I pull the rope, tying him to the pole, making sure it constricts tightly. He stays still now; his body weakness is evident, but only serves to heighten my excitement as I watch his fragile state.
I’m on the precipice of ecstasy—this moment is a feast for my soul, a culmination of revenge. My heart pounds in my chest, heat throbbing through my cock, and all I can think about is my little sunflower, who deserves my protection, my wrath against every predator like Micah.
“Say hi to the devil for me, Mic,” I whisper, shoving him up the pole with fury. He gasps for air, the rope digging into his neck, eyes bulging with fear. With just a couple more seconds, his body goes limp, and I watch with morbid satisfaction as his essence fades.
Satisfied, I step back, taking in the scene before me. It’s fucking perfect.
Now, all that’s left is my little sunflower. I’m going to make sure she’s taken care of, a guardian angel ready to shield her from the darkness of this vile world.
“Now, it’s your turn, my little sunflower,” I whisper, pulling my mask back on as I slip into the shadows of the maze, the echoes of Micah’s broken cries fading into the night.
I walk hurriedly, keeping to the shadows. My steps are light and my heart pounds as I get closer to the red dot lighting my screen.
Blair’s awakened a darkness in me that I fear consumes my every breath. She’s the poison I’d drink over and over.
I’m coming for you, my little obsession.
Twenty One
Blair
Istep onto the football field and the world shifts.
The maze is made of hay bales stacked two, sometimes three high, forming narrow corridors that twist across the football field like a labyrinth built for secrets. The scent of dry straw and damp earth clings to the air, mixing with the distant thump of music and the sugary smoke of cider and bonfires.
I step inside, cloak trailing behind me, heels crunching over scattered hay. The walls close in fast—golden, scratchy, uneven—and the deeper I go, the quieter it gets. The party fades behind me. The laughter. The lights. The noise.
I’m alone now.
And I’m looking for him.
I don’t know what Kane’s dressed as. He wouldn’t tell me. Just said, “You’ll know.” So I’ve been scanningevery face, every mask, every pair of eyes that linger too long. But none of them are him. Ifeelit.
The chill bites at my skin, slipping under the velvet and lace. I shiver, but I keep walking. The maze twists again, and I pause at a fork, left or right? The hay rustles behind me, but when I turn, no one’s there.
I’m not scared.
I’m expectant.
Because I know how he moves. How he waits. How he watches.
And somewhere in this maze, Kane is tracking me.
My phone buzzes against my ribs, tucked into the hidden pocket I stitched into the corset myself. I stop walking, fingers fumbling with the velvet flap, breath fogging in the cold.
Kane:
Stop walking and turn around.
My heart stutters.
I do.
Slowly.
The hay maze is darker here, no string lights, no party noise, just the rustle of straw and the distant echo of laughter. And then I see him.
He’s standing in the corner where the bales stack three high, cloaked in black from head to toe. His body blends into the shadows, but his mask glows—purple neon, jagged and sharp, like a grin carved from lightning.
