Page 18 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Nine

Brooklyn

T here is a place between sleeping and waking where the world is melted wax.

I am in it now, floating on the ache of a headache so deep it feels like my skull has collapsed inward and been filled with gravel.

My body is both weightless and leaden, as if the bed beneath me is either a cloud or a boulder, I can’t tell which.

I chase the shape of a dream through the darkness, but it skitters away every time I reach for it, leaving only fragments: the smell of pine, the scrape of a rough hand, a slow, raspy voice telling me that I belong to him.

I do not want to open my eyes. I want to keep drifting, safe in the space where memory can’t find me. But the ache pulls, insistent. My mouth is so dry my tongue feels like a stale cracker, and every nerve ending is lit with the static of a sedative half-lived and half-leftover.

It takes real, stupid effort to peel my eyes open.

The light is wrong. Not my ceiling. Not my windows.

Instead, the world resolves around me in jagged pieces: rough-hewn beams, the knotty yellow of unfinished wood, patches of sunlight filtering through a poorly curtained window.

There is a sharp smell, animal and herbal, unfamiliar but not unpleasant, maybe cedar or some kind of resin.

I am sprawled on a bed I do not recognize, covered by a blanket that is too heavy and too scratchy for anything in my apartment.

My first reaction is numb confusion. The next is terror.

My body revolts against the idea of moving, but I force my arm up, hand curling into a weak fist. I press the heel of my palm into my eye socket, trying to remember.

The last thing I know for sure is sitting in an airplane seat, the taste of gin on my lips, the relentless hum of a jet engine as I drifted off into a chemical sleep.

Then, nothing. Blackout. A perfect cut.

My pulse jumps, rabbit-fast, as the implications shuffle in and lay themselves out in neat little rows.

I try to sit up. My head spins and my vision whites out, but I manage, arms shaking, blanket pooling around my hips.

I am not in the clothes I wore on the flight.

I am not in any clothes I have ever owned.

Instead, I am wearing an oversized t-shirt, the logo cracked and faded but unmistakable: Denver, Colorado.

Beneath it, my bare thighs stick to the sheets, skin clammy with sweat.

The panic comes in waves, not all at once, but like a tide that never pulls all the way out.

I grip the edge of the mattress, blinking through the static in my head.

My body feels wrong, violated—not in the way that means rape, but in the sense of boundaries trespassed, of someone else’s hands reshuffling the puzzle pieces of me.

I touch my face, then my neck. There is a tenderness at the base of my jaw, like a bruise only beginning to form. I press there, wincing, and my fingers brush something hard and cold.

It takes me a second to realize what it is.

Hanging around my neck, nestled against the hollow of my throat, is a chain.

Not one I own. The pendant is light and thin, a little charm in the shape of a fox—delicate, cunning, with eyes like pinpricks of obsidian.

I stare at it, willing it to turn into something else, something familiar, but it stays what it is: a gift, a marker, a brand.

My mouth fills with spit and I want to gag.

Get out, get out, get out.

I swing my legs off the bed, unsteady, and stumble to the window. The floor is rough wood, splinters catching at the callus of my heel. The window is closed, the glass fogged from the difference in temperature. I wipe at it, palm smearing a crescent in the condensation.

Outside: the world is all pines and snow patches, the trees standing sentinel, too close and too tall. There is no road, no other buildings in sight, only the dark slash of a path disappearing into the woods. It could be anywhere. It could be nowhere. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at.

I back away, pulse climbing. The walls press in, the bed behind me suddenly monstrous, the fox charm burning against my chest like a curse.

I cross the room in three steps—there isn’t much room to cross—and try the door. The knob is old, the kind that clicks instead of turning. I wrench at it, desperation making my arms shake, but it doesn’t budge. I scream, at first just a choked gasp, then louder, throat tearing itself raw.

“HELLO? Is anyone here? Let me out! Please—let me out!”

The sound bounces, absorbed by the wood, by the thickness of the air. There is no answer.

I try again, fists pounding the door until my knuckles sting.

“LET ME OUT! PLEASE!”

Still, nothing. The silence is not just absence of sound—it is the presence of waiting. Of watching.

I slide down to the floor, legs folded beneath me, forehead pressed to the cool wood of the door. There is a faint smell here too… the metallic tang of fear.

I try to remember every detail of what’s left, forcing my mind through the haze.

The cab ride to the airport. The security line.

The way the TSA guard looked at the bruise on my neck and asked if I was okay.

I said yes. Then the plane, the flight, the gin, the pressure in my ears, the heavy slide into unconsciousness.

But what then? What after?

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely flex them.

I force my eyes open, willing myself to focus.

I am not dead. I am not in pain. I am not tied to the bed or handcuffed or chained to a radiator.

For a moment, this is almost comforting—then the thought sickens me, how quick I am to lower the bar of what’s “okay.”

I force myself to my feet, examining every inch of the small room.

There is a dresser, old and battered, its drawers half-open and empty except for a pair of thick wool socks and a man’s flannel shirt.

A closet with random clothing, some women’s, some men’s.

The bed is bigger than I thought, but poorly decorated, only the heavy blanket and a single thin pillow.

There is a bathroom through a door, its fixtures equally rustic: a tin basin, a mirror dull with age, a tiny stall shower with no curtain.

There is a toothbrush, still in its packaging. Someone has thought about my needs.

The windows are all sealed. I try them anyway, testing each one with a mounting sense of futility. They don’t budge. Even the glass feels immovable, as if it’s been double-paned for security. There are no tools, no knives or heavy objects. The only breakable thing is the lamp beside the bed.

I sit on the edge of the bed, heart jackhammering, the fox charm a cold weight on my skin.

It is then that I notice the writing.

On the nightstand, half-hidden beneath the lamp, is a note. The handwriting is the same as my first note. I pick it up, my thumb leaving a damp mark on the paper.

It reads:

“Dear little fox,

You will be safe here. Do not try to run. I am coming for you soon.

Get some rest.

- S”

I stare at the words for a long time, the meaning slow to settle in. At first I want to laugh—who writes notes to their kidnap victim?—but then I notice the other detail. My hand is already moving to my neck, fingers tracing the line of the fox charm.

A strange pull, almost magnetic, draws me to it. I clutch it, hard, and for a moment the world blurs out. In that split second, the ache in my head recedes, replaced by something more primal: a memory of strong arms around me, a voice in my ear telling me that I am wanted, needed, owned.

I recoil from it, flinging the charm away as if it could burn me, but it snaps back against my collarbone, refusing to let go. Taking it off isn’t an option, because somewhere deep inside me, I like it.

But still… he not only kidnapped me, but somehow managed to bring me to an entirely different continent. South Africa doesn’t look like this, so I’d guess somewhere in America.

The fear comes back, sharper now, with an edge of something else—something I don’t want to name. Not fascination, not thrill, not even arousal, but something that is all three and also none.

I look at the note again, tracing the “S” at the bottom. I try to picture him, the man from the trail, the watcher, the abductor who carries me through airports and calls me “little fox.” In my mind, his face is half-shadows, but the eyes are black and full of certainty.

Why can’t I remember his face?

The room is growing colder. I pull the blanket around my shoulders and sit, knees to chest, waiting for the next move.

I want to believe that I am not afraid, that I am above this, that I am some kind of unbreakable thing. But my hands are shaking, and my body remembers the way he held me, the way his voice burrowed into my spine.

I try to scream again, but the sound is smaller this time.

The only answer is the hush of the wind in the pines, the creak of the cabin settling, and the distant, promise-laced echo of his words:

You’re mine now. All mine.

I bury my face in the pillow and let the tears come, silent and angry, but even as I do I can feel the charm against my skin, warm now, as if it has always belonged there.

I know that he is coming for me.

And I know that, deep down, I want to see what happens when he does.

With nothing to do but look around, my eyes land on the lamp again.

It is ugly as sin, the kind they sell in airport gift shops to families who don’t care about taste, just function.

The base is heavy ceramic, thick as my wrist. Testing the screw, I’m pleased to find it’s loose.

I unscrew it from the wall, hands shaking so hard it almost slips. The cord yanks out with a dry pop.

I stare at the lamp for a full ten seconds, brain racing with the math of what will break first: the lock, the wood, or my own resolve.