Page 31 of The Dead Don’t Scream
He’s right. I don’t want sunrise either.
CALLUM
The chapel doors lock behind Sloane. She presses her back against them, breathing hard from the run. Dirt streaks her thighs. Her lips are swollen. Her white dress is wrinkled by the hands and mouths of the other men. One gold ribbon remains around her wrist. Mine. Sloane lifts her face. Black candles illuminate the altar behind me.
“You made this for me.”
It isn’t a question. I step from the shadows. The stitched mouth of my burlap mask smiles at her.
“Yes.”
Her gaze travels across the restraints, silk, and carefully arranged instruments surrounding the altar. Everything she requested. Every fantasy she confessed. Every hidden desire she believed no one would understand.
“You saw my application before the others.”
“Yes.”
“You sent the invitation.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I approach slowly. Sloane remains against the doors. She isn’t trying to open them.
“One year ago, you stood outside this maze,” I say. “Your friends were ready to leave, but you kept looking through the gate.”
Her eyebrows draw together.
“You were there?”
“I watched you.”
“That sounds creepy.”
“It was.”
The honesty steals her next response. I stop in front of her. Close enough to feel her heat. Not close enough to touch.
“You said maybe next year.”
Her eyes widen.
“You heard that?”
“I’ve heard it every night since.”
The gold ribbon trembles against her pulse. I lift my hand. Sloane watches it approach. My fingers stop inches from her cheek.
“Color?”
Her breathing catches.
“Green.”
“Safe word?”
“Graveyard.”
