Page 26 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Fourteen

Slade

S etting her down on the porch, I open the door for her, but instead of going in, she shakes her head.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then glances at the woods, then the cabin, then back at me. There’s a war in her face: one part stubbornness, one part wanting to get lost, one part wanting me to find her again and again until she can’t stand it.

“I wanna go explore. Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there and look pretty?” she says.

I raise a brow. “You think I’m pretty?”

She scoffs, but her cheeks are red. “Not really. You’re just… just... UGH!”

With a sigh of exasperation, she turns to face me, planting herself on the threshold, chin up, like she’s daring me to challenge her. “I want to go for a walk. Through the woods. Not with you trailing behind like some psycho, but… with me. Properly.”

Her hands clench and unclench at her sides, a nervous tic I’ve noticed since the second I laid eyes on her.

Her left thumb works a nervous circle around her right wrist, over the little scabbed cut lingering there.

She wants me to say no, so she can hate me for it.

She wants me to say yes, so she can pretend she’s in control.

I let her win. “Fine. Lead the way.”

She walks ahead, just far enough that if I wanted to I could catch her in three strides, but not so far that I couldn’t keep her in view. She knows I’m watching; she exaggerates every step, hips swaying in a way that’s more challenge than seduction.

We move into the trees, leaving behind the open field and the shadow of the house.

The woods here are thicker than they look from the window.

The first fifty yards are all bramble and broken limbs, the aftermath of a thousand storms. Brooklyn moves through it like she’s been here all her life, feet finding the right places, body weaving through the tight spots without breaking pace.

I count the seconds before she looks back. Fourteen. She turns, arms folded, expression bored.

“Are you going to help me or just stand back there breathing like a serial killer?”

“Both,” I say, deadpan. “That’s kind of my thing.”

She makes a face—like she’s annoyed, but I see the edge of a smile—and turns away. She picks a direction at random and pushes deeper, ignoring the game trail and muscling through the undergrowth with a recklessness that stirs something in me.

She gets lost in twenty minutes.

The path vanishes, replaced by a mess of fallen logs and springy young pine.

We walk in silence. I watch the way her shoulders square whenever she remembers she has no idea where she’s going, the way her hands hover at her hips as if searching for pockets that aren’t there.

She doesn’t ask for directions, and I don’t offer them.

I let her twist, let her think, let her choose which way to go, until the woods start to feel like they’re closing in.

At the first big clearing, she stops. Breathing hard. Sweat beads at her hairline, and there’s a smear of dirt across her cheekbone. She doesn’t wipe it off. She’s too busy pretending she’s not tired.

I close the gap, so we’re almost touching.

She looks up at me—she’s shorter than I remember, or maybe I just want to loom over her—and says, “You’re not as funny as you think you are, you know.”

“I never said I was funny.” I let my voice go low. “But you’re smiling.”

She wipes it off her face. “That’s not for you.”

“Who’s it for, then?” I ask, crowding her just enough that she has to look up to keep eye contact. The silence stretches, tight. She breaks first, stepping past me, brushing my arm as she goes. “Wanna go see something pretty?”

“No.” She says with a huff.

“Suit yourself.” I shrug and mask a chuckle.

We walk again. The sun stabs through the trees in stripes, lighting up the dust and pollen in the air.

I watch the way the light plays across her shoulders, the brief gold of it on her hair, the way her skin seems to drink in the warmth and hold it.

She’s shivering, but she won’t admit it.

I watch her rub her arms, then quickly drop her hands when she catches me looking.

I want to tell her that she’s safe, that I’ll never let anything out here hurt her, but I know how it will sound: like a threat.

So instead, I say, “You want to know something about the woods?”

She shrugs, eyes rolling. “Sure. Enlighten me, Socrates.”

I point to a tree, one with the bark stripped in horizontal rings. “See that?”

She nods, suspicious.

“Elk. They strip the bark off in winter, when there’s nothing else to eat. If you look close, you can see where their teeth left grooves.”

She walks over and runs her finger across the bark, tracing the pattern. Her hands are small, the nails bitten to the quick. She turns back. “Are you going to quiz me on this later? Or is it just to show off how much you know?”

“Neither.” I pick up a branch, strip off the leaves, and hand it to her. “Birch. You can use it to clean your teeth. Or, if you’re lightly bleeding, you can chew the bark. Stops the blood.”

She takes it. Sniffs it, then frowns. “You’re so weird.”

I grin, but only on the inside.

We walk for a while, and I make a game of pointing out tracks: deer, coyote, even a bear print half filled with mud. She acts unimpressed, but I see the way she glances at them when she thinks I’m not looking.

At the next narrow path, she stumbles. Just a tiny trip, but enough that I could have caught her if I wanted to. I let her fall, just to see how she reacts.

She catches herself, palms scraping against the rough ground, then turns and glares at me. “You just going to watch me eat shit, or are you going to help?”

I offer my hand, palm up, but don’t move. “You want help, ask for it nicely. You seem to have something to prove, so I was just letting you prove whatever that was, to whoever gives a fuck.”

She hesitates, pride flickering across her face. Then, softly: “Fine. Help me up… please… Sir.”

I take her hand. Her grip is strong, almost bruising, but her skin is cold. I could let go, but I hold on, just long enough to make her uncomfortable.

She tries to pull back. I tighten my hold.

She glares. “Let go.”

“Say please.”

She snorts, but doesn’t look away. “You’re so fucking—”

“Say it.”

She grits her teeth. “Please. Sir.”

A wave of satisfaction hits me, sharp as a blade.

I release her, but don’t step back. We stand, hands almost touching, until she moves away.

I can smell her now—the sweat, the dirt, the faint trace of epsom salts left over from last night’s sponge bath.

It’s intoxicating, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from pulling her in and biting down on her shoulder, just to mark her again.

We keep walking. The woods thin out, and there’s a patch where the sun has turned the ground to mud, all slick and sucking. She hesitates at the edge, then steps in, testing the depth with her boot. The mud oozes up around her boot, and she laughs, surprised by the feeling.

I watch her for a moment, soaking it in: the genuine smile, the way she tips her head back and closes her eyes, just enjoying being alive.

She glances over her shoulder, and catches me staring. “What?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. You’re just… different out here.”

She shrugs. “I like it better than inside. At least the trees don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

I step forward, into the mud, boots sinking. She watches me, wary.

“You know the difference between you and the trees?”

She looks down, then back up. “No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

I close the gap, so there’s no space between us, just mud and need and the pulse thumping in my throat.

“The trees don’t want me to ruin them,” I say. “You do.”

For a second, I think she’ll slap me. Then, without a word, she grabs my wrist and pulls my hand to her neck, curling my fingers around the place where her pulse is wildest.

“Then ruin me,” she says, voice low and steady.

I could. Right here, right now, in the mud and sun and silence. I could bend her over and fuck her until she forgets her own name.

But I don’t.

Instead, I let go, slow and gentle, then take her hand in mine, entwining our fingers.

She looks surprised, but she doesn’t pull away.

We walk like that, hand in hand, through the woods, leaving two sets of prints behind us, side by side. Hers, light and careful. Mine, deeper and certain.

The woods are alive around us: birds, the rustle of wind, the scrape of our feet against the ground. The sunlight cuts through the trees in perfect, blinding slices, and every so often, I see her glance at me, like she’s trying to memorize this moment, just in case I decide to take it away.

I let her have it. For as long as she wants.

Because she’s mine, and I always take care of what’s mine.

Even when she doesn’t want me to.

Especially when she does.

We walk until the world thins out and the trees begin to whisper something new, a sound I haven’t heard since before I brought her here.

Water.

She hears it too, and for the first time, she looks at me with something like excitement.

“Is that…?”

I nod. “Waterfall. Half a mile. You want to see it?”

She lets go of my hand, runs ahead, then looks back, waiting for me to catch up.

I don’t hurry.

I like watching her want something.

And I like knowing that, in the end, it’s always going to be me.

The waterfall is smaller than I remember, but louder.

Been ages since I’ve been out here. The water spills off a ledge of mossy stone, fans out in a thin, veiled arc, and crashes into the pool with a sound like static turned up to eleven.

There’s a chill in the air that licks the back of my neck, and the light here is different—green-filtered, alive, flickering in the mist.

Brooklyn barrels out of the trees at a dead run, skids to a halt on the mossy rocks, and throws her arms wide like she’s greeting an old friend. For a second, she just stands there, head tipped back, eyes closed, breathing in the wet.