Page 11 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

My pulse is a steady jackhammer in my throat.

I can’t seem to breathe right. My hands tremble as I push myself upright, peeling the sheets off my body with a sense of deep, personal betrayal.

I expect them to be a little damp, but the patch of moisture beneath me is insane, a Rorschach of need that soaks straight through to the mattress protector.

I freeze, staring at the dark bloom for a full minute, heat rising in my face and settling in my ears. This is mortifying. My thighs are slick, the inside of my right knee sticky with the aftershock. I curl my legs up, arms wrapped around my knees, as if that will make me smaller, easier to miss.

It doesn’t.

I’m not a child. I’m not supposed to react this way. Not to dreams. Not to men I barely know. Certainly not to someone who scared the living shit out of me on a mountain less than twenty-four hours ago.

He saved my life, sure, but still…

I grab the edge of the fitted sheet and yank it free, balling it up into a lumpy mess.

My hands are still shaking. I strip the pillowcase, too, even though it’s clean, because it feels contaminated.

I wrap the whole mess in my arms and stagger to the bathroom, shoving it into the laundry bin as if hiding evidence of a crime.

I avoid my own eyes in the mirror, but even in the periphery I see the state of myself: hair wild and tangled, face shiny with sweat, lips swollen and bitten raw.

There’s a bruise blooming on my neck, just above the collarbone.

I stare at it, shocked, running my finger over the tender skin.

Was it there last night? Or did I scratch myself in my sleep, chasing the ghost of his mouth?

Revulsion stabs through me, quick and sharp. I should be scared, but what I feel is closer to guilt. Like I let him in, somehow. Like this is my fault.

I peel off my underwear. The wetness is humiliating, more evidence, more proof that my body is a traitor. I drop them into the laundry and slam the lid shut. The sound echoes in the tiny room, a punctuation mark on my shame.

I step into the shower, crank the water cold, and stand there until the numbness creeps up my calves and thighs.

I wash my hair, twice, scrubbing until my scalp stings.

I dig my nails into my skin, dragging the loofah over every inch, desperate to erase the feeling of his hands, his mouth, his words.

“You’re mine now.”

The memory slithers under my defenses, and I shudder. I clamp my eyes shut and let the water run over me, willing myself to forget.

It doesn’t work.

Instead, I start to catalog all the ways my body has betrayed me.

The way my nipples tighten under the spray, the way my fingers stray between my legs when I rinse, the way I can still feel the echo of him inside me, even now.

I press my forehead to the tile, ashamed of how good it felt, how badly I want it in real life.

I last ten minutes before I turn off the tap and stand dripping, arms wrapped around myself.

I dry off, avoiding the mirror again, and pull on the thickest, least sexy underwear I own.

The kind that promises never to inspire lust in anyone, ever.

I add an old university sweatshirt, sleeves fraying at the cuffs, and a pair of sweatpants two sizes too big.

Layer after layer, trying to hide from myself.

Back in my bedroom, I make the bed with fresh sheets, tucking the corners with barely any care.

Need to stay busy. Get my mind off of this.

I stack my books neatly, sweep the crumbs from the windowsill, wipe down my desk with a damp rag.

Normal things, ordinary things. The kind of things I do when the world is too much and I need to shrink it down to something manageable.

There’s still so much to do with my father’s shit. I should be concentrating on that and not on… this.

But nothing helps. The feeling lingers—a rawness, an itch under my skin. I can’t decide if I’m angry, or just disappointed in myself. Maybe both.

I sit at my desk, open my laptop, and stare at the login screen. I type in my password wrong, twice. When I finally get it right, I don’t know what to do next. The words swim on the page, refusing to line up into meaning.

I close the lid, drop my head into my hands, and breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Slow. Measured. Like if I do it long enough, I’ll forget everything that happened in my dream.

But I know I won’t. I never do.

I get up, go to the kitchen, and make a cup of chamomile tea.

Not coffee—never coffee, not after a night like that.

The ritual calms me a little: tea bag, boiling water, three minutes steeped, one sugar, a splash of milk.

I carry it to the window and stand there, sipping, watching the morning unfold.

The city is busy, cars darting down the street, neighbors walking dogs, the hum of distant construction. I let myself be absorbed by it, the smallness of my place in the universe.

But even here, in the safety of my kitchen, I can feel him.

The watcher.

The hiker.

The dream.

It’s all tangled together, impossible to separate. I think about ripping up the note, throwing away the flowers, anything to break the spell, but I don’t. Instead, I stand in the sunlight, tea warming my hands, and wonder what happens next.

The answer is: nothing. Nothing happens, not really. I clean my cup, brush my teeth, dry my hair. I put on mascara, even though I told myself I wouldn’t, and add a dab of lip balm to hide the way I chewed at my mouth all night.

I tell myself I’m fine. That it was just a dream.

But all day, every time I catch sight of my reflection, I see the bruise on my neck. I see the hunger in my eyes.

And I know, deep down, that it wasn’t just a dream.

I’m marked, now.

And I don’t know if I want it to fade.

My thoughts are interrupted by a text from Thabo to come into the office and start dealing with my father’s contractors. They are getting antsy.

When I check the mirror, I look like I’m auditioning for the role of Disgruntled Librarian in a BBC drama.

Good.

Armor is armor, even if it’s ugly.

The elevator at my building is on the fritz, but there’s no way I’m walking twenty flights, so I keep jamming buttons until it opens.

Small mercies. Once I hit the main floor, the door opens and I step out.

I pass a woman with a yoga mat and a man dragging a suitcase.

Both avoid eye contact, which is the first mercy I get all day.

The air outside is thick with exhaust and the smell of frying chicken from the shop next door.

I keep my head down, hands jammed deep in my pockets.

The dream is still lodged under my skin, and I can’t shake the sense that everyone who looks at me knows.

Like it’s stamped on my forehead: fucked by a phantom, liked it too much.

At the bus stop, I hover in the shadow of a billboard, trying to ignore the way my skin prickles with every passing glance.

I thumb my phone, flicking through the news, but my eyes won’t focus.

Instead, I replay the dream, frame by frame, like a film reel with no off switch.

The tree, the man, the bite. The heat. My own voice, desperate and hungry.

I want to vomit. Or maybe I want to dream it all over again.

When the bus arrives, I wedge myself in the very back, away from the windows, and count the stops until I get to the office.

I own an energy company now. What the actual fuck .

The security guard nods at me as I walk in, and I nod back, both of us pretending I’m not a barely-contained panic attack in an ugly sweater not suitable for a fresh CEO.

I ride the elevator with three strangers who all smell like aftershave and sweat, pressing myself into the corner and letting the world shrink to a pinhole. Out of habit, I head to my floor and my old desk. I feel weird in my fathers. A computer is a computer and it’ll work just fine here.

The morning is a blur of emails, spreadsheets, pointless conference calls. I keep my head down, eyes on my screen, fingers flying over the keys. Every so often I catch myself glancing at the glass wall behind me, convinced that the watcher is lurking just out of sight. Waiting for me.

At ten thirty, Thabo appears at the edge of my cubicle, grinning like he’s caught me naked.

“Big weekend, Brooklyn?” he says, leaning on the divider. “You look like you got run over by a truck.”

I force a laugh, because that’s what normal people do. “Yeah, I guess I did a little too much hiking.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting that answer. “Good for you. Need to get out more, enjoy the wild. Helps clear the head, you know?”

“Sure,” I say, voice flat. I keep my hands on the keyboard, typing random characters just to avoid looking at him. “That’s the plan.”

He shrugs and mutters something about me needing to address the contracts, and I exhale so hard my vision blurs. “Yep, right away.”

By noon, I am jittery and exhausted. I haven’t eaten.

The idea of food is repulsive, but I force down a granola bar and chase it with half a liter of water, just to give my body something to do.

When the office empties for lunch, I slip away to the bathroom, lock myself in the farthest stall, and pull out my journal.

It’s a battered old thing, the pages warped and ink-stained. I flip past old notes, shopping lists, scribbled ideas for novels I’ll never write. Near the back, wedged between a dog-eared receipt and a boarding pass, is the note. The thing that started this spiral.

You’re mine, little fox, and you look like a whole fucking meal. Get ready, I’m coming back for you.

I stare at it, trying to read between the lines. Is it a threat? A joke? A promise?

My hands shake as I trace the words, feeling the indentation of the pen. My breath goes shallow, chest tight, and for a moment I think I might actually pass out.

I tear the page free, crumple it into a fist, and hold it there until my knuckles ache. Then I smooth it out, fold it small, and tuck it back into the back of my journal.

I don’t throw it away. I don’t burn it. I just keep it, like a secret, like a curse.

When I return to my desk, my phone is buzzing. A message from an unknown number. I open it, heart stuttering.

Can’t wait to see you again.

No name, no emoji, nothing else.

I slam the phone down and nearly knock over my tea. My whole body is humming, every nerve lit up and jangling. I can’t tell if it’s terror, or anticipation, or both at once.

The rest of the day is a haze. I finish the contracts, answer the emails, go to the meetings. On autopilot, I say all the right things, smile at all the right people, but underneath I am a mess, sparking and twitching, desperate for release.

At five, I shut down my computer, pack up my bag, and head for the exit. The city is dying in the heat as I walk to the bus stop. I try to be invisible, but I feel eyes on me the whole way, hot on the back of my neck. My skin prickles with sweat. My palms go slick.

On the ride home, I sit by the window and watch the world blur past. I imagine him in every car, every alley, every shadow on the sidewalk. I imagine him waiting for me on the stairs, outside my door, inside my apartment.

By the time I reach my building, my heart is pounding so hard I can’t hear anything else. The lobby is empty. The elevator is finally working. When I reach my door, I pause, listening.

Nothing.

I unlock the door, step inside, and lock it again behind me. My apartment is exactly as I left it. The new sheets are crisp and white. The windows are closed. The jam jar with the flower is still on the table, the old bloom wilted and brown.

I drop my bag, sit on the edge of the bed, and let my shoulders slump. I should feel relief, but all I feel is hollow.

I want to be left alone. I want to be hunted. I want someone to tell me what I am, because I have no fucking clue anymore.

I go to the window, open it, and let the city air pour in. I breathe deep, eyes closed, willing myself to forget.

It doesn’t work.

When I open my eyes, I see the reflection of a stranger in the glass—a woman with dark circles under her eyes, mouth set in a straight line, hands clenched at her sides. She looks nothing like the girl I used to be.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing.

Water… I need water, heading to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, and drinking it in one long swallow. I run my fingers along the countertop, the edge of the stove, the curve of the jam jar. The petals inside are brittle, ready to crumble at a touch.

My mind wonders about the man on the trail, the dream, the note. Are they the same man? He knew my name… it must be. But why? How?

Even as I wonder, I realize it doesn’t matter. He is already so deeply imprinted on my soul that if he told me to jump, I would.

Fuck those novels. This is their fault! A giggle erupts at the thought because it’s half true.

The fantasies I read about between the covers are coming true for me, and sure as shit, I am far more excited than scared.

Terrified would be a much more reasonable response, but all I can see when I close my eyes are his, staring into my soul.

I am his. Whoever he is. Whatever he wants.

And maybe, just maybe, I want it too.

I grab a pen and my journal, sit by the window, and start to write.

I don’t know what else to do, but sit and wait.