𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐘 (+𝟏𝟖)

CH. 15: REAPER'S GAME

M A L L O R Y

Don't let him touch you.

I read the message over and over, blinking at the screen of my phone, my vision blurring slightly from the Corona I’ve downed over the past hour.

I bite my lip, caught between confusion and a tipsy sense of recklessness. My attention detaches from the text as Tate’s hand slides down from my waist to my ass, his hands a little firmer than I'd like. Normally, I’d slap them off, but the alcohol has all but fucked my senses, so it's more amusing, than uncomfortable.

Giggling, I lean into him, my fingers weaving through his tousled dirty blonde hair as we sway together. His laughter echoes mine as he does the same to my hair.

Another message buzzes through.

UNKNOWN: Don’t test me, Mallory. I promise, you're not going to like what happens next.

I rip my phone from my skirt pocket, glaring at the screen as I read the text, a scoff slipping out while my mood sours. Now I’m officially pissed. I don't know who this Ghostface motherfucker thinks he is or how he knows my name but I didn't need his cryptic-ass messages killing my vibe tonight of all nights.

Yeah, I don't fucking think so.

My finger hovers over the keyboard. Maybe it’s the beer, or maybe I’m just contact high from all the weed swirling in the air with the vulgar rap lyrics, but my body thrums with the erratic need to engage in this asshole's game. So, I respond with class.

ME: Or what, fuckface?

I immediately hit send, no fucks attached in the text. Tate turns me around as the song changes, pressing his chest against my back, wrapping his muscles around my waist while chuckling playfully in my ear.

“Who's texting, babe?” he mumurs, glancing over my shoulder. “Got a boyfriend I should watch out for?”

His words make me laugh, but the way he says it, coupled with that vainglorious fuckboy grin of his, leaves me with the impression that he wouldn’t have given two shits whether I had a boyfriend or not.

I shake my head dismissively, sliding my phone back in my pocket. “Just an asshole who thinks he's funny.”

Tate merely hums as his hands roam lower, and for a moment, I let them. Giggles tumble from my lips as his brushes against my ear. “You're so fucking sexy.”

My phone buzzes once more and I try to ignore it but it's promptly followed by another buzz. After a moment of reluctance, I pull it out, my eyes widening in perturbation as I read the texts on my lock screen.

UNKNOWN: Or I'll make sure the prepubescent boy never fucking touches you or anything ever again.

UNKNOWN: I'll make it slow and you'll have another man's blood dripping from your pretty hands, bambi.

Bambi.

Dread encases its skeletal fingers around my heart, stopping the blood flow before all the color drains from my face. The hairs on my arms stand attention like soldiers on high alert while recognition quickly dissolves the fog of my alcohol-fuel haze— like an ice bucket had been thrown on me, sobering me up.

He's here.

And he's watching me.

Tate's hands got bolder, suddenly feeling like hot coals on my skin. No, this needs to stop or he'll die.

“I... think I need some air,” I say, almost breathlessly, trying to twist out of his hold. I wasn't bullshitting; I quite literally can't breathe but he doesn't let go.