Istop breathing for a second.
It can’t be.
There’s no way in hell he’s seen me. Not only did I not make a sound, but I’m also invisible.
Unless he has access to the surveillance cameras.
No. I don’t see anything in his ears, so he can’t possibly communicate with security.
So how the hell did he figure out I was here?
I cast a slow look at my surroundings to confirm he just spoke to me and not someone else near me.
A number is announced to be eliminated, echoing in the silence like doom. An involuntary jerk lifts my shoulder, but I remain in place, watching.
Or more like, I’m trapped by Orange Mask who’s standing about thirty meters away nonchalantly holding the club that rests on his shoulder.
And he’s still staring in my direction, the neon orange of his mask becoming creepily predatory as the night stakes its claim. Though, he’s not looking directly at me, so he doesn’t know where I am exactly.
“Come out while I’m giving you the chance. If I have to pull you out, the scene won’t look pretty.”
It won’t look pretty either way, psycho.
And how can someone sound so apathetically methodical while talking? His tone is no different from that of a robot.
An evil one that’s defected and is currently plotting humanity’s demise.
“Your time is up.” The weight of his words hits me first before he starts toward me with long, purposeful strides.
I don’t think about it as I run in the opposite direction.
Inexplicable energy courses through me, bubbling with the sole purpose of survival. Of getting as far away from him as possible.
It’s not about being eliminated, but more about getting out of here in one piece.
I use the bushes as camouflage and shove my way through them. Fallen branches and stray thorns cut my hand and scratch the side of my neck in a symphony of minor violence.
The sound of his footsteps follows right after me, long, hard, and so damn persistent that my heart speeds up.
It’s like that feeling back in childhood when playing hide-and-seek with friends. When you felt someone at your heels and you released a squeal of both excitement and fear.
But this time is slightly different.
Only fear locks my muscles together and crowds my mind. My limbs shake and my pulse buzzes in my ears, despite my mental attempts to remain calm.
Because I know that if he catches me, I’m dead meat. I’ll be unconscious like all the other participants he pummeled to the ground.
Hell, maybe I’ll have to be admitted to the hospital and my parents will hear about this reckless decision I made and be disappointed in me.
No.
The closer he comes, the faster I run and run, and run.
But no matter how hard I do, I don’t lose him.
Not even close.
Hell, he’s hotter on my heels with every passing second. And for some reason, I feel he’s delaying catching me on purpose, judging by his even footsteps.
He wants me to run and see how far I can go.
Damn that sadistic twat.
If I keep going like this, I’ll be no different from a mouse that’s being played with by a suburban cat.
I search my surroundings and, in a snap decision, I hide on the side of the dirt road behind a large rock.
My harsh breathing resembles that of a trapped animal, but I force myself to remain still.
The thud, thud, thud against my rib cage increases in volume, in desperation and regret for what I’ve done.
Did I lose him?
My eyes stay glued to the path I escaped down to make sure Orange Mask has left.
I wait and wait, sweating in my T-shirt and jeans, but there’s no trace of him.
It doesn’t make sense.
Since he was hot on my trail, he should’ve caught up to me by now.
Unless…
My swallow gets stuck in my throat as I slowly look behind me. Sure enough, he’s standing there, casually leaning against a tree, arms and legs crossed and the club hanging from his left hand like a threat.
“Is there a reason why you’re always hiding?”
The ripple of his deep voice carries in the air and vibrates against my skin. It’s less robotic now, as if he’s deemed me worthy enough to be acquainted with the less apathetic version of him.
That’s by no means good news, considering his real image could be the personification of a devil.
His voice makes me pause, though.
I’m sure I’ve heard that commanding American accent before. So he has to be either Gareth or Killian Carson, the siblings the girls and I often see at the fight club.
Or Jeremy Volkov.
Please don’t let it be Jeremy.
A sane person would wish for anyone aside from the psycho Killian Carson or the crazy Nikolai Sokolov, but in my eyes, Jeremy has always been the worst of the Heathens.
Just because he doesn’t announce his actions as publicly as the others do doesn’t make him harmless, just much better at hiding his monstrosity.
After all, he didn’t become the leader of the Heathens by acting nice.
“Being accepted into the club can only be achieved through running, not hiding,” he continues in that less-robotic yet freezing-cold tone.
I open my mouth, then slam it back shut.
Blimey.
I almost spoke and completely gave my nationality and my unorthodox appearance at this initiation away.
Orange Mask pushes off the tree and I take a step back, then slightly jump when my shoes hit the rock.
“You’re still not running.” His voice lowers with a dark edge, overcrowding with promises of a worse fate than the other participants he sent flying.
I inhale as deeply as physically possible and then run.
I’m not even two steps in when my legs give out from underneath me. I shriek as I fall headfirst into the dirt and the air is knocked straight out of my lungs.
“Number twenty-three eliminated,” the speaker echoes around me.
The finality bubbles beneath my flesh and hurts.
But not more than the burning in my knee or the bruise that I already feel forming on my hipbone.
I’m lying on my stomach on the ground, my mouth kissing the dirt and my nails sinking into it.
Slowly, I raise my head to find Orange Mask inspecting his blood-red golf club.
Please don’t tell me that’s my blood.
No, it can’t be, he didn’t hit me with it. In fact, I suspect he tripped me with it, which is why I’m currently in this position.
A dejected breath spills out of my lungs and I sit up, dusting the dirt off my shirt and jeans. There’s a bleeding hole in the knee and I wince at the sight.
I’m all dirty and for what?
Well, at least I now know a bit about the structure of the Heathens’ mansion and I didn’t lose consciousness like the other participants who went against this bastard.
“Let’s see the face behind the mask.” He reaches his gloved hand in my direction, black and dark and straight out of my worst nightmares. “How did someone as incompetent as you get invited to the initiation—”
I slap his hand away, cutting him off mid-sentence. The sound echoes in the air, stabbing the silence and accentuated by the pause in his entire demeanor.
My other hand clenches in the dirt and it takes everything in me not to blurt out something just so I can fill up the stillness in the air.
He already eliminated me, why would he need to see my face? There was no rule about that.
Also, why does he get to see me when I don’t get to see him? That’s not fair.
The world isn’t fair, Cecily. That’s just the way it is.
Mum’s words rush in and I inhale deeply and start to get up. I’ll stop thinking about my less-than-glamorous elimination and will, instead, use the time I have left to snoop around.
After all, that’s the only reason I’m here.
One moment I’m standing in place, and the next, I’m wrenched back by a fistful of my hair.
No, my wig.
I yelp, following the motion just so he doesn’t rip it off and expose me. My back slams against a hard chest and then the club is at my throat.
Literally.
He’s placed the length of the golf club against my trachea. He’s not pushing, but the threat that he can do so and choke me to death is there.
His grip on my hair is also merciless so my back is glued to the hardness of his chest. I’m not really short, but he’s tall and wide and possesses the presence of a titan.
And he smells of leather and bergamot. Or maybe part of that smell is his gloves.
Through the mask, his breathing comes out raw and controlled but a little creepy, too, like in those older horror films.
My sensitive ears fill with the sound until I can no longer breathe.
“You’re nothing but a fragile little thing that I could and would smash with a snap of my fingers. You know that, I know that, and your few functioning brain cells should know that, too, if they don’t convince you to start telling me how the fuck you got here.”
My lips tremble and purse.
I expect the familiar wave to hit me out of nowhere. I wait for the paralyzing fear, the silent tears, and the general mess that happens in situations like these.
I wait and wait.
But the only thing that shoots through my bones is shaking and more shaking.
And the need to run.
No, not only to run.
There’s something a lot more nefarious beneath the surface.
Something like a craving for that fear from earlier.
A need for it.
An urge to satisfy it.
The length of his club presses harder against my neck, still letting me breathe but restricting it further. “Do you prefer to be crushed instead of answering my question?”
I shake my head, for the first time tilting it back so that I’m staring straight at his eyes.
That’s my second mistake for today—the first is being here.
Orange Mask’s eyes are a darker manifestation of his thirst for violence. They’re as dark gray as the clouds and just as cold.
You never know if there will be a downpour or a disastrous storm with these types of somber clouds.
Though one thing’s for certain. It’s going to be dangerous. Better take shelter and hide until they pass.
But how does one hide from eyes such as these? Eyes so dark they’re almost black.
Eyes so lifeless, one would think they’re dead.
Or maybe whoever is staring at them is supposed to be dead.
My fingers wrap around the club on the bloodied end, and I pull it further against my neck.
If I try to shove it away, he’ll likely take it as a challenge and do the exact opposite.
Surely, he won’t kill me, so my best option is to have him lose interest and let go.
He thinks I’m not competent enough to be in the Heathens’ initiation, and by asking him to do as he threatened, I just proved that I’m unhinged enough to be considered for the position.
No feelings flash through his eyes. Not even a sliver of reaction.
They’re still dark gray and unattainable.
But he releases the other end of the club and covers my hand with his bigger gloved one.
It’s harsh and intrusive almost breaking mine beneath it as he shoves the cold metal against my trachea.
“Is this what you want?” He strangles me with the club. “Do it properly if that’s the case.”
My breathing restricts and pressure builds in my neck, stiffening my veins and heating my face.
The urge to thrash, kick, and fight course through me, but I force myself to keep my presence of mind, to calm my breathing and my thoughts.
The best way to allow someone to win is to let them get into your head, confiscate your thoughts, and replace them with paralyzing fear or threats.
I meet his blank eyes with my determined ones.
You can’t hurt me.
Much.
The worst he can do is make me lose consciousness like he did to the other participants.
And while I prefer not to faint, that’s still a better option than being interrogated and eventually selling out the one I made a promise to.
“I see.” His gravelly voice assaults my ear. “You think I’ll stop after some breath play and a warning. That I’ll hit you, knock you out like I did the others, and continue on my path to torture some other poor soul. You feel slightly bad for them, but at the same time, you’re glad it’s not you, right?”
My lips part, both so I can breathe properly and due to his words.
How could he read so much into my plan without me having to say a word? Is he psychic?
Please don’t tell me the Heathens participate in cult activities and have actual pacts with demons.
“I would’ve done that. I should’ve done that.” He tugs on my hair, making me wince. “But you had the audacity to get on my nerves, so now I’m tempted to just…steal your last breath.”
My swallow is met with the metal of the club, which is like having a brick on my trachea.
I shake my head once, or as much as it is possible with his hold on my hair.
“Though we do have that rule about not killing anyone during the initiation…intentionally.”
I don’t miss the way he stresses the last word. He’s saying that he’s considering killing me anyway and then disguising it as if it was unintentional.
This is the part where predictions and stories are so different from reality.
I’ve heard a lot of rumors about how the Heathens beat up people for sport and kill without blinking an eye.
But to actually witness it firsthand or, worse, be on the receiving end, is no different than being thrown into the eye of the storm and knowing your chances of survival are slim to none.
No amount of deep breathing or rational thinking will save me. He’s already in my head and he knows it.
He’s my only chance of leaving this place alive and he also knows that.
What he doesn’t know is that I refuse to go down without a fight.
“Fuck me first,” I whisper, my voice so low that I barely hear it.
His entire being pauses, like when I slapped his hand earlier.
“Fuck you first?” he repeats slowly, almost as if he’s tasting the words on his tongue.
I nod.
He releases my hair, hand snaking down the pulse point in my throat, leaving shivers in its wake before he cups a breast through my shirt. His touch is savage, almost punishing as he digs his fingers into the skin. “Why?”
It takes everything in me to remain collected despite the throbbing and the dull ache in the sensitive flesh of my breast. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”
For the first time since I saw the man in the orange mask, light flashes in his eyes, but it’s not interest. More like sadism.
A thrill for something.
What, I don’t know.
“I don’t fuck virgins. They aren’t a good fuck. No offense.” He says it meaning every offense behind the words. Then he releases my breast, but only so he can reach beneath my shirt, shove the top of my bra down, and pinch my nipple.
The leather of the glove is so harsh that I whimper, but he takes that as an invitation and rolls it between his gloved fingers in a disturbing, calm rhythm, then squeezes brutally.
I topple over as the pressure against my neck makes the sensation worse. Or better. I honestly have no clue.
This is the first time I’ve gone through something like this after that experience I buried in the black depths of my soul.
Ever since then, I’ve been the prude Cecily, the ‘why is everyone obsessed with sex’ Cecily, the ‘nerd who’s only at university because she wants to study’ Cecily.
The only exception is him. The one I’m doing a favor for and because of whom I’m in this predicament.
Being groped and touched by a stranger in a mask after I brazenly told him to fuck me and freely divulged that I’m a virgin, when everyone has thought I wasn’t since secondary school.
I said it to bring his guard down so I could escape, but I might as well have done the opposite.
He wasn’t interested in me at the beginning, which is why he eliminated me like he did every other participant, but I went ahead and provoked him multiple times unknowingly, and now, he won’t let me go.
“Tell me.” He squeezes my nipple again, and the harshness of the leather against my tender skin makes me gasp. “What’s a posh kid from REU doing at the Heathens’ initiation?”
How did he catch on after I put so much effort into disguising my accent?
“I asked a question. Where’s your answer?”
I glare at him and his eyes light up again.
“Stop looking at me like that, or I might fuck you, after all, just to see those eyes fill with tears.”
Sick bastard.
I have no doubt that he’ll do all of that and more. He’s been this unpredictable ever since I first noticed him following those guys.
Just when I’m about to think of a method of escape that doesn’t land me in even deeper trouble, a commotion comes from the other side of the property.
We look in that direction and see White Mask and Yellow Mask chasing a group of people and Yellow Mask laughing maniacally.
I don’t think about it as I step on Orange Mask’s foot. The moment his grip loosens from around me, I duck and run.
I don’t look behind. I don’t wait for him to catch up. I run and run and run.
My heart gets stuck in my throat and the only thing I think about is how the hell did I not have a panic attack like I do whenever I’m in any sexual situation.
Most importantly, why are my thighs clenching, throbbing, and demanding I go back to that merciless stranger?
