Page 19 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

The first swing is a joke. The base hits the knob and rebounds, sending a bolt of pain up my arm and into my elbow. The second is better, teeth clenched, weight behind it. The knob dings and dents, but nothing gives.

“Come on,” I hiss, and swing harder. Again. And again.

On the fourth try, the lamp shatters. Shards of painted ceramic scatter across the floor, one slicing a neat line across my palm. I don’t even feel it; all I care about is the new crack running through the wooden door frame. I slam my shoulder against the door.

It’s built so well, it doesn’t even move.

Eyeing the window, and then myself, I sigh.

It’ll be tight, but I can do it. Finding a shirt, I wrap my hand to try protect it from being cut even more.

Taking the shard, I cover my eyes and hammer it against the corner of the window and finally, finally , the sweet sound of glass shattering.

Using my wrapped hand, I push out the left over pieces of glass and start climbing out.

Fucking hell. My body hits the deck below me with a loud thud and a groan escapes me. That’s going to bruise.

Standing, legs numb and heart beating so loud I can barely hear my own ragged breathing. The air outside is cold, mountain-cold, shocking my lungs with every gasp. My bare feet slap the wood of the porch, skin burning against the chill. I don’t stop to savor victory—I just run.

The world outside is vast and hostile, a wall of green-black pines crowding in from every direction.

The sun is high, but the trees eat the light, leaving the ground in perpetual dusk.

I am barefoot, underdressed, and stupid with adrenaline.

The only path is a ragged break in the undergrowth, a line of trampled grass covered by melting snow that vanishes into shadow.

I take it.

The ground is uneven, rocks and roots waiting to trip me with every step. My feet bleed, skin slicing open on stones and pine needles, but it barely registers. Someone else has to be around here. I push forward, the fox charm bouncing against my collarbone with every jolt.

I glance over my shoulder, certain he will be there, eyes black and smile hungering. There is no one. Only the wind in the trees, the endless, hungry silence.

“HELP!” I scream, voice high and animal. It ricochets through the forest, hitting nothing, returning to me as a whisper. I try again, throat raw. “HELP! I’M HERE!”

There is no answer.

I run harder, lungs burning from the thin air, the cold biting into my legs and arms. My hair whips behind me, catching in branches, and my skin stings as if the world itself wants me to stop.

I won’t. I can’t. The alternative is to go back, and I would rather freeze than see the satisfaction in his eyes.

The trail rises, then falls, then twists sideways through a gap in the trees. I lose track of time, of distance, of my own body. I am nothing but need, the need to get away. The fox charm presses a cold dent into my skin, a constant, mocking reminder.

The forest swallows me. Every turn looks the same: tree, bush, rock, repeat. I slow only when I have to, when my breath becomes a wheeze and black stars float at the edge of my vision. I collapse behind a fallen log, knees bruising against the dirt, and force myself to listen.

At first, only the wind. Then, something else: a crunch, a snap, the suggestion of movement far behind me. My body locks down, every cell on alert.

Oh…. fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I grab a handful of sticks and dirt, clutching them like weapons, and crawl along the log, eyes scanning for anything, anyone. The fear is everywhere—behind me, above me, inside me—but I tell myself that if I am going to be hunted, I will be a better fox than he expects.

I keep low, moving parallel to the path, zigzagging in a pattern I hope is unpredictable.

The ground is littered with pine needles, and every step sinks in a little, muffling the sound.

My shirt snags on a branch and tears open at the shoulder.

I don’t care. If anything, I am proud. I am leaving pieces of myself behind, a trail of skin and blood and hair, and maybe, just maybe, someone will find it.

Or maybe he will.

The idea chills me more than the air. I double back, find a rise in the land, and risk climbing it, hoping for a view. The slope is steep and slick, but I dig in with hands and feet, clawing my way up. At the top, I crouch behind a boulder, chest heaving.

From here, I can see the cabin—a dot in the sea of trees, smoke curling from the chimney. No roads. No other buildings. Just the endless green and white, pulsing with menace.

There is movement near the porch. For a second, I think it is him, but it’s only a deer, tentative and lean, nose to the ground. My heart skids, then restarts at double speed.

I look back down the slope, searching for any sign of pursuit. There is nothing. But the nothing is its own kind of terror.

I wrap my arms around my knees and rock, the way I did as a child, whispering to myself:

“You got out. You got away. He’s not here.”

I want to believe it, but the forest does not care about belief.

It only cares about hunger, and teeth, and the game.

I close my eyes, let the wind cut through me, and when I open them again, I know that the only way out is forward.

I stand, brush the blood and dirt from my legs, and start down the far side of the rise, deeper into the dark, deeper into the unknown.

Every step is a prayer. Every breath is a dare.

I am running, and for the first time in my life, I think I might actually want to be caught.