Page 25 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Thirteen

Brooklyn

T here is a line between nightmares and hunger, and I have always walked it barefoot, feeling every stone and thorn.

But now the line is gone, or maybe it’s a circle, and I am running it endlessly, chasing something that is also chasing me.

I wake up with the taste of his mouth on mine—metal and teeth and the ghost of a question I can’t ever ask out loud.

Why do I want him? It marches in my head like a marching band, and there’s no rhyme or reason why, it just is.

It’s early, the kind of blue-milk light that only happens in the few minutes before sunrise.

For a while, I keep my eyes closed and pretend I am somewhere else.

The bed is still warm, though I can’t remember if it was the dream or just the fever in my own body that made it this way.

My skin is clammy, my thighs glued together by a gluey, aching need that feels like a betrayal every time I move.

It’s disgusting, how I want him. How I want to be wanted by him, even as I plan and pray for escape.

The blanket is scratchy against my bare calves.

I run my foot along the seam, then along my other ankle, trying to distract myself from the pulse gathering between my legs.

It doesn’t work. The more I try to ignore it, the more it builds, prickling through my nerves like the aftershocks of a small, shameful earthquake.

I want to bury my head in the pillow and die, but instead I open my eyes.

The bedroom is the same as last night, but less so.

The shadows are smaller, less threatening.

The air is cold, the window glass catching thin streaks of frost. Everything is so quiet, I wonder if the whole world has stopped and left only me and the echo of my dream.

The fox charm rests against my collarbone, warm from my body. I close my hand around it, pressing the sharp little snout into my palm until it leaves a dent. I hate this thing. I hate the man who put it here. I hate the ache that’s crawling up my spine even more.

I hate that I love the way the words little fox look falling from his mouth. I especially despise that I don’t ever want to take this off.

But I can’t let go. I just squeeze harder and hold it to my skin as if it can ground me in the reality I’m supposed to want.

Bits of the dream stick in my head, splinters I can’t dig out:

His hands on my wrists, pinning them above my head until the muscles burn and go numb.

The mask, green and animal, split across the jaw so his mouth is bare and hungry.

My father as a ghost in my dreams, for a split second, standing in the corner of the room with that same look of disappointment as always, watching as I am ruined.

The taste of blood in my mouth, and the sweet, low voice whispering, “Good girl. You’re doing so fucking well.”

The weight of his body, the stretch, the electric shock of being filled so brutally that my body can’t decide if it loves or hates it.

I curl into a ball and rock, just a little, letting the mattress creak beneath me. My hand slips down, almost on its own, to the wet place at the join of my thighs. The heat there is shocking. I try to will it away, but my fingers dig in, desperate to prove something I can’t name.

There’s a dull thud from outside. I picture him, arms slick with sweat, axe splitting wood for the fire.

I picture the way his back moves under the thin shirt, the way his eyes narrow when he sees me.

There is nothing gentle in him, but there is a kind of kindness in the dark with which he breaks me.

I rub myself, hating myself with every slow, deliberate motion.

Outside, something thuds against the porch before footsteps carry him back to where ever he is cutting. A regular, steady rhythm before it stops. I freeze, hand hovering, the shame turning hot and then cold again. Does he know what I’m doing in here?

I sit up, blanket pulled tight around my chest, and shuffle to the window. My breath clouds the glass as I peer out. The morning is clear and harsh, the world stripped of color except for the gold rim of sunlight starting to claw its way over the treetops.

He is there.

Slade. Shirtless. Swinging the axe in a measured arc, over and over, the motion flawless and hypnotic.

His skin is covered in bruises and fresh scrapes, the work of my own teeth and nails still visible on his chest and shoulders.

He glows with the effort of what he’s doing, and with something else, something primal and it makes my knees turn to jelly.

Every muscle in his body flexes with the swing, the movement a kind of ritual, a way of marking territory I didn’t know existed.

Sweat glistens on his back, running in thin rivers down the spine to the waistband of his pants.

He works in silence, the only sound the wet crack of the axe head as it bites into the log, splitting it with perfect, merciless precision.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, just to remind myself that I am still alive, still myself. But the taste only makes me think of his mouth as he sucked at my blood, and how I want it on me, around me, inside me.

I clench my jaw until my teeth hurt.

My breath is shallow, and I am sweating, even though the air in the room is cold. I want to scream. I want to throw another lamp through the window and let the shards cut through this sick, looping craving.

But I don’t.

I just watch, heart galloping, as he splits another log.

He pauses, wipes the back of his hand across his brow, and glances back at the window. For a moment, I am sure he can see me, that he knows what I’m doing, what I’m thinking. His mouth curves up at one corner, not a smile but the ghost of one, and he goes back to work.

I want to run outside and hit him, claw at him, demand he give me my old life back.

But the truth is, I want to run outside and let him ruin me again, in the dirt, in the wood chips, anywhere he wants.

I rub the heel of my palm against the charm, grounding myself in the little pain. My other hand drifts lower, tentative, ashamed, but insistent. The blanket pools on the ground as I let it go. Parting my thighs, letting the cold air lick at my skin as I place one foot on the windowsill.

Am I really doing this?

The urge to touch myself is stronger than the urge to survive.

I slide my fingers into the slick heat, biting down on a moan that wants to tear itself loose. I close my eyes and picture his hands, rough and perfect, the way he knows exactly how much pressure I can take before I break. I want to break for him. I want him to see it happen.

Chancing a glance at the window, my heart stops. He’s leaning against a tree, watching me, eyes dark, fingers twitching on the handle of his axe.

But it’s too late. I can’t stop now.

I work myself harder, faster, desperate to finish before he can look away. But the thought of him watching, knowing, is what tips me over. My whole body arches, and I shatter, the pleasure tearing through me so sharp I gasp and slam my fist into the window frame to keep from screaming.

After, I am hollow, panting, the tears streaming down my face hot and sticky.

Melting to the floor, I curl into a ball and sob, muffling the sound with the blanket.

I hate him. I hate myself. I hate that I know, deep down, I want him to come back inside and do it all again.

The sky is orange now, and the light moves across the floor until it brushes my toes. I wipe my eyes, stand up, and get dressed, every movement automatic, numb.

But the hunger is still there. It never really goes away.

If I had any self-respect left, I’d crawl back under the covers and forget this morning ever happened.

Instead, my legs drag me upward and I watch him turn his back to me and keep cutting log after log.

I watch the way his whole body moves with the axe, the strange, Godlike focus he brings to every swing.

If I had a prayer, it would be: let me get through one more day without losing myself to the monster who cracked me open.

But I already know I’m not going to win. There’s nothing left in me to fight with.

There’s a clean shirt, boxers, socks and grey sweatpants on the bedroom nightstand and I grab them, pulling off last nights wear and dressing in what he picked for me.

I should shower, should clean up, but instead I open the bedroom door and step into the hallway, half expecting to find him waiting there, arms folded, ready to drag me down the stairs. But the cabin is empty.

The kitchen smells of woodsmoke and meat.

Last night’s soup is a congealed scab at the bottom of the pot.

I pour a cup of cold water from the pitcher in the fridge and drink until my stomach aches.

My hands shake so hard the water splashes over the rim and onto the floor. I don’t bother to clean it up.

He’s still out there. And I want to see him.

I stand at the door, one palm pressed flat to the warped wood, the other balled in a fist so tight my nails bite into the skin.

I can’t go out. I can’t stay in. I count to ten.

Then fifty. Then a hundred. At some point I lose track.

Looking down, there’s a pair of boots in my size, because of course there is.

With a sigh I slip them on and then I just stand.

Waiting. For what? I have no idea, I just wait.

I don’t remember opening the door, but I remember the sound it made—a soft, desperate sigh, like the house was begging me not to go.

The grass is wet from the melting snow, each blade catching the light with a light of its own.

I step into it and the cold shoots up my legs as it slaps against the sweats.

The woodchips around the chopping block are slippery with last night’s rain; my feet sink in, leaving perfect crescent moons where I stand.

He doesn’t look up. I’m not sure if he even knows I’m here, or if he’s just waiting for me to make a sound.

“Can I help?” I say. My voice is hoarse, ruined from screaming or crying, maybe both.

He swings the axe one more time, splits the log clean in two, then sets the blade in the stump and turns to face me.

Sweat runs down the center of his chest, catching in the hollow at the base of his throat.

His hands are red, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

He looks at me like I am the only thing in the world, and for a second I am.

I can’t look at him, my eyes find a patch of ground beneath my feet. Then, I stare at the space between his feet, where the wood is split into perfect, even wedges. He’s always so precise, so methodical, even when he’s breaking me apart.

He says nothing.

I kneel.

It happens without thinking, like a memory played in reverse. I feel the dampness soak through the knees of my pants, the sharp sting of woodchips embedding in my skin. My hands rest on my thighs, fingers splayed, blue veins bright under the skin.

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t move.

I look up, past the scars and tattoos running up and down his arms, the pattern of old bruises on his skin, back down to the line of his waistband.

The zipper is undone before I can even think twice, my hands shaking as it goes down.

He’s already hard, the shape of him unmistakable even before I touch him.

My mouth goes dry. I want to run, but I want this more. Working his boxers down his legs, as slowly as I can, I try sucking breaths in through a pinhole in my throat.

His cock springs free, hot and alive and so much larger than I remember.

I stare. For a second, I can’t even breathe.

He’s watching me, waiting.

My hand curls around him, and the heat makes me shudder. He’s so hard it hurts, the skin stretched tight and glossy, veins pulsing beneath the surface. There’s a bead of precum at the tip, already leaking, marking territory before I even open my mouth.

I lick it off, tentative, barely brushing the surface. His knees buck ever so slightly as his big hand comes around to gently cup the side of my head, his fingers playing with my hair.

The taste is salt and something darker, a taste that is already mine.

I close my lips around the head and suck, gentle at first, teasing, because I don’t know how much I can take. I let my tongue circle the ridge, then dip into the slit, lapping up everything he gives me.

He makes a sound, low and ragged. His hands settle on the back of my head, not gentle at all. He fists his fingers in my hair and pulls, forcing me to take more. My jaw aches as he pushes deeper, the stretch so intense it brings tears to my eyes.

He holds me there, just long enough to feel the panic rise, then pulls back, only to thrust again, harder this time.

The tip hits the back of my throat and I gag, but I don’t pull away.

I let him use my mouth, over and over, until the tears run hot down my cheeks and my nose drips snot onto the woodchips below.

I am crying and choking and my throat burns, but I have never been more alive.

He fucks my mouth with the same perfect rhythm as the axe, each stroke calculated, relentless. His grip tightens until my scalp screams, but I want it, want to be held in place, want to be ruined.

He groans, the sound vibrating through his body into mine. I flatten my tongue, hollow my cheeks, and suck him as deep as I can, swallowing around the thickness until I can’t breathe. My vision tunnels, the world narrowing to the heat and the salt and the pain.

When he comes, it’s a flood, hot and bitter and endless. He holds my head down, forcing me to take every last drop, even as I gag and choke and the mess spills from the corners of my mouth.

I swallow. I swallow again. I drink him down until I am empty and full at the same time.

When he lets go, I fall forward, forehead pressed to his thigh, gasping for air. My lips are numb, my chin slick with spit and come.

He strokes my hair, gentler now, almost tender. He tips my chin up with two fingers, forcing me to look at him.

His eyes are wild, but his mouth is soft.

“You did so fucking good,” he says, voice hoarse with pride.

I nod, because I have no words left.

I stay there, on my knees, until my breath slows. The world is sharp again, the smell of pine and sweat and sex so strong it almost knocks me over.

He tucks himself away, zips up, and picks me up, wiping the wood chips off my knees before picking me up like a lumber jack over his shoulder and smacking my ass with a loud thud. It jiggles and he groans before grabbing it and jiggling it again.

“Fucking perfect, little fox. Fucking perfect.”

I close my eyes and breathe.

I have never felt so owned.

I have never felt so free.