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.