Springtrap Finale Novels & Stories

“Spar.” We moved against each other in the cooling spring light with the controlled intensity of two people who knew exactly how much force the other could take and return. It was not about dominance. It was about expenditure. About giving the residual wartime animal a task that did not involve the destruction of anything we loved. When Tristan finally pinned me—carefully, breath harsh, eyes bright—I was laughing under the weight of him, and the sound cracked the last of the day’s formal tension like thin ice. “Yield,” he said, though he was almost smiling.

Faye chimes in. Everyone else watches like unattached spectators. Celeste suggested we play tag. We all hesitated at first. Heirs don’t play tag. Heirs don’t frolic. Heirs don’t laugh unguardedly. But Celeste persisted pulling me to my feet. We ran around trying to catch each other. With our competitive natures the game surprisingly turned intense as every loser was fined five thousand dollars. Isolde won. Alaric didn’t participate in anything.

Supposedly. Eric replayed the footage again. His eyes narrowed. “No.” The word was quiet. Certain. “No, you didn't die that easily.” He reached for the remote. The news footage changed. CONVICTED KILLER LOTTIE SMITH DEAD IN PRISON FIRE. Then came the images. Smoke. Fire trucks. A ruined prison wing. Seventeen dead prisoners. A burned body identified through an identification bracelet. Eric watched without blinking. A slow, humorless smile appeared on his face.

Something heavy, unnatural. I obeyed instinctively, pivoting slightly to the left. Dorian and Bryan mirrored my movement without question, their trust absolute. A trap lay ahead—a snare woven between two trees, nearly invisible, designed to catch a foot or an ankle. The cord was taut, ready to tighten. I exhaled, fingers brushing against the Warrior’s tether in my mind, acknowledging the warning. I signaled with a flick of my wrist. Dorian leaped over the trap, Bryan rolled to the side, and I passed through, heart hammering, but unscathed.

I moan. His breaths skim over my ear. "You wet for me, my little wife?" I nod quickly. "Drenched." He lets go of me, then orders, “Get naked, baby." I turn around and pull my tank top over my head. When I push my shorts down, Dimitri kicks his sweatpants to the side. Instead of grabbing me so we can fuck, he gives me a mischievous grin as he steps back onto the sparring mat. "Training isn't over."

He sat alone in a chair, both wrists restrained behind the backrest with silver chains. Beneath the half-open black dress shirt, the sharp lines of his waist and abs rose and fell with each breath. Then the camera slowly moved lower. A pair of black velvet pointed-toe stilettos rested against the edge of the chair, brushing dangerously close to the fabric stretched over his inner thigh. The video had no music at all. Just his slow, restrained breathing filling the silence. Then the video cut abruptly to black, leaving behind a single line of white text. [This account has fulfilled its final mission. Until next time.]

She forced a smile and walked off. The voice belonged to Nadia Holloway—the one who ran 502. The most twisted of the three. She liked treating people like dogs. When I first moved into 502, she'd send me out on timed errands. Make it back on time? Cash. Late? She'd slap a collar on me, sit on my back, make me crawl. Once, she said her family had a pony with eyes just like mine. The pony threw her. So she gouged its eyes out.

There was also an image in her mind that she could think would save her, though it was impossible, and doubtfully he would… Greg… Yes, even if it seemed impossible for Greg to care about whatever would happen to her, she was still hoping he would actually arrive to rescue her from this monster and would not let this monster go all over the thing he wanted to do to her body! She closed her eyes and hoped that a miracle could take place or that thunder would strike straight into this idiot’s head just to prevent him from winning to inflict all his force on her! Where are you, Greg? Help me… Please help me… She was in the middle of her cries. She whispered prayers that the monster wouldn’t succ

The three men crouched in a corner, gripping steel pipes and baseball bats like strays waiting for a meal. The elevator reached B1. Mia dragged a suitcase behind her. Landon followed with Noah in his arms. The garage was dim. Heads down, they hurried toward the parking spots. Bang! A steel pipe slammed into a concrete pillar two yards in front of Landon. Sparks flew. Landon froze. Three figures stepped out from behind the pillar. Andy rolled his shoulders, dragging the pipe across the ground with a harsh screech. "Oh? Going somewhere? In a hurry to die?"

I said, "There's a place nearby that sells splendid stews. Let's have dinner and come back to have a good rest—" Before I could finish, Hector, who'd been staring at me, said, "I heard there's a countdown event at Amesville's Sky Palace. Why don't we join in the fun after dinner? I think you'd like it, Yvette." Upon hearing that, I subconsciously looked at him. Sky Palace was the best place to be for the New Year's Eve countdown event every year. It was a particularly suitable place to hang out for couples, as many of the activities held there could help increase intimacy.