Page 24 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

I could stand here for hours, memorizing every permutation of her suffering.

But this is not about punishment. It’s about the next lesson.

She’s hungry, so I made a simple soup and unthawed some bread I found in the freezer.

Eventually I’ll have to run down to the resort to grab a restock, but at least Creed left enough for us for a few days.

“Come,” I say, and the word is neither invitation nor command but something that means both.

She glances up, blue eyes rimmed red, but she stands. The boxers hang off her hips, the waistband folding in the back. The shirt swallows her. She looks younger, softer, ruined.

I guide her to the little table by the window.

There are two plates, both empty, and a loaf of dark bread torn in half.

A tin mug, steaming. The cabin is a skeleton—bare walls, no photos, no art, just function.

The window behind her frames the woods, all silver and black and the faintest thread of dusk.

I pull out her chair. She sits, then pulls her legs up onto the seat, wrapping her arms around her knees. Defensive, but not defiant. I like this version of her; all the sharpness turned inward, cutting only herself while she figures this out.

I pour a measure of soup from the pot on the stove.

It’s nothing fancy, but enough to give her body the nutrients she desperately needs.

Deer, potatoes, onion, garlic with a dash of salt, mixed into a homemade bone broth because Noah prefers everything handmade and made a bunch and froze it.

I used to make fun of him for it, but it came in handy.

Not that I’ll thank him, don’t get it twisted.

I place it in front of her, careful not to touch her hands.

She doesn’t look at me. She studies the surface of the soup, as if a prophecy will rise in the swirl of fat and broth.

“Eat.”

She does. Slow at first, the spoon trembling in her grip.

The first swallow makes her flinch. The second is easier.

By the third, she’s forgotten her dignity and is shoveling the liquid down her throat with the desperation of a stray.

When she finishes, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then sets the spoon on the table, neatly.

She glances up, eyes hooded, and waits. A small smirk makes it’s way onto my face and I grab her bowl and spoon more in. Good, I want my girl to eat when she’s hungry.

I tear off a piece of bread, dip it in the soup, and hand it to her. Her fingers graze mine—just the barest whisper—and she recoils, like my touch carries voltage.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, her voice smaller than I expect. “Why not just leave me out there? Or better yet, why would you kidnap me at all?”

I take a slow bite of my own bread. Chew. Swallow. I want her to feel every second of waiting.

“Because you belong to me,” I say. “It would be wasteful to let you freeze, or starve, or get eaten by something dumber than you. As for taking you, you’re mine. It’s that easy.”

She stares, not blinking. The old Brooklyn would have told me to fuck myself, or thrown the bowl in my face. This one is calculating the odds, measuring risk, picking her moment.

“Is this what you do?” she says. “You collect… women?” The last word is a challenge, but her eyes flick away before the sentence lands.

I smile, because it pleases me when she’s clever.

“No. Only you,” I say. “I’ve been watching you since you discovered your father on the morning of his death. Did you know that?”

A muscle jumps in her jaw, and she digs her nails into the soft wood of the chair. “Creep.”

“Hunter,” I correct. “You’re not the first to call me that. But I’m better at it than anyone alive.”

She makes a noise, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“Why me?” she says, and the edge in her voice is real this time. “Why fucking me?”

I take my time before answering. Let her stew. Let her hope there’s a reason other than fate, or the boredom of a man with too much time.

“You don’t want the real answer,” I say. “But I’ll give you a clue.”

I push the bread toward her, watch as she debates whether to eat it. She takes it, tears off a chunk with her teeth, and chews, eyes never leaving mine.

“The night you ran,” I say, “most people would have hid in the cabin. Barricaded the door. Called for help. You didn’t. You broke a window. You bled. You ran until your feet were raw. You fought. Even when you lost, you fought.”

She swallows, the muscles of her throat working the bread down. “So you’re rewarding me,” she says, voice bitter.

I shrug. “I’m giving you a chance to earn your place. It’s more than most get.”

She stares at the table, then at her hands, then finally back at me. “What if I don’t want it?”

I lean forward, elbows on the wood, closing the space between us.

“You will.”

She flinches, but holds my gaze.

I break the stare first, reaching for the mug. I slide it across to her, careful not to spill. She takes it, both hands wrapped around the tin, knuckles white.

I watch her drink. The liquid is too hot, but she sips anyway, chasing the pain with more pain. Her lips are chapped and split. I want to lean over the table and lick the blood from them, but restraint is a tool, and I wield it well.

She sets the mug down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand again.

For a long moment, we just sit. The only sound is the tick of the stove, the hiss of wind at the window.

Finally, she speaks.

“What happens now?”

I lean back, hands folded in my lap. “Now,” I say, “we wait. You heal. You eat. You get strong again. I take care of you, fuck you, use you until you can’t remember your own name.”

She looks at me, and there’s something in her eyes—fear, yes, but also a question she doesn’t want to ask.

“And then?”

I smile, slow and deliberate. “Then I teach you what it means to be mine.”

She swallows. The pulse in her throat jumps.

“Is that a threat?”

I shake my head, almost pitying. “It’s a promise.”

She stares at the window, but I know she’s not looking at the trees. She’s thinking of escape, of what it would take to get past me. I let her have the fantasy. It’s good for her.

I finish my bread, brush the crumbs aside, and stand. I circle the table to her side, moving slow so she can see every step. She watches me, wary like a cornered cat.

I kneel beside her, close enough that our knees touch under the table.

“Look at me,” I say.

She does, and her eyes are wet but bright. Defiant. That’s better.

I reach up, brush a strand of damp hair from her cheek. I leave my hand there, fingers curled around her jaw.

“You’re safe, little fox,” I whisper. “No one will ever hurt you here.”

Except me, I don’t say, but she hears it anyway.

Her breath stutters. She closes her eyes, just for a second, and when she opens them again, I see the future mapped in the blue: every lesson, every loss, every small victory I’ll allow her. It’s all there, waiting.

I let my thumb trace the corner of her mouth, feel the tremble as she forces herself not to flinch. She’s learning already. Thank God I’m handy and fixed the bedroom window earlier, easy as shit. Just replacing the panel with one from the basement. She won’t freeze tonight.

I stand, drawing her up with me by the hand. She follows, unsteady, and I lead her to the bedroom. I turn down the blanket, pat the mattress.

“Rest,” I say.

She hesitates, just a second, then climbs in, curling into a tight ball. I cover her with the blanket, tucking it around her shoulders.

She looks up at me, eyes wide and silent. She wants to say more, she wants to fight this… this thing that’s between us. In us. But she doesn’t she just sighs, a cute little content noise as I lean down to brush a kiss across her forehead.

I may break her, destroy her, and claim her in every way possible, but she will be loved. Cherished. Valued. Because she’s a Goddess among peasant women and I’d kill any motherfucker who makes her feel like she’s not.

“Sleep well, little fox.” Heading out and slowly closing the door, but not fully, I glance at her one more time before grabbing a beer from the fridge.

I sit in the chair by the fire, slowly sipping. The carbonation feels nice as I ponder on my girl, sleeping in the next room.

She’ll dream of escape, of violence, of running through endless trees. With any luck, she will dream of me, claiming her soul as my own and find a home where she will always belong.

She doesn’t yet understand the depths of my obsession with her. But she’ll wake up in the morning and nothing will have changed. She belongs to me.

And someday soon, she won’t mind.