FINAL GIRLS + F*CK BOYS

  THE MURDER GAME PREQUEL

  SALEM SINCLAIR

  CONTENTS

  A Note About Content

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More from Salem

  Copyright © 2024 by Salem Sinclair

  Salem Sinclair reserves all rights to and/or involving this work as the author. This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, either living or dead, or events is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, including information storage and retrieval systems, now known or hereinafter invented, without written permission from the author, except for brief quotations in book reviews.

  The use of actors, artists, movies, TV shows, and song titles/lyrics throughout this book is done for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as an advertisement. Trademark names are used editorially, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Created with Vellum

  “To the relief of giving in to destruction.”

  A diary entry by Franz Kafka

  To the girls who have that unnamed, untamed darkness in them. This is for you.

  A NOTE ABOUT CONTENT

  Final Girls and F*ck Boys is a dark, new adult, college romantic suspense novella intended for mature readers.

  This novella contains dubious consent situations, crude language, and intense sexual content that some readers might find upsetting or disturbing This is a content warning for on-page sex work, sexual intimacy between adopted siblings, choking, knife play, blood play, being buried alive, and on-page violence. Please proceed with caution.

  This mature novella also contains a why-choose, polyamorous romance, so the female main character is involved with more than one partner.

  1

  Cicadas screamed from the trees, their shrill chorus a maddening, relentless drone that consumed every other sound in the neighborhood. The constant noise was as suffocating as the heat. Thick with humidity, the air clung to my skin. Even the faint breeze that occasionally stirred the leaves offered no relief, only serving to remind me of the stifling summer.

  The neighborhood was a patchwork of gilded mansions, each one a spectacular cage. The yards were littered with pink speckles of mimosa trees, the blossoms gaudy splashes of neon against the green. They stood out like misplaced commas in a poorly written sentence, their sweet fragrance an almost nauseating contrast to the oppressive humidity. It was the kind of sweetness that lingered too long, turning rancid.

  Summer in the rural South was a prison of time, dragging on with a lethargy that made each day feel like an endless drip. There was nothing to do but exist in the heat, sweating and bored, with nothing but my thoughts for company. My adopted parents had jetted off to some faraway tropical paradise almost the moment we returned from Paris, leaving me alone in this sweltering, sunbaked hell. The sharp contrast between the cultured elegance of Paris and the crude, slow-moving reality of this place only deepened my resentment.

  I had taken my bike out, more to escape the four walls that closed in on me more each day than for any real purpose. As I reached the highest hill, I slammed on the brakes, my tires squealing in protest. From the top, I could see the road stretched out below me, a narrow strip of asphalt that twisted and turned like a snake. It ended in a blind curve, where the ground dropped away to reveal the city sprawling far below. The brick barrier at the end of the road was a joke, offering no real protection from the deadly drop on the other side.

  I imagined what it would feel like to let go, to just keep going until I crashed into that wall and sailed over it, my body soaring through the air before plummeting to the Earth below. Would I hit the branches of the trees on the way down, snapping my bones like twigs as they broke my fall, or would I be lucky enough to avoid them, my body a missile aimed at the pavement? I could almost see the horrified face of some random passerby, their life interrupted by the sudden and violent arrival of my broken corpse.

  Would anyone even care?

  I wondered how long it would take for someone to notice I was gone. My parents would probably get a call while sipping cocktails on a beach somewhere, their holiday ruined by the news.

  Would they feel a pang of guilt?

  A moment of regret that they hadn’t been there, that they hadn’t noticed my growing darkness?

  Sometimes, the thought of faking my own death just to see the reaction was tempting. I could be a ghost in my own life, haunting the peripherals, watching the people who claimed to care about me grapple with the truth. Would they say I was sweet, kind, caring? Would they invent a version of me that never existed just to ease their own consciences?

  I doubted it.

  If they knew the real me, they’d probably feel relief more than anything else.

  But mostly, I wanted to see how my death would affect Chamberlain, my brother. Would he feel anything at all, or would I be just another name, another memory, that faded with time? The thought gnawed at me, a bitter ache that refused to be ignored.

  Sighing, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes, letting the blindingly bright sun burn the backs of my eyelids.

  I released the handlebars, feeling the bike wobble beneath me as I teetered on the edge of control. With a slow, deliberate motion, I scooted the bike forward with the tips of my Converse, feeling the front wheel dip as I reached the crest of the hill. I took a deep breath, savoring the moment before the fall, and then lifted my feet, letting the bike plunge down the slope.

  The world blurred around me as I picked up speed, the wind thrashing through my hair, turning my silver braids into whips that lashed at my face. My heart raced; not just from the speed, but from the thrill of it, the delicious, icy fear that crept up my spine. My brain screamed at me to open my eyes, to grab the handlebars, to stop before it was too late, but I ignored it, chasing that feeling, that rush of adrenaline that made me feel alive in a way nothing else could.

  It was that moment, the one where your body realizes it's in danger, that I craved, the flood of chemicals that set your nerves on fire, that made your heart pound and your muscles tense, ready to fight or flee. It was in those moments I felt most like myself, like I had found the edge of something raw and real in this otherwise numbed-out world.

  But it wasn’t there yet. I hadn’t found it. I needed more. Faster. Closer to that edge.

  And then, just as I was about to give in, to save myself, I felt it: that cold, electric rush filling my veins like liquid lightning, making my skin prickle with goosebumps. I gasped as it took hold, the thrill and terror melding into a single, powerful force that drove me onward.

  I opened my eyes just in time to see the curb looming ahead, but it was too late.

  My front tire hit hard, the impact jarring through my body as the tire popped and I was launched over the handlebars. Time seemed to slow as I flew through the air, the ground rushing up to meet me. I braced for impact, but nothing could prepare me for the force of it as my back slammed into the brick retaining wall. The air was knocked out of me, leaving me gasping, my vision swimming as I crumpled to the ground.

  I lay there, sprawled on the sun-warmed grass, the adrenaline still pulsing through me even as the pain began to set in. It was a dull ache at first, a reminder I was still alive, that my body was still in one piece. But as the minutes passed, the pain grew sharper, more insistent, spreading through my limbs like wildfire.

  A shadow passed over me, and I looked up to see a butterfly hovering just above my face. It was a flash of yellow and black against the blue sky, delicate and beautiful in a way that seemed almost obscene. It fluttered down, landing on my outstretched palm, its tiny feet tickling my skin. I watched as it unfurled its proboscis, tasting the salt of my sweat, oblivious to the danger that had just unfolded.

  I held it there, offering it a safe haven, a moment of peace in the chaos of my thoughts. For endless minutes, I lay still, letting the sun warm my face, the butterfly resting in my hand as if it belonged there.

  And then, without warning, I crushed it.

  The sensation was swift, a sudden burst of tension and release as its fragile body crumpled between my fingers. If it screamed, I couldn’t hear it, just like I knew no one would hear me if I did the same.

  I opened my hand, letting the remnants of the butterfly drift away on the breeze, specks of dust caught in the sunlight. My breath came in shallow gasps, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind only the dull throb of pain and a hollow emptiness that gnawed at my insides.

  For a moment, I thought about just lying there, letting the sun bake me into dust, letting the grass grow up around me until I was nothing but a forgotten memory in the middle of nowhere.

  But that would be too easy.

  So, I pushed myself up, wincing as my body protested, and limped over to my mangled bike. The front tire was ruined, the handlebars twisted, but it didn’t matter. I dragged it along behind me as I made my way down the hill, the cicadas still screaming in the trees, the heat pressing down on me like a curse.

  The road ahead stretched out like an endless, twisted path, leading me back into the heart of the town I couldn’t wait to escape.

  2

  The heavy wooden door of the St. Claire mansion creaked open, the sound echoing through the cavernous entryway as I stepped inside. The icy marble floor bit into the soles of my feet, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat I’d just escaped. My bike was abandoned in the multi-car garage, its frame bent and wheels askew—a silent testament to my reckless descent.

  Blood trickled from the scrapes and cuts on my legs, leaving a crimson trail on the pristine marble as I made my way down the mansion’s dim corridors. The home was a labyrinth of dark wood and stone, a cold, impersonal place that always felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable violence the elder Mr. St. Claire was capable of.

  Despite living here, the house had never felt like home. It was a place of grandeur and wealth, filled with priceless art and antique furniture, but devoid of any warmth. It wasn’t mine, not really. The St. Claires had taken me in after my parents died, presenting me to society as their charity case, their good deed to flaunt at every dinner party and gala, but they never gave me their last name. I was still Priestly King, the sad little orphan they paraded around to show how magnanimous they were.

  Each step sent a dull throb of pain through my body, the adrenaline that had fueled my reckless ride completely drained, leaving me with nothing but a hollow ache gnawing at my insides. I could already feel the void opening again, that vast emptiness within me always begging to be filled. It was a ravenous beast, always indifferent to what I fed it.

  Dicks, thrills, terror—it didn’t matter. It just needed something, anything, to keep the darkness at bay.

  Reaching my room, I pushed the door open with a sigh, the hinges groaning like a dying animal. The room was just as cold and unwelcoming as the rest of the mansion, despite the luxurious furnishings that surrounded me. Dark, heavy drapes blocked out most of the sunlight, casting long shadows across the room. The walls were lined with bookshelves, filled with old volumes that smelled of dust and decay. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its velvet curtains drawn back to reveal rumpled sheets I hadn’t bothered to make.

  I crossed the room, my eyes catching on the pile of mail sitting on my dresser. The sight of it made me pause, my fingers stilling as I undid the braids in my hair. I thumbed through the stack, a mundane mix of magazines and college acceptance letters. One letter stood out among the rest, its ornate envelope immediately drawing my attention.

  I plucked it from the pile, my breath hitching as I ran a sharp crimson nail over the deep blue wax seal. The navy was so dark it was nearly black, imprinted with an intricate design I couldn’t quite decipher, but the scrawl of ‘WWU’ in the top left corner made my heart race: West Windsor University.

  I was months away from starting my freshman year, yet the very name held an almost magnetic pull over me.

  The envelope was made of thick, expensive parchment, and my fingers trembled slightly as I held it. There was something about the weight of it, the way it felt against my skin, that sent a shiver of excitement through me. It was more than just an acceptance letter. It felt like a key to a door I hadn’t even known existed, a door that would lead me somewhere dark and thrilling, somewhere I’d always known I belonged.

  I swirled one of my silver curls around my finger, biting my lip as I let the anticipation build. The sweet thrill of it was intoxicating, the tension drawing out the moment until it was almost unbearable. Finally, I perched myself on the corner of my bed, uncaring about the blood smearing onto the velvet coverlet, and slid my finger under the delicate lip of the envelope.

  The paper was thick and resistant, and I felt a sharp sting as the edge of it sliced into my skin. “Ow,” I muttered, bringing my finger to my lips. A tiny bead of blood welled up from the cut, vivid against the pale skin. I sucked at it absent-mindedly, the metallic taste grounding me as I carefully maneuvered the letter out with my other hand.

  The interior letter was one-sided, the handwriting elegant and precise. I scanned the words, my heart pounding in my chest as I read them.

  “Dearest Priestly King,

  You are hereby cordially invited to be Murdered. Join us on Devil's Night this month. Your presence has been specially requested by members of the Order of Scythe and Skull.

  Location: The Windsor Manor, 10PM

  Attire: Final Girl

  This invitation is non-transferable. We expect your attendance.

  Sincerely,

  The Scribe”

  I read the letter once, twice, then a third time, the words sinking in with a mix of dread and excitement.

  I had heard of the Order of Scythe and Skull before, in passing whispers at high school parties and the country club. It was a secret society at West Windsor, shrouded in mystery and legend. Rumors swirled around its members—how they wielded unimaginable power, how they threw decadent, lavish parties where anything and everything was on the table.

  And now, an invitation to one of their events had arrived for me before I had even set foot on campus. The thrill of it was almost too much to bear, a sharp contrast to the emptiness that usually filled me. I tapped the letter against my thigh, the ornate paper soft against the bruises and cuts littering my skin.

  “Invited to be murdered,” I murmured, my voice barely more than a whisper. The words sent a chill down my spine, even as a smirk tugged at the corners of my lips.

  “Final girl…” I repeated, the light bulb flickering to life in my brain. This was no ordinary party. This was a Halloween party—on June 30th, no less. A Summer-ween party, if you would. My smirk grew wider as I realized the possibilities. There was no way in hell I was going to miss this.

  I reached for my phone, the cool metal a familiar comfort in my hand. There was only one person I could think of who would appreciate this as much as I did: my right-hand bitch, the one who had stood by my side through everything. We only had a few days to plan our outfits, to figure out who we were going to be, but that was part of the fun, the anticipation, the build-up, the sweet thrill of it all.

  My fingers flew across the screen as I shot off a message, my mind already racing with ideas. I glanced at the time, noting how little of it we had left.

  Time to get to work.

  3

  A FEW DAYS LATER

  “Oh,” I moaned. “Is that what you want? Wanna watch me come on my fingers?” I circled my clit with two fingers, black panties tugged to the side of my bare mound as I faced the camera.

  Three fingers from my other hand dipped in and out of my sopping hole, squelching loudly in the empty room. My legs were carelessly thrown over the arms of the chair, giving my audience an uninterrupted view. A shiver worked its way up my spine as my core heated and my juices slid down my hand. Tossing my head back, I hissed at the pleasure.

  A ping sounded as my followers typed in their requests. I let out a sultry giggle as I read them, grabbing a vibrator on standby on my desk. “Got your gift right here, honey. Thanks for sending it to me.”

  My silver hair slid over my bare shoulders as I adjusted my position, completely removing my lacy thong and stuffing it between my red lips, as a viewer requested. I moaned lasciviously around the cloth between my teeth, voice high-pitched. It was my acting voice, my fake moan, but the customers loved it. I tended to be quiet during sex, so all this noise? Purely for my viewers.

  Turning the vibrator on the lowest setting, I set it just above my clit, rotating it in small circles. I breathed into the new feeling of pleasure, my keen muffled from my thong. Pulling my wet fingers from my cunt, I plucked at my nipples before grabbing at my breasts, taking handfuls and digging my nails into the skin hard enough to bruise. One-handed, I clicked the vibrator onto a higher setting, spreading my legs wider and making faster circles as the buzzing ate away at my nerves.

 

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