Chapter 16

SIXTEEN

In nothing but my lace booty shorts, Zeppelin crop top, and black silk robe I was wearing when we were taken, I can feel my ass and tits bounce with every move I make as I maintain a steady sprint. I wish I could turn around and see Colson’s tortured stare while he watches the view he’ll never get again of my ass and thighs shaking, but I need to stay focused. Though with the little glimpse of him from my periphery as I maintain the lead, I hate to admit how much that mask suits him. The devil theme is fitting considering the narrow entryway of the maze looks like it could be a portal to hell. Dark and unwelcoming.

The air in my lungs burns as I hold my breath, trying to ignore the impending reality that once we enter the maze my claustrophobia will be exacerbated. Trying to work through the preemptive anxiety that has my moving limbs tingling, I’m distracted by Colson’s boots scuffing the concrete floor, pulling me from my swirling thoughts. He huffs already, sounding mildly out of breath. Probably because he smokes like Willie Nelson. Oh well, that’s just another advantage for me to win whatever games we’re forced to play.

Propelling myself further, I break through the entrance barrier of the maze. Chills skitter down my spine as tall, cold slabs of narrow concrete enclose the space, feeling like they’re swallowing me whole. This is a fucking nightmare. I feel myself beginning to spiral, my pulse swishing in my ears, but I ignore it, pushing through like I always do. Maintaining speed, I zig zag through the series of winding walls, and I don’t know if it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but I swear every turn I make, the next set of walls feels narrower than the last.

Another sharp, ninety-degree turn alleviates the confinement of the walls, but now I’m facing the first stretch of maze that isn’t a straight line. I slow down momentarily, looking back, fully expecting Colson to be right behind me huffing and puffing. To my surprise, he’s not there. Reducing to a jog, I continue ahead, wondering where the hell he went. Maybe he got snatched up? The thought saddens me momentarily since he truly is prime eye candy but him being gone would make this whole ordeal a hell of a lot easier for me.

The music is still blaring, but I can’t focus on what is playing, my hearing tunneled from the anxiety attack I’m trying to keep at bay. I keep moving, ignoring the temptation I have to call out for Colson to see where he went. Though it’s not like I should care or feel bad. He’s my competition, not my teammate. Alternating between a jog and short sprints, I continue until I’m forced to stop by the abrupt change in the maze’s layout. Awestruck by the crossroads before me, my gaze swings like a pendulum back and forth assessing my two options. Both look like possible exits out of the maze, but I don’t know which way to go.

To my left is a darkened hall, maybe a couple feet long with a large wooden exit covered with crisscrossing chains and a large, rusted lock in the middle. To my right is a shorter hall, illuminated by something vibrant and neon sneaking past the cracks in the door at the end.

Gazing over my shoulder, with Colson still nowhere to be found, I use his absence to my advantage, I remain still, trying to assess my options. The chain and lock to my left feels cumbersome, and I didn’t see a key anywhere, so that leaves me with the option on the right.

Heading right, I jog, focusing on the lights that shine beneath the door ahead. I continue moving closer until I’m standing directly in front of it, immediately noticing the circle reminiscent of a bullseye painted in the middle. My hand rises, grazing the surface of the door, noticing that the bullseye is wet and dark. Immediately, the blood of the starting line comes back to me, and I snap my hand away.

I step back just as the neon lights from the other side of the door intensify as if on cue, before a spotlight shines above me, highlighting the bullseye and the splattered, dark liquid that definitely looks like blood. Now, with the added light, I realize the bullseye looks like an axe-throwing wall, complete with markings.

Suddenly the ground vibrates beneath my feet, forcing me forward, just as the music grows louder, adding to my disorientation. The distinct guitar work of Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” leaks through however many speakers surround me. My cheek scratches against the wooden door, and just as my hand lifts against the wall to steady myself, I feel a rush of cool wind whip by me, followed by the harsh thump of metal being pounded into wood.

What the fuck?

Caught off guard, I look down to my leg, and there’s a fucking axe barely two inches from where it could have pierced my flesh. Just as Robert Plant’s voice emerges, another thud bursts onto the wood, this time by my other leg near my upper thigh.

Spinning around, my vision becomes captivated by Colson sauntering my way. I’m so distracted by how fucking good he looks in that damn mask that I almost miss the fact that there are two axes in his possession, one in each hand. Our eyes appraise one another, skimming up and down like we’re engaging in an intricate battle, each waiting for the other to make a move.

His pace quickens, stalking towards me, as his exposed lips pucker into an air kiss before the corners curl up in synchrony with his right hand. He swings the axe in his grip underhanded as if he is about to pitch a ball. One swipe, then another, he practices swinging, reducing the space between us–and apparently the ability for my legs to connect with my brain so I can fucking bolt.

My lips part, ready to assault him with whatever obscenities come to mind first, but my opportunity to verbalize my utter annoyance with him is clipped by the sheer terror of watching him lower his arm. I can’t believe he’s going to throw the axe. This sorry piece of shit is actually going to use me as a human target.

Time slows even though I’m well aware of how fast he’s approaching me. Confusion strikes when the steel catches the light as it’s tossed in the air. My lids clamp shut, heart rate accelerated to a violent thrashing, waiting for the axe to penetrate my flesh. Like a jackass, I lift my hands up, the silk fabric of my robe draping with my elevated arms.

Thud.

The axe hits the wood, and my heart is pounding too hard for me to determine if what I just heard was my heart giving out or the axe making contact with the door. Eyes pinched shut still, I attempt to move forward but I make it half a step before I’m pulled back.

Fuck.

I’m pinned.

Panic settles into my core. Trepidation wreaks havoc on my senses. Forcing my lids open to assess the damage, I look to where my arm is caught, but it’s not through my flesh. I lower my gaze to the blade pinning down the draping sleeve.

Relief floods me, but not long enough to stay around. I can’t believe him; he could have fucking cut off my arm. “What the fuck?!” I shout, trying to pull the sharpened steel from my robe, but it won’t budge.

“What the–” I begin again, but he stops me. Closing the space between us, he uses his free hand to reach for mine. Cuffing it in his warm palm, he raises my arm, and before I can say a damn thing or fight him off, he takes the other axe and in a short burst sticks it into the door, trapping both my sleeves.

“So close but, I win,” he announces with glee, causing my brows to fall in a confused line.

I crank my head up, staring at the sign hanging off the spotlight that reads “finish line” in red smeared letters.

“I hate to break it to you, buddy, but I got here first,” I point out with satisfaction.

“True, but, if you’d listened, instead of running off like a bat out of hell, you would’ve paid attention to the part about the axe wall or technically door.”

His mouth continues moving, but I only half pay attention. I’m too angry with myself. I let my anxiety and its ability to rob my hearing with its rush of misplaced adrenaline take over.

A mix of cologne and the weed he smoked earlier lingers on his body, overwhelming my every sense as he takes another step forward, the cool leather of his mask bumping against my forehead. I bite down, tightening my jaw, wanting to curse him out, but I remain uncharacteristically silent, awaiting his next move.

“Just admit it. You lost this round. Better luck next time,” he hisses gleefully, running his finger on my cheek. His digit traces the high point of my cheekbone teasingly before his touch abruptly vanishes.

“Fuck you.” I spit, intending for my saliva to reach his shoe, but he moves out of the way too fast, scuffing his boot against the concrete floor.

“Ha, guess I can add sore loser to the list of what you are,” he mumbles, kneeling to the ground to pick something up. It isn’t until he’s back in front of me, beneath the overhead light, that I see it’s another fucking axe.

“Colson Cromwell, I fucking swear. You put another axe near me I’m going to–”

I gasp, unable to finish my sentence. My mouth remains agape, silenced by the unexpected rush of blood that is gathering between my legs as I witness him lower his towering height, reducing himself to his knees in front of me.

He’s kneeling in front of me, with a mask on. I’m going to come. I’m literally going to combust right here.

“What are you doing?” I ask, panting more than I would have liked, but fuck if this isn’t a sight to be seen.

His fingers crawl to my thighs, lightly tracing every curve, but he remains silent. Stubborn.

“I asked you a question. What the fuck are you doing?” I blurt, this time having more control over my tone, sounding less like I’m a cat in heat.

“Sssh,” he hisses, now fully kneeling before me. “Hold real still. I mean it. Just spread those legs for me, nice and wide,” he instructs, voice sounding all raspy like he’s drawing this out, whatever this is, on purpose because he can probably smell at this point how turned on I am. My eyes widen painfully, in shock at my own obedience, because I keep still with my legs spread wide just like he said to. “Atta girl,” he praises condescendingly, lifting the axe while he’s between my legs. He pauses, peering up at me, the piercing gray of his irises brighter against the crimson hue of his mask. It suits him, especially with the vantage point I have. This is torture. I’ve never wanted to suffocate someone with my pussy as bad as I do now, not only to gain pleasure from it, but to have him drown in it for putting me through this drawn-out game. He grins, pressing a quick kiss on my thigh, which feels like fire on my already burning skin. “Stay still, and the only thing that will get hurt is that ego of yours,” he murmurs, hovering his mouth over my thigh. My chest heaves in anticipation as I witness him scoot back on his knees and pin the axe barely a few inches from the apex of my thighs.

He rises to his feet, running his hand from my thighs to my exposed torso. Staring at my midsection, he parts his lips. “You are a fucking sight to be had when you’re stubborn, but fuck, you are something when you obey,” he pauses, digging his finger into my skin, now near my hip. His mouth swarms my ear. “And you’re even more irresistible when I’m the one you are breaking for and losing to all at once.”

Disoriented and horny–what a fucking combination–I’m about to ask him how it’s possible that I lost to him when I got to the axe wall or whatever this is first, but the creepy speaker beats me to it.

“Round One, complete,” the voice announces. “Cromwell one, Ramos zero.”

Anger shoots through my veins, quickly replacing the distracted, wanton state I’d been thrust into. I don’t like losing. Especially not to him.

“How?!” I shout.

“I told you, they announced that there was an axe throwing section. Good thing I axe throw in my spare time,” he winks.

“You cheated,” I retort.

“No. I listened, unlike you. You just went off into that maze because all you could think about was how hot and bothered it would make you feel watching me chase you with a mask. And because of that you missed the entire part about needing five axes in the wall to open it.”

The validity of his statement only adds to my rage.

“Whatever,” I scoff.

“Round Two,” the voice announces, but my blood is pumping too violently to focus. Everywhere my eyes fall is covered in a neon haze.

“You will have twenty minutes to feed the meter. Once the meter is fed, you will then find the key hidden in the room and unlock the door to your left,” the voice instructs.

Meter? What Meter?

“Wait,” I shout.

“Yes, Ms. Ramos?”

“Doesn’t he have to unpin me?” I ask, trying to wriggle my way out.

“No,” the voice answers, dry and robotic as ever. “I mean, he could, but that wouldn’t be much fun. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cromwell?”

A stiff chuckle slips his lips. “Yep. Check the meter, Raiden.” Colson points my gaze in the direction of the scream meter in the upper corner of the room. I do a double take. The meter looks like a cross between a traffic light and a thermometer. There’s a middle portion with a small orb of white light poking through the bottom that I’m guessing will rise when we “feed” it.

“What the –” I begin, though my words melt into an unexpected moan.

“What are you doing?” I whimper as I cast my gaze down to where his hand is brushing against the wet lace at the apex of my thighs.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he traces the edge of my lace panties once more before sliding his calloused hand in. His fingers glide through the arousal that’s waiting for him.

Wasting no time, he curls his fingers into me with an attentive thrust. All I can muster up is a loud gasp. We’re rewarded with a loud ding and a small surge of light moving on the meter.

“Colson,” I breathe intending to sound angry, but my body is held captive to his touch.

He leans in, mask scratching at my face as his exposed lips hover over mine.

“Shh,” he whispers, his breath sending an unexpected need for more through my body. “Don’t fight this. Tomorrow – if we live – you can go back to pretending you hate me like you do when you touch yourself, thinking of me. But right now, I’m going to get us out of here. One moan at a time.”