Page 31 of Ready Or Not

Something flashes in Rachel’s eyes. All her muscles lock up, and her breathing picks up.

I softly grab her leg and hold it down. Her skin is so soft. “Easy. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be careful.”

“No.” Rachel panics, backing up against the back of the couch. Her leg shakes under me.

“It’s just pain, bambi.” I’m getting annoyed.

“No,” Rachel gasps again. “Don’t be gentle.”

I look up at her, confusion running through me.

Rachel sucks in a breath. “Please. Don’t be gentle.”

I arch an eyebrow, then shrug. However the princess wants it.

I don’t want to break open the scab, but I do pour a generous amount of rubbing alcohol over Rachel’s leg. She hisses, and I have to hold her down to keep her from scrambling away from me. Once I’ve blotted up most of the area, I wrap a bandage around it. As far as I could tell, the splinter only went in an inch or two. If there are any little wood pieces left, they’ll get infected, and she’ll have to go to the hospital.

It bled pretty good. Manson has blood all over his house. Her blood. I smirk. It almost tempts me to kill her just so I can frame him.

When I’m done, Rachel’s eyes grow heavy. Finally, under the effects of the drug, she passes out, half-splayed across the couch. I stare at her for a second, wishing I could sleep that deeply. But I don’t sleep. Not much, anyway, and not heavily.

I work for a few hours, setting up supplies, defrosting my meat freezer, and cleaning my tools.

Anything to forget.

Pup was the last time I remember feeling any sort of affection. His death marked the death of my humanity, and I kind of like it that way. There’s less pain when you have no emotions. No anxiety, no fear, no…nothing.

I’m numb.

Unless Manson’s around. Then, that blessed rage courses through me, and for a minute, I feel alive.

When Rachel wakes again, I’m just starting to feel fatigued.

Rachel groans, rubbing her eyes. “Where am I?”

“My barn.” I continue sharpening my favorite hunting knife. I use it mostly to get the hides off small game.

Rachel squints her eyes and groans. “Water?”

I jerk my head at the side of the couch. I’ve left some water bottles, a thing of painkillers, and an apple.

I don’t deal with whining well.

Rachel looks around at the hides I have strung up to dry on the walls. We sit in silence for a while while Rachel takes the pills and some water. She doesn’t whine, or beg, or cry.

Which is fucking intriguing.

Finally, Rachel asks, “You’re a hunter?”

I just grunt. I’ve hunted ever since I moved out on my own. I can’t stand mass animal farms. Those animals have no quality of life. They live in crowded pens, some of them never seeing the light of day until they’re killed. Then, parts of their bodies were wasted. If not in the process of gutting them, then when they’re eaten and scraped from the plates of the ungrateful to the trash. The entitlement of human beings drives me insane. Other humans are the worst thing to happen to my planet.

So I hunt my own meat. I get the thrill of a good hunt, and I take care of my world so it’ll keep producing for me. Plus, Manson keeps fucking up my plans to do this to people, so here we are.

Rachel looks uncomfortable.

“Don’t pretend you have a bleeding heart.” I snort. “I saw the collection you have at home.” At the mention of that, I get pissed again.

Rachel’s eyebrows shoot up. “You were in my house?”