Shane steps into my line of sight. I hold my breath. He’s wearing green tactical pants tucked into hiking boots and a black long-sleeve shirt. He studies the ground, tracking my barely visible footprints. The muscles in his back ripple as he pauses, bending to look at something more closely.

Can a pussy purr? Because mine is right now. If she had her way, I’d backflip out of this tree, stick the landing, and ask Shane to finish what he started last night. Thoughts of student loan bills and my unwillingness to lose this high-stakes game of hide-and-seek are the only things keeping my ass glued to the branch.

Every muscle tight, I wait for him to look up and spot me. There’s no way this will work. He follows the decoy. I prepare for my next move. He’ll double back when he hits the end. I don’t want to be stuck here when he retraces my steps.

Note to self: create a longer fake trail next time.

When I can’t see him anymore, I wait a beat, then descend. Going down is more challenging, and I almost fall transitioning to the smaller tree. Only a lucky grab keeps me from plummeting to the forest floor. I slow my pace for the rest of the journey but bolt the second my feet hit the ground. Each stride feels like it could be the one that gives me away as I head in the opposite direction of Shane.

A sharp bark of a laugh cuts through the woods. He must’ve reached the dead end. He’ll be retracing his steps now. I’m trying to move fast and silent, but my goals are at odds. A branch cracks beneath my sneaker, gunshot loud in the stillness.

Whoops.

Brush crashes somewhere behind me, but I don’t look back. Now that he’s heard me, speed is the only thing that matters. Branches whip my shoulders, urging me on. All I want is to look back. See how much of a lead I have.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from horror movies, it’s that you never look back at the monster chasing you. Even if the monster has great teeth and probably maxes out his 401(k) contributions. Even if you’re kind of looking forward to being caught and secretly hoping you’ll be eaten.

I push harder. Shane is closing in. He has to be. It’s not a matter of if he’ll catch me, but when. He can’t catch me yet. I don’t want to end up back at the house, so I veer left, where the brush is thicker. There’s a deer trail, and I take it, hoping the well-traveled path lets me run faster. There’s less debris to trip on, less foliage to get tangled up in. Around me, the forest grows denser, so thick that the shadows cast by the trees feel menacing. My legs tire. Each breath is more ragged than the last.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles, my shoulders hunching. I feel vulnerable and exposed, even though branches snag my shirt and pants as I move through the tight brush. My body tingles with expectation, waiting for the grab, the catch. The moment when the hunt becomes the fight. I don’t feel human anymore. I’m a vibrating swirl of dread and anticipation. My brain won’t stop screaming.

Get the catch over with.

End the suspense.

Shane must be gaining, but I can’t go any faster. I’m surprised every time I take a step without being snatched. I can’t help myself. I glance back. Shocked, I skid to a stop.

He isn’t there. I’m alone.

Just me, trees, and the wind toying with my loose hair. My bun-slash-braid has come undone. The bobby pins lost to grasping branches. Maybe the trees are on his side, trying to strip me bare for him.

Where is he?

There’s no way I lost him. Scanning the woods, I’m a coiled spring, waiting for him to jump out and grab me. Leaves shift and branches sway, but it’s the breeze causing their movement, not Shane.

What now?

Going back isn’t an option. He has to be following me, and I don’t want to run right to him. I press on down the deer trail.

I’m no longer running, but I’m hurrying. A low-hanging branch forces me to duck, the trail growing tighter around me. I’m worried it will vanish altogether, leaving me elbowing noisily through the brush. It opens up again after a few dozen feet, and more sunlight filters through the trees. Ahead, I see what looks like a clearing. I have no idea how far I am from the house, how far I am from Shane.

I creep into the clearing, pausing to shake leaves from my hair. There’s a large tree in almost the exact center. It’s massive, must be decades old, and the way there are no other trees around it only makes it look more impressive. I’m trying to figure out what kind it is when Shane steps from behind its trunk.

Shit.

SIX Claire

It’s a miracle I don’t piss myself in surprise when Shane appears from behind the tree. Still, the squeak I make is undignified. Spinning, I start to flee back down the trail.

“Oh no you don’t.” Shane’s voice is close, too close. I barely have time to register what that means when he grabs one of my arms and jerks to a stop. I expect my momentum to break his hold, but it spins me roughly instead, my arm feeling stretched an inch longer. Before I can think, he tugs me to his chest, clamping my arms at my sides.

“A little doe taking the deer trail,” he says conversationally. “Fitting.”

I stomp on the top of his foot once and then again. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it. He just starts walking backward into the clearing. I’m pinned to his chest, but I kick at him, trying to make him trip. When that doesn’t work, I collapse. He doesn’t expect that, but he recovers fast. I’m faster, diving off the trail, hoping that slows him. My freedom is short-lived. A rough hand tangles in the hair at the base of my skull. Damn the bobby pins. He pulls me thrashing from the brush. I expect him to readjust his hold, grab an arm or ankle. He doesn’t.

“Motherfucker,” I spit as he hauls me down the trail by my hair. I dig my nails into his wrist and forearm, trying to make him let go. It hurts, it hurts so fucking bad, but I’m too angry to even think about using the safe word. This is absolute bullshit. I’ve lost way too quickly.

“Know your safe word?” Shane asks. We’re in the field again, and I’ve resorted to grabbing at his ankles.

“Yes” has barely left my lips when he releases me. I flop on my back. Fighting the urge to rub my scalp, I start to rise. He knocks my feet out from under me, dropping to his knees between my legs. Propped up on my elbows, I take in the sight of him. His hair’s mussed, hanging over his forehead. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his throat. My gaze roams over his body, zeroing in on the bulge behind his zipper. Shane lets out a raspy chuckle.

Shit. I’m forgetting to play the game.

Scuttling backward in a crab crawl feels ridiculous, but it’s all I can do. He pounces. Solid hips settle between my legs. Brutal hands force my torso to the ground. Bucking, I try to knock him off. Shane pushes harder, grinding his erection on me. He’s rigid, pressing his body where mine wants him to be. My fingers itch to rip my leggings off, tug him out of his pants, and get down to it. I need him inside me, but I need to make it the full thirty days more.

Stay strong.

Sinking to his forearms, he dips his head to my throat. His breath tickles my skin. It’s minty, almost like toothpaste. The thought of Shane brushing his teeth before hunting me through the woods is endearing and, unfortunately, arousing. I should drop my chin and block his access to my throat. My body won’t listen. I’m rotating my head away from him, exposing my neck. Arching my back, I graze my breasts along his chest. I’m rewarded with his sharp intake of breath and a jolt of pleasure as his hips jerk between my legs.