Page 17 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

“HELP!” I shriek, and this time it’s a real sound, a wild animal’s sound, the kind that makes even seasoned flight attendants come running.

She’s there in seconds, the attendant from before. Her face is tight with concern, eyes darting from me to him and back. “Is everything okay here?” Her hands hover just above the seats, like she’s ready to break up a fistfight.

“He drugged me!” I spit out. “Something’s wrong—I can’t—” I try to stand, but my knees buckle and I collapse on top of this infuriating man.

His big hands catch me as the stewardess helps him. “Let’s get you back in your seat, okay? It’s all right.” Her voice is pure customer service, lacquered over with panic. She half-lifts me into the seat, tucks the armrest down so I don’t fall out.

The watcher stays calm, almost bored. “She’s not well,” he says. “She was fine, and then…”

“He’s lying,” I say, or maybe I scream it, but the words are slurred. The attendant looks at me the way a nurse might look at a very sick child.

“Is she with you, sir?” the attendant asks.

My predator smiles, slow and sad. “My wife. New medication. She doesn’t always react well to it, especially with alcohol. I’m sorry, I should have sat beside her to monitor, but we had a little spat, you see.”

That’s a lie. But when I open my mouth to say it, nothing comes out but a thin, whistling air.

“Could I have a bottle of water for her?” he asks, polite as a priest. “And maybe something to help her rest.”

“I’ll ask the medic if we have anything,” the attendant says, but she already believes him. It’s there in her face: the relief of a problem solved, a crazy woman with a backstory, nothing more.

He finally turns to me, lays a hand gently on my knee. His fingers are cool and dry. “It’s okay,” he says, voice dropping so only I can hear it. “The more you struggle, the harder it gets.”

I try to slap his hand away, but my arm moves in slow motion.

He leans in, lips just at my ear. “If you scream again, I will finger fuck you right here, in the open and no one will do a damn thing about it because if they so much as look, I’ll pull their eyeballs from their skulls. Nod if you understand.”

I nod. I can’t help it. Despite my current predicament, the thought of him playing with my pussy turns me on.

The attendant returns, this time with a second person, a man in a darker uniform and the bearing of someone in charge. “I hear we’re having a rough flight,” he says, kneeling down to my eye level.

“Drugged me,” I manage. My eyes feel huge in my head, tears already leaking out from the sides. “Please. Don’t let him—”

The man glances at the watcher, then at the attendant. “What’s she taken today?”

“Gabapentin. Mood stabilizer. She’s been having trouble since her father passed.”

The details are so exact, so plausible, that I almost believe them myself.

“Do you have anything for anxiety?” the watcher asks.

The man nods, stands, walks briskly away.

The world narrows to a tunnel. I’m aware of voices all around, but they’re muffled, underwater. The watcher doesn’t let go of my leg, not even when the attendant comes back with a pill in a tiny cup.

“Here we go,” she says. “This will calm you down.”

I want to refuse, but my mouth won’t cooperate. She tilts my head back, slips the pill between my lips, chases it with water. My throat works on autopilot, swallowing it down.

“There you are,” this man says, his hand stroking my hair now, a crazy parody of comfort.

The medication hits almost instantly—a rush of white noise, then a deep, cold nothing. My body sags, and the only thing holding me upright is his grip on my shoulder.

My vision tunnels, then blacks out.

I feel the last of my breath leave my body, and then there is nothing but silence, sweet and absolute.

Slade

The descent is chaos through turbulence.

Every bank of the cabin is another test: will she wake, will she murmur, will her eyelashes flicker, or has the tiny bullet of Midazolam performed its duty?

She should be out for up to six hours, but I’ve got some other special tricks up my sleeve if she gets up before then.

I watch her, just to make sure she’s okay.

Her breath is syrup-thick, nostrils flaring with each inhale.

At intervals, her head tilts, the weight of it too much for her weak neck, and slumps onto my shoulder in a slow, helpless arc.

Leaning down, I inhale her.

Her hair is a mess—platinum static, the strands at the nape slicked down with sweat from her fever-dreams. I have been here for a while, but not long enough if I had my way from the beginning.

Time is not important; the only thing that matters is the space between her skull and mine.

The warmth of her temple against my biceps.

The knowledge that, at this altitude, I could do whatever I wanted to her and the world would watch and know exactly who she belonged to.

Instead, I choose patience.

The attendant comes by and glances at us, her practiced smile faltering for just a second when she clocks the state of Brooklyn’s body: the slack jaw, the open mouth, the hand limp on her thigh.

She looks at me. I look right back, wide, unblinking, letting her see the thing she suspects but will never name. The attendant says nothing, moves on.

I bend closer to Brooklyn’s ear. Her pulse pounds through the thin skin, visible, a metronome counting down to zero.

“You’re mine now, little fox,” I whisper. My voice is so soft it’s a rumor. “All mine.”

She stirs, a quiver running up her thigh. Maybe she dreams of running. Maybe she knows, somewhere deep in her hindbrain, that the only thing keeping her is my will. I am her God.

My thumb traces circles on her wrist. There are old scars there, white and faded, from a childhood of clumsiness or maybe something sharper.

I want to open every one, lick the salt from the blood, tattoo my mark above each.

Instead, I fold her hand in mine and squeeze, not hard enough to break bone, just enough to remind her that even in sleep, she is held.

The captain’s voice barks through the PA, announcing touchdown in Cape Town, the temperature a perfect twenty-nine degrees, welcome to paradise. I smile, and the teeth in it are nothing like welcome.

As the plane taxis, I prep the exit: scan the cabin, log the faces, calculate the routes to the front.

There’s no one paying attention. The real risk is the staff, but their eyes slide off me with the same ease as every other authority figure I’ve ever met.

I was built to intimidate. To frighten. To be the monster from your dreams, the one who turns you on, but you never want to meet.

I terrify so well that you’d be uncomfortable looking at me for too long.

The seatbelt sign dings off. Passengers rise, stretching the kind of stretch that means “I’ve wasted a whole day of my life and deserve a medal for surviving it.

” I stay seated. Let them file past, each casting a look of vague sympathy at the “sleeping” woman in and the “patient husband” beside her.

When the aisle is clear, I unbuckle both our belts with one flick.

I slide out, propping Brooklyn’s body up with my knee, then scoop her under the arms. Her head lolls to the side, exposing her throat.

I pause. For a full second, I just look.

The line of her jaw is so delicate it could be a lie, her skin blushing with whatever chemical battle is happening under the surface.

I want to bite her, leave another bruise the shape of my mouth, but there is time for that.

Instead, I maneuver her up and onto my chest, one arm under her knees, the other locked around her shoulders.

She weighs more than you’d guess, but I have carried heavier things: a rucksack in Helmand, a corpse in the back of a stolen Toyota, my own goddamn guilt.

This is nothing. This is practice. This is my woman.

At the front of the plane, a different attendant waits. Her mouth is tight, her eyes on my burden. “Is she—?”

“Just exhausted,” I say. My accent is mid-Atlantic, impossible to place, and I modulate it for maximum comfort. “Long week, new meds. Sorry for the scene.”

She nods, but I see her glance at the medic, a silent question.

The man shrugs, unconcerned. I could kill them both in the time it took to recite the safety instructions.

Instead, I walk down the jet bridge with Brooklyn pressed to my heart, cradling her head so the world can’t see the slackness of her mouth.

We are the last off, the perfect couple.

I rest her cheek against my collar, so that any camera captures only the suggestion of her face.

Her arms dangle, so I wrap them tight around my neck, knotting her fingers in the fabric of my shirt.

I could make her look alive if I wanted, puppet her through a goddamn dance routine, but this is better.

The illusion of vulnerability draws more attention, but also more sympathy.

The airport security staff will look, maybe even come closer, but they won’t stop me.

Not unless they want to see how fast I can break a trachea.

The jet bridge leads to a corridor of glass, the bright sun burning away every trace of last night.

The terminal is chaos: families barking at children, porters shoving baggage carts, a clutch of uniformed men waiting to greet a government VIP.

I do a quick risk assessment. There are two police at the top of the escalator, but their gaze is locked on a group of rowdy backpackers.

I descend, the weight of Brooklyn a perfect, even pressure against my ribs.

Her lips part, a thin strand of drool slipping down to soak the shoulder of my shirt.

It’s almost cute, the intimacy of it. I adjust my grip, thumb tracing her jaw to catch the spill.

She moans, low and animal, then goes quiet again.

I can’t help it: I lean down and whisper, “Good girl.” The words are a talisman, a collar, a spell I cast again and again. “You’re safe. You’re mine.”

At the bottom of the escalator, a family blocks the way. The mother, round and red-cheeked, points at Brooklyn and tuts in sympathy. “Rough flight?” she asks, her voice South African, all vowels and bright concern.

“Nightmare. Thanks.” I give her the smile, the one I’ve practiced in every mirror since age six: lopsided, vulnerable, charming. The father nods, shifts his luggage, and gives us space.

I walk on, every step calculated. At the arrivals board, I pause, as if checking our connection. In reality, I’m waiting for the cleaning staff to clear a path to the restrooms. I want privacy, just for a minute.

When the way is clear, I duck into the family washroom. The overhead is fluorescent, harsh, buzzing. I set Brooklyn down on the counter, easing her body out of my arms. She flops sideways, almost rolling off. I grab her by the hips, pull her back, then brush the hair from her face.

Her eyelids flutter. A tremor runs up her left leg. The sedative will wear off in another twenty minutes, maybe less. I kneel beside her, take her face in my hands, and bring her ear to my mouth.

“You’re doing so well,” I say. The tenderness is real, but it comes from the same place as hunger. “You’re going to wake up soon, and when you do, I want you to remember how safe you felt right now. How warm.”

Her head lolls. I catch it, cradling the weight. I stare into her unconscious face, memorize every detail: the freckle under her eye, the bite mark on her lower lip, the faint blue tracery of veins at her temple. I want to consume her, eat her alive, but this is not the time.

Instead, I reach into my jacket and extract a packet of wipes. I clean the drool from her chin, the crusted sweat from her brow, then smooth the hair back.

With one arm, I lift her again, this time more gently. I carry her out of the washroom, adjusting her posture so her head buries in my chest, her face turned away from any camera. She looks like a child, or a doll, or a casualty.

She is all three.

The corridor opens onto the main terminal, a tangle of duty-free shops and digital billboards and a river of humanity. I swim through it, using her body as a shield, forcing people to part for me. The kindness of strangers is a weapon if you know how to wield it.

At the international departures gate, I pause. I press Brooklyn closer, run my lips along her hairline. It smells like oranges and shampoo, a mixture I have learned to associate with her. She shudders, her arms tightening involuntarily around my neck.

“Shh,” I say, and her body relaxes again.

The woman at the counter stares as I approach. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, bored, until they land on Brooklyn. Then they snap open, sharp as razors.

“Is she—”

“Just tired,” I say, not leaving room for her to continue the discussion. “Rough week.”

The woman frowns, but hands over the papers. I sign them without looking, then thank her with a nod.

Through security, into the next waiting area. I choose a seat in the back, away from the windows, away from the cameras. Setting Brooklyn on my lap, her arms still locked around my neck. I adjust her head, so it rests on my shoulder, and close my eyes.

I don’t take my eyes off of her.

I just wait, and listen to the sound of her heart.

It is steady, relentless, a drumbeat that echoes my own.

When she wakes, she will be scared. She will cry. She will fight me, just a little, just enough to make it interesting.

But not yet.

For now, she is mine.

All mine.