Page 8 of The Killing Game

“A dedication to him. A promise of loyalty. He chooses who is lucky enough to join his game. If you play the game right and follow all the rules, you win the prize. You can walk away like nothing ever happened. Start your adult life with no worries.”

“So he pays you to kill people?” I ask, lacing my voice with as much disgust as humanly possible.

Tristan shrugs, never removing the knife from my face. “Something like that.”

“That’s fucking fantastic. So happy that you’re the chosen one, Anakin. What about all those seniors who get caught in the cross fire? They didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for this!” I spit at him as I tried to shove his massive body. There is no escaping his embrace. His hand flies to my neck. The knife in his other hand moves to rest against my stomach, the tip of the blade poised directly to my belly button. His strong fingers dig into my sensitive skin. He tilts my head up against the tree, causing the bark to bite further, and leans in. His breath is hot and heavy against my neck. He trails his nose up and down my neck as I squirm under his embrace.

“Collateral damage. But it’s fucking worth it if you knew what the prize was,” he whispers into my ear.

“Then enlighten me,” I choke out, probing for an answer. I try to be as still as possible, careful not dig the blade deeper into my abdomen.

Tristan leans back to stare at my contorted body. He removes the knife from my stomach and moves it down to the hem of my shirt. Jerking up, the fabric of my shirt rips through the center in one fluid motion. Cold night air floats over my exposed breasts. I curse myself for choosing to go commando today. Against my will, my nipples harden in response. A deep rumble escapes from Tristan as he stares at me. I fight against him to try to cover myself. Unintelligible pleas escape my throat as Tristan bats my hands away with the knife. He tightens his grip around my neck.

“The prize, Ashe, is ultimate freedom. Power. Enough money to never have to worry about the rat race. You will never worry about going hungry. You will never have to work a nine-to-five job. You can literally do whatever your soul desires. All you need to offer in return is a dedication and unwavering loyalty.”

My breath hitches, “Loyalty to who?”

Tristan’s black eyes stare directly into mine. “Loyalty to The Order.”

“Are you sure this isn’t some fucked up Star Wars cosplay? This sounds oddly familiar,” I quip at him in an attempt to break his concentration.

For a split second, I can see something falter in Tristan’s expression. His hold on me doesn’t loosen.

Methodically, Tristan moves the knife to my collar bone. He traces the bone protruding just beneath the skin. Goosebumps appear in the spot he teased. The asshole smirks.

“I was planning on making this quick, but if you want to play, Ashe. Then let’s play.”

“I don’t want shit to do with you,” I spit at him.

Tristan chuckled. “Oh, but you do. Just look at how excited you are right now. Your nipples are begging to be teased.”

He drags the tip of the blade from my collarbone down to the peak of my right breast. He circles my nipple with the blade, teasing it. My body stiffens before bending into his touch. Teeth grind together as my jaw locks into place, panic seizing my vocal cords. I know I should scream right now. Everything inside me is on high alert. Yet, I oddly feel the burn deep inside, that tingle when someone’s touch felt just right.

“Ashe, the resident creepy girl. Tell me, darling, are you just as freaky in the dark as you are in the light?”

“Fuck. You,” I bite out. My jaw begins to quiver under the pressure of my teeth grinding together.

“With pleasure. And then I’m going to gut you like the pig that you are.” Tristan throws me to the ground. I land on my stomach and I can feel the broken rib shift inside. The knife clatters a few inches away.

“Come on, Ashe. It’s time to die.” Tristan mounts me, pinning my legs between his.

I scream. I can’t tell if it is out loud or in my head, but I scream so hard I see stars.

No. Oh, god, please no. TRISTAN. Help!

“Yes, darling. Scream my name. That shit makes me so hard.”

I squirm under his weight, trying to throw him off. Strong hands grab my hips and yank my ass in the air. One hand snakes around my side and pins my head to the damp earth. I’m bent over on the ground, gasping for air between screaming. Dirt begins to coat my chin, saliva mixing with the ground beneath my face. Tristan shifts forward and his hardened length presses against my center. I hear the faint sound of a zipper opening. Without warning, Tristan yanks my jeans down, exposing my bareness. My arms reach out, searching for the knife as calluses fingers trace my lower back.

“Tristan, stop,” I beg him, but I don’t even know if I believe myself at this point. It’s all so confusing. My mind is swimming with adrenaline. I’m afraid. I’m turned on. At this moment, though, I know I will do almost anything to survive.

Tristan’s finger dips lower, teasing my exposed heat. I’m regrettably wet and shamefully, waiting to see what he does next. My primal side is loving the thrill while my rational mind rages at me to fight. My hands still search the ground around me for the knife.

“You say stop, but look how wet you are for me, darling. Such a good little whore,” he groans as he slips two fingers inside of me. I yelp at the intrusion and buck back at him in a futile attempt to remove his fingers. The movement only pushes him further. Despite being wet, I can feel the drag of his fingernails against my insides. Everything tightens at the unwanted attention. Searing heat radiates within me, microtears forming at each careless thrust of his fingers. Tristan grabs my hip with his other hand, locking me in place.

“You get off on being dominated, don’t you? You fucking freak.”

Tristan removes his fingers, leaving me empty. He brings his palm down on my ass. A cracking sound reverberates through the eerie silence. The assaulted cheek burns hot under his touch. He adjusts himself behind me, momentarily loosening his grip. His hand returns to rest on my lower back. A hardened tip presses against my exposed entrance. By some miracle, the tips of my fingers make contact with something cold and hard.