Page 11 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“You’re staring,” I whisper.

He doesn’t acknowledge me. Inside, Rhys lowers Sloane onto the padded table. Callum steps toward the door. I drop from the roof and land in front of him. Cornstalks rustle around us.

“Not your turn.”

His black-gloved fingers flex.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Behind the wall, Sloane gasps. Callum’s shoulders become rigid. I grin beneath my mask.

“This is going to be fun.”

“She isn’t entertainment.”

“She entered an erotic maze in a white dress with three ribbons tied around her wrist. I think she intends to be entertained.”

Another breathless sound escapes through the wall. Callum looks ready to tear the building apart. I press one hand against his chest.

“You chose her. You invited her. Now let Rhys do what she asked us to do.”

Callum looks down at my hand. I remove it. I enjoy having fingers.

“We agreed,” I remind him. “No interfering with another man’s scene unless she calls a color or signal.”

“She won’t.”

“Confident.”

“I know her.”

“You watched her through the corn once.”

His attention returns to the shed.

“I know her.”

That should concern me. Instead, I peer through the crack again. Sloane sits on the table with Rhys between her knees. He removes his gloves. She watches his bare hands as though she already knows what they can do. Callum notices the change in my breathing.

“Don’t.”

“What? I’m appreciating our guest.”

“She isn’t ours.”

“Not yet.”

The Scarecrow becomes completely still. The ugly truth he’s been hiding since her application arrived. Rhys wants Sloane’s surrender. I want her pleasure. Callum wants her life. Every morning. Every night. Every scream between them. The poor bastard doesn’t want prey. He wants a bride.

SLOANE

The shed is larger inside than it appeared. Battery-powered lanterns cast amber light over old wooden walls. Bundles of dried herbs hang from the rafters. A narrow padded table occupies the center of the room, and a leather chair waits in the corner. There are no windows. Only one door. Rhys locks it.

The sound travels straight between my thighs down to my aching core. He removes his gloves one finger at a time. His hands are large, rough, and marked with faint scars. A black ring circles his right thumb. I stare.

“You’re making me nervous,” I admit.