Page 7 of Trick of the Flesh
The crowd swirls between us, but it doesn’t matter. The mask makes him untouchable, faceless, and inhuman.
But I feel his eyes.
I feel the hunt coiling tight, the game winding itself up.
My skin prickles, my heart thunders, and my body knows what my brain won’t admit.
The chase hasn’t even begun yet.
And I’m already caught.
THREE
MIGUEL
The frontof the house is alive with chaos. Music and laughter throb against the walls, heavy and stupid, everyone drunk on cheap liquor and sugar. Orange lights strung across the ceiling, cobwebs sagging in corners, plastic bats dangling from fishing line. Every shriek of laughter, every bass drop, covers the sound of what’s really happening.
They don’t notice him slipping away. In more ways than one.
But I do.
Caleb.
He slips away like a shadow, careful, precise, hands tugging at the hem of his jersey like it’s a lifeline. His shoulders are tense, neck hunched slightly, and head ducked as if he believes the darkness will protect him. He’s six-one, two hundred pounds of lean muscle, built from all the years of basketball, and yet there’s something delicate in the way he moves.
Vulnerable.
The perfect prey.
He thinks he’s invisible, thinks the shadows hide him. But Isee every line of him, the stretch of his back, and the way his steps quicken like he’s afraid of being followed.
Good.He should be afraid.
I lean against the doorway, watching, memorizing. The way his eyes dart to the corners, the subtle tremor in his hands, the slight bite of his lower lip between teeth.God, his lips.I’ve imagined them so many times that I could sketch them from memory.
They look so fucking soft.As if they’re just aching to be kissed and bitten.
He’s wearing a basketball jersey for a costume—my old college colors—and the fabric clings to him just enough to hint at what’s underneath. He doesn’t know I notice. But I do. Every curve, every line, every subtle reaction to fear or anticipation.
The party fades behind him, the noise retreating into muted thumps through the walls. I wait until he disappears past the corner, until the party swallows his absence. Then I move. The distant laughter of my parents and the drunk rambling of neighbors all blend into white noise, leaving just him and the quiet tension of the back hall.
Slow. Deliberate. Each step on the wood timed like a drumbeat. The mask warms against my face, plastic clinging with every breath. The blue X’s glow is faint in the dark, not bright enough to light the path but enough to remind me what I’ve become.
Not his brother. Just the wolf waiting in the dark to devour what’s always been his.
The back of the house is quieter and cooler. The music fades to a hum, the chatter just a murmur through plaster. Shadows stretch long across the hall, broken only by the thin glow of a nightlight near the bathroom. He pauses outside his bedroom door. One hand rests on the knob, knuckles pale. Hischest rises fast, fingers twitching like he wants to run but doesn’t.
Good.
I stop and lean against the wall. Watching him breathe.
His shoulders rise too fast. His fingers tremble against the brass knob.
Perfect.
I shift my weight, letting the floor groan under me.
He stiffens.
