shatter it against a tree trunk several yards away.

The sudden silence is deafening, broken only by the rumble of the truck's engine and the sound of me finally releasing my breath.

He did that for me .

To protect me.

"Why?" I whisper softly, because it doesn’t make sense. Why me?

He looks at me then, really looks.

"Because you're mine," he says simply, like it's the most obvious truth in the world, like the answer was always there if only I'd been smart enough to see it. "Because I've never found anyone who fit so perfectly into the spaces I didn't know were empty until I met you."

Fit perfectly. The words wrap around my heart.

"Besides," he continues, putting the truck in drive and pulling onto the road that will take us away from this forest of horrors and toward whatever future could possibly await people like us, "normal relationships are boring as fuck.

Where's the fun in being with someone who doesn't understand that violence can be an art form when it's applied with sufficient skill and creativity? "

The forest slides past the windows as we gain speed, trees thinning and then the first signs of civilization—billboards, exit signs.

But even as the distance grows between us and the nightmare we're leaving behind, even as the immediate threats fade into memory, I can't shake the feeling that this is just the beginning rather than the end.

The people who created that show, who were money-hungry enough to hire professional killers to eliminate contestants for the amusement of paying viewers—they won't just accept that their investment has been compromised by participants who refused to follow the script.

They'll come for us. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. With more resources, more professionals, more money than I’ll ever see.

But sitting here in the passenger seat of Jaxen’s truck… I don’t feel afraid of being hunted again.

Because I won't be facing whatever comes alone.