Page 30 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Sixteen

Brooklyn

W e lie together in the post-everything hush, the two of us pressed so close I can’t tell where his skin ends and mine begins.

Early morning air comes in through the battered window, cold enough that my nipples harden under the sheet, but I don’t dare pull away to find a sweatshirt.

His arms are a furnace, wrapped around me like the bones of a cage.

I’m not sure I’d leave even if I wanted to.

We’re caked in dried blood, but somehow it feels right. Normal, even.

Slade’s breathing is slow and even, almost a fake-out, but I know he’s awake. The way his hand wanders the slope of my hip, the light drag of his fingernails up my spine, the way he lets his nose linger in my hair—all of it says: I’m not done with you yet .

He shifts, turning me onto my back, the sheet pooling at my waist. I don’t even try to hide the evidence of last night on my thighs. I still feel him now.

He props his head up with one hand and looks at me, really looks, eyes tracing the lines of my face like he’s trying to memorize the exact arrangement of my emotions.

“Morning,” he says. His voice is sandpaper and bourbon. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe we’re just two people waking up after a good fuck, not whatever the hell this is.

“Morning,” I say. My voice sounds too small for my mouth.

He grins, that slow animal smile. “I like you best like this.”

“Like what?” I try to sound annoyed, but it comes out almost shy.

He moves the sheet down with the back of his hand, exposing my stomach, my tits hanging wild, the patch of bruises along my ribs.

“Naked,” he says. “Wrecked.”

I flush, try to pull the sheet up, but he catches my wrist and pins it over my head. One-handed, so easy, like holding a kitten. His other hand makes a lazy circuit of my belly button, trailing up my chest, lingering at the fox charm he left on me.

I’m starting to like the way it looks against my skin, gold and bright and shameless.

He tugs the chain, just a little, making the charm bite at the hollow of my throat. “Pretty thing for a pretty girl.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such a cliché sometimes.”

He snorts and lets go of my wrist. “And you’re still pretending you’re not in love with this.”

“With what?” I demand.

“With being ruined. With me ruining you.” He leans in, tongue flicking at the fox, then up to my jaw.

“You’re delusional,” I say, but it has no teeth.

He sits up, the blanket falling away to show the constellation of scratches and bite marks I left on his chest, the cuts I made standing out against the tan of his skin. He wears my violence like a crown.

He smacks my ass, sharp and sudden. I yelp, surprised.

“Don’t hide,” he says. “Not from me. Not after last night.”

I bite my lip and look away, the burn in my cheeks worse than the sting on my skin. I have never been more exposed.

He rolls me over and pulls me in, my back against his chest. His hands roam, slow and heavy, not just touching but claiming. He hooks a finger under the fox charm, then lets it fall and circles my throat with his palm. Not squeezing, just holding, a reminder.

We sit like this, the weight of his arm across my chest, for a long time. He presses kisses into the top of my shoulder, down my neck, over the healing bite marks. It’s almost gentle, the way he smooths his thumb over each bruise as if to say, this one’s mine, and this, and this.

His lips are at my ear when he says, “Tell me something true.”

I stiffen. “Like what?”

He shrugs, lips ghosting my hairline. “Tell me about your dad.”

My whole body goes rigid.

“He’s dead,” I say, voice flat.

Slade’s hand stops, just for a second. “You haven’t talked about him.”

“There’s nothing to say.” I try to wriggle free, but he clamps down, arms and legs locking me in.

“Bullshit,” he says, and it’s not angry, just certain. “Everyone’s got a story. Even you.”

I sigh, give in, let myself sink back against his chest.

“My father was a suit,” I say. “The kind of man who would rather eat glass than say ‘I love you.’ He built companies, he made money, he played chess with people’s lives.

I don’t think he even knew my favorite color.

” I pause, the sadness surprising me with how deep it goes.

“He died before he ever figured it out, but I loved him. He took care of me, I know he loved me too, but in his own way. I have a lot of good memories of him, just none of him giving me the affection a young girl needs to truly flourish.”

Slade runs his fingers through my hair, not tugging, just combing out the tangles. “How’d he die?”

I hesitate.

“He was murdered,” I say. The words hang in the air, loud even in a whisper. “Shot in the head in his office. Police said it was a robbery, but nothing was stolen.”

Slade’s hand never stops moving. “That’s fucked.”

I shrug, but it’s a lie. I feel the crack in my chest widen.

“Do you want revenge?” he asks, voice low and careful.

I don’t answer right away.

He turns me, so I’m facing him. His eyes are searching, deep and black.

“Yes,” I say. “Of course I do.”

He grins, but it’s not mean. It’s more like pride.

“Interesting.”

His hand drops to my thigh, tracing idle circles. “My turn,” he says. “You want to know about me?”

I don’t, not really, but I nod anyway.

He takes a long time to answer.

“I grew up in a house full of strangers,” he says.

“Rotating foster homes, group homes. Never the same bed twice, sometimes not even the same name. Got good at hiding, at blending. Got good at other things, too.” His smile is sharp, but there’s something soft behind it.

“I never really believed in family. Not until now.”

It’s the most he’s ever said about himself.

I run my fingers along his arm, feeling the scars, the muscle. I want to ask more, but I’m afraid of what the answers will be.

Instead, I change the subject.

“Why did you take me?” I ask, soft.

He doesn’t flinch. “Because I wanted you.”

“That’s not a reason.”

He leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “It’s the only reason that matters.”

He holds me tight, like he’s afraid I’ll break apart if he lets go. Maybe I will. Maybe I already have.

I close my eyes, let the warmth of his body lull me into a kind of peace. For the first time in weeks, I feel almost safe.

Almost.

The silence stretches. I drift, caught between sleep and the memory of his hands on my body, the fox charm heavy at my throat.

Eventually, I say, “I wish I could catch whoever did it. I wish I could look them in the eye.”

He strokes my hair, slow and steady.

“And if you did?” he asks, casual, as if it’s just another detail.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. “I’d kill them.”

Slade’s hand pauses on my skin. I can feel the smile spreading across his face, slow and predatory.

He presses a kiss to the back of my neck and whispers, “What a spunky little fox you are.”

I shiver, but it’s not from the cold.

In the hush of the morning, I let myself believe—for just a moment—that I could be something more than ruined.

That maybe, just maybe, I could be a hunter too.

The quiet holds a little longer, as if the world is waiting for us to move before it lets in the noise of morning. I shift, and Slade’s arms tighten, the pulse at his wrist thrumming where it rests against my collarbone.

“Did you mean it?” he asks, after a time. His voice is too casual, too neutral, like he’s trying to sneak the question in under the radar.

“Mean what?”

“That you’d kill the man who did it.”

I turn my head. The way he looks at me isn’t the way you look at someone you love, or even someone you want. It’s the look of a man depraved.

“Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t you?”

He smiles, but it’s all teeth, no warmth. “I have, actually.”

A long silence. I laugh, awkward, waiting for him to say he’s joking, but he doesn’t. He just studies my face with those bottomless eyes, waiting for the gears to catch.

“I killed your father,” he says, and it’s as cold and clean as a scalpel. “It was me.”

There is a moment before the words land, a moment where I am suspended above myself, watching the scene like I’m an actress who just fucked up her line and doesn’t know how to recover.

My body goes ice-cold, every cell refusing to cooperate.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch. “He was a parasite. Destroyed communities. Tore up everything he touched. Didn’t just take from people—he left nothing behind.

Not even the dirt. He almost destroyed the company I worked for.

Exploited families, children, women. He was a piece of shit, Brooklyn.

I did the world a favor, and even if I didn’t, I’d do it again because I was asked to take care of a problem, and I always live up to my word. ”

My mouth is open but there’s no sound. No scream, no gasp, nothing.

“I did what had to be done,” Slade continues, voice so soft I almost miss it. “It wasn’t personal. But then I met you, and now it is.”

I stare at him, mind clawing at the edges of reality, trying to find a foothold.

“My dad wasn’t a fucking saint, but he was my father,” I whisper, because it’s true, because it’s all I have left. “But you—”

He waits, letting the silence fill in everything I can’t say.

“Why?” I say finally, my voice breaking on the word.

His eyes flicker, like maybe there’s a storm behind them, or maybe just another layer of cold.

“He was moving in on Kairo’s business. Your dad started fucking with his numbers, his shipments, his—” He stops, shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter now. You were a target of interest, at first. Then it became something else. It became this.”

He’s still holding me. He’s still touching me like I’m precious, but the hand on my shoulder is a shackle now, not a comfort.

I don’t move. I just sit there, heart stopped, staring at the man who took everything from me and then rebuilt me in his own image.

My hand moves before I think. I slap him, hard, the crack echoing around the tiny bedroom like a gunshot.

His cheek blooms red, but he doesn’t let go.

“Say something,” he murmurs, and the need in his voice is almost more than I can bear.

“You’re a monster,” I hiss.

“Probably,” he says. “But I’m yours. You can hate me right now, Brooklyn, but now you know what I’d do for a friend. Imagine what I’d do for you.”

I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the way he looks at me, like I’m his prize, his trophy, the last perfect thing he wants to ruin.

I lunge at him, fingers digging into his face. I kiss him hard, lips bruising, teeth scraping against his. I want to hurt him. I want to fuck him. I want to destroy him, cell by cell.

He doesn’t fight it. He meets me, tongue forced into my mouth, biting my lower lip until I taste blood. My hands claw at his shoulders, his chest, anything I can reach. I want to peel him open, see what’s inside.

He flips me, pins me to the mattress, one hand fisting in my hair, the other bruising my thigh.

“Do you hate me?” he growls.

“Yes,” I spit, and mean it. “I hate you.”

“Good.” He kisses me again, rougher, until my lips are split and raw.

I bite his lip, draw blood, lick it away.

He grabs my wrists, pins them above my head, and stares into my eyes. His face is flushed, pupils blown, breath ragged.

“Go on,” he says. “Kill me.”

I buck against him, arching my body up to slam our chests together. I want to break his ribs, I want to shatter his heart.

Instead, I kiss him again, desperate, wild, furious.

We tear at each other, rolling across the bed, bodies crashing together like a pair of rabid animals. There’s nothing left but need—no love, no hate, just hunger. Just the drive to consume, to own, to annihilate.

We don’t fuck, not this time. We just claw and bite and moan into each other’s skin, every touch a war, every kiss a surrender.

When it’s over, we lie side by side, staring at the ceiling, chests heaving, both covered in bruises and spit and my tears.

He reaches for my hand. I let him take it.

In the silence, I realize that I will never be free of him.

I don’t even want to be.

I close my eyes, and for the first time, I dream of blood.

My own, and his, and my father’s, all mixed together.

The perfect family.

The perfect ending.

We lie there, not touching anymore but not quite pulling apart. The hush stretches, saturated with all the things we haven’t said and all the things we just did. My throat feels raw. My eyes burn. I don’t know if I want to sleep for a year or run into the woods and howl.

Instead, I roll onto my side and prop myself up on my elbow. The sheet falls away and my nipple tightens in the air, but I don’t bother covering myself. If I’m going to hate him, I want him to see me do it.

He turns, mirroring me. His face is a map of bruises, fresh teeth marks, and a spectacular handprint blooming across his jaw. For a second, I want to laugh. The man is a monster, but he wears my hatred like a souvenir.

He looks at me, head cocked, eyes slit narrow with sleepy curiosity. “If you want me dead, why’d you kiss me?”

I snort, pick at the sheet between us. “To remind myself that I feel something for you I’ve never felt before,” I say, then add, “And to stop myself from gouging your eyes out.”

He grins, teeth still stained with my blood. “I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

I glare at him. “I’m still debating.”

He shrugs, then slides his hand over, tracing the curve of my ribs with the tip of one finger. Not possessive this time, not a brand. Just… gentle.

We stare at each other, two animals in a post-carnage haze, neither sure if the other will bite or curl up to sleep.

I sigh. “Kindly shut the fuck up and stop touching me so I can process this.”

He laughs, the sound so low and soft I can feel it in the mattress.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and the words tickle down my spine like a dare.

But he doesn’t stop touching me. He keeps tracing my skin, drawing invisible lines from collarbone to belly, from shoulder to wrist. Each pass is slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize me all over again. Every touch stings, but in a good way.

I close my eyes and let him. There’s nothing left in me to fight.

Outside, the wind picks up. It rattles the window, throws pine needles against the glass. Somewhere in the woods, a bird yells its own tiny fury.

I feel him move closer, the heat of his body pushing against my side. He presses his mouth to my shoulder, just above the biggest bruise. I expect teeth, but he just leaves it there, breath warm and steady.

We stay like this, not talking, not moving, until the day seeps in and makes us human again.

I don’t know what comes next.

I only know that I’ll let him touch me, as long as he keeps his hands where I can see them.

As long as he never, ever tries to lie again.