Page 31 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Seventeen

Slade

I don’t sleep long before I need to get up. It’s midday and she hasn’t eaten, and neither have I and if I don’t eat, my stomach will implode. She probably feels similarly, only she’s asleep.

She’s curled against me, face mashed into the crook of my shoulder.

Our skin is fused by a thin adhesive of dried sweat, blood, and come—a forensic roadmap of last night’s decisions.

I inventory the bruises on her wrist, the faint red stripe down her ribcage, the nakedness she now embraces.

My marks. My name written in the language of pain and hunger.

Sunlight cuts through the bare window, gold and bright, making shadows sharp enough to hurt. I lift her arm off my chest—gentle, but not gentle enough to wake her—and slide out of the bed.

She grumbles, but doesn’t surface. I watch her for a full minute, loving every shiver and sigh. Only then do I move.

Naked, I pad across the room. Each floorboard has a different note, and I know the melody by heart. The one by the end of the bed creaks; I step wide to avoid it. The rug in the hallway is abrasive on my feet. I like it that way: pain as affirmation, sensation as proof of presence.

In the kitchen, the smell of woodsmoke from last night lingers. I open the fridge. There’s questionable meat, eggs, a bag of carrots. Guess I could make breakfast.

My phone is right where I left it, screen down, next to the half-empty glass of water and the crumpled napkin with her lipstick pressed into it. I check for messages. One from Kairo, timestamped three hours ago:

— You good? Clean up?

Nothing from Creed. Nothing from the world. I’m dead to them unless they want something and that’s what pisses me off.

I sigh and dial Kairo. He picks up on the first ring, voice raspy with anticipation.

“You alive?” he says.

I let the silence breathe, just long enough for his pulse to double.

“Yeah.”

“You finish it?”

“It’s done.”

Kairo grunts. “You staying there?”

“I’m at the cabin with Brooklyn.”

He waits. I wait longer. He’s the first to break.

“I’ll tell the others,” he says. “You need anything?”

“Food, but we will see you down at the resort soon enough.”

He hangs up. I let the dead air fizzle against my ear for a few seconds, then power down the phone. I won’t turn it back on until I need to.

Coffee. That’s next. I grind the beans by hand, slow and steady, like I’m crushing the skulls of all the men who thought they could outrun me. The machine is old, but the ritual is perfect. Boil. Bloom. Pour. Wait.

While it drips, I search the cabinets for anything else food related. There’s a box of penne, half empty, next to a can of tomato paste and a jar of cheap Parmesan. Not my first choice, but sustenance is sustenance. I fill a pot with water, set it on the burner, and light the flame.

Pasta is simple. Reliable. A carbohydrate delivery system for the body. I watch the water until it boils, then dump in the noodles and stir, counting the rotations like an obsessive: one, two, three, four. I could do this forever, I think. This, and nothing else.

While I wait, I sit at the wooden table and sip the coffee, black and bitter.

I stare out the window, plotting the next ten moves.

There’s the city, or Creed can build us a cabin no one will ever find.

There’s the north woods, colder, emptier, safer.

There’s even the possibility of Mexico, if we need the kind of sun that erases all sins.

I don’t know which she’ll want. I don’t know if she’ll come with me.

But I know I’ll never let her go.

The pasta finishes. I drain it, toss it in a pan with the tomato paste and a little oil, then heap it into a bowl. Two forks, because she’ll be hungry when she wakes.

I set the table, every motion precise. I want her to see the effort. I want her to know what it costs me to pretend at normalcy.

I pour another cup of coffee. My hands shake, just a little, but I clamp down on it. Control is everything. Control is all I’ve ever had.

A floorboard moans in the hallway.

I don’t turn. I just wait, watching her reflection in the window as she steps into the room.

She’s wearing my shirt, the fabric pulled tight over her skin, sleeves rolled up to show the pale of her arms. Her hair is a wreck.

Her face is clean, but the eyes tell me she didn’t sleep as well as I hoped.

She pauses in the doorway, arms crossed tight. She’s deciding whether to run, or to talk, or to throw the nearest weapon at my head. I see all three options flicker across her face.

Instead, she slides into the chair opposite me, silent as a snowfall.

I take a slow sip, keep my eyes on the forest.

“If you’re going to stab me,” I say, “you better be fast.”

She smiles, just a little. Enough.

The morning is over. The game is on.

I let the silence stretch between us, see how long she can survive without oxygen.

She’s good. I’ll give her that. Most women would have cracked by now—made some brittle joke, started rifling through the fridge, thrown a mug or a tantrum. Brooklyn just sits, elbows on the table, hands locked together so hard her knuckles are white. Her eyes go everywhere except my face.

I watch her anyway. Every part. The way her knees are pressed together, her hunched shoulders, as if she can make herself smaller, less of a target. She bites her lip, then bites it again. The color drains, then floods back.

I want to taste her blood, just to see if it’s changed since last time.

“Eat.” I say, looking down at the food in front of her.

I eat a bite of pasta, slow, chewing each piece until it’s nothing.

She takes a forkful too, but the motions are robotic. Like she’s performing for an invisible camera. I want to tell her to relax, but I know better. People like us, we never really do.

The coffee is cooling fast. I slide it across the table. She takes it, sips. Some of it spills down her chin. She wipes it with her thumb, and in that instant, her eyes flick up to meet mine. The look is acid and honey, sharp enough to draw blood.

“You always this quiet?” she says, voice sandpapered raw.

“No.”

A shadow of a smile. “What do you usually do, then? Kill people for fun?”

A pause. I let it land, let it linger.

“Sometimes for fun,” I say. “Usually for work.”

She blinks, but doesn’t look away. There’s steel in her, somewhere.

“Who do you work for?” she asks.

I take a breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. “Kairo. Sometimes Creed, if he’s being a lazy fuck and doesn’t want to do something. They get into trouble. I get them out.”

She laughs, low and sharp. “So you’re the cleaner?”

“If that helps you sleep.”

“It doesn’t.”

We’re both quiet again.

She picks at her food, chasing the same noodle around the bowl like it holds a secret. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. I lean forward, elbows on the table, close enough to feel the heat of her rage. Her desire. Her love.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Brooklyn. Not ever again.

” I tap the wood between us, once, twice, a metronome for honesty.

“I’m a bad, bad man. I do bad things. I enjoy them.

It’s what I’m good at. If you ask me about it, I’ll tell you.

If you need me to protect you, I will. If you need to run, I’ll let you.

But I want you to stay. I want you to ruin me back.

If I’d do bad things for people I can hardly stand, can you even begin to fathom what I’d do for the woman who owns my fucking soul? ”

Her chin trembles, just for a second.

“What if I want to hate you?”

“You already do,” I say. “But you still showed up. You’re still here.”

She looks away, pressing her palm over her eyes. When she speaks, her voice is thin as a razor.

“What would you do if I asked you to kill yourself?”

I don’t blink. “Depends who’s watching.”

She laughs, bitter. “You’re fucked in the head, Slade.”

“Probably.”

She wipes at her cheeks. I don’t think she realizes she’s crying until the tears drip onto the table, pooling beside the fork. She stares at them, as if fascinated.

I stand up, circle the table, and kneel at her feet. My knees crack as I go down, old injuries blooming in protest. She tries to scoot her chair back, but I catch her ankles and hold them still.

She looks down at me, face wet, hands clenched.

I reach up, thumb under her chin, and tilt her face up. I wipe the tears, not gentle, not rough—just enough.

Her breath stutters.

“Don’t do that,” she says, voice shaking. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you care.”

I let my hand fall away, but I don’t get up. “I’m not pretending. I’ve wanted you from the second I saw you, Brooklyn. I want you more now than I did yesterday. I want to keep you, not because I’m supposed to, but because I don’t know how to stop needing you.”

She is silent. The only sound is her breath, hitching and uneven.

I wait for her to say something, anything, but she just stares at me, mouth trembling.

She’s fighting with herself, the two halves of her waging war behind her eyes.

“I could hurt you right now,” she says, soft.

“I know.” She couldn’t, but she needs to feel in control to process whatever the fuck is going on inside that beautiful head of hers.

“I could stab you,” she says, louder. “I could kill you in your sleep.”

“You could try.”

She bares her teeth. “I mean it, Slade.”

“I know,” I say again. “But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

My hands run up and down her thighs before cupping her chin.

“Because you already belong to me,” I say. “And I belong to you. It’s that simple. It’s that fucked up.”

Her tears fall harder. She tries to shove me away, but I catch her hands and pin them to the table.

She is shaking, a full-body tremor, but she doesn’t break.

I bend forward, bring my mouth close to her ear.

“I’d crack open my chest and let your light destroy me before I’d ever hurt you,” I whisper.

She shudders, tears soaking my wrist as she leans into my hand.

After a minute, she is done. She sags, spent, every muscle limp.

“Do you trust me?” I ask, very quiet.

She is still for a long time.

Then, voice so small I almost miss it: “Despite the fact that I fucking shouldn’t, god help me I do.”

That’s all I need. Standing, I hold out my hand. “Come.”

She hesitates, but takes it. Her palm is small, cold, damp from the tears she’s tried to scrub away. I squeeze, just to comfort her.

I lead her down the hall, past the bedroom, past the bathroom. There’s a door she hasn’t seen before—flush with the wall, painted the same color, invisible unless you know where to look. I grab the key from the top of the frame and put it in the lock.

The lock clicks. I open the door and gesture her through.

The stairs are steep, unfinished, barely wider than my shoulders. There’s no light except for the bare bulb at the bottom, casting everything in deep shadow. She pauses at the top, just for a second, then steps down. I follow, hand at the small of her back.

Halfway down, she stops and turns to look at me.

“Is this where you kill me?” she says.

I smile, slow and honest. “Not today.”

She laughs, and it’s real.

At the bottom, there are two doors. Both painted black, both identical except for the handles—one brass, one stainless steel. One is the deprivation room. One where Creed and I would bring women who refused to submit. The one my girl gets is the real deal. The actual sex dungeon.

Inside, it’s not what she expects. There’s a bed, but it’s not a bed.

More like a table, padded, with restraints at every corner.

The walls are lined with shelves—rows of boxes, tools, and implements.

Everything you can imagine. There’s a rack for canes, a cabinet for whips, a case of collars and cuffs.

Some of it is medical, some of it is old as sin, relics, vintage for collecting. All of it is clean, organized, curated.

She walks in slow, one hand trailing along the edge of the bed. Her fingers twitch over the straps, testing the leather, tracing the metal buckle.

“Jesus,” she whispers.

“I prefer Slade,” I say.

She shoots me a look, then moves to the wall, picking up a length of rope. She unwinds a few inches, tests it, then sets it back down. Her eyes are wide, but not with fear. Not really.

“Is this… all for me?”

“Only if you want it to be.”

She keeps moving, touching everything, cataloguing the space the way I catalogued her. The air is cold, but she’s sweating. A bead runs down the side of her face. She wipes it, but her hand shakes.

I watch her, let her have the room.

Finally, she stops at the center and turns.

“What do you want from me?” she says.

I step up, close the gap. My hands go to her hips, fingers splaying over the fabric of my shirt she’s still wearing.

“I want to own every part of you,” I say, voice low. “The broken bits, the dirty thoughts, the parts you hate and the parts you’re afraid to love. I want it all.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” I echo.

She licks her lips, nods again. “Do what you want.”

I want to laugh, but I don’t. She’s trusting me with the most vulnerable parts of her and I will treasure those pieces, pulling them apart and sewing them back together, stronger.

I take her by the wrist, spin her so she’s facing away from me. I press my chest to her back, my mouth at her ear.

“I’m going to blindfold you,” I say.

She shivers, but stays still.

I reach up, pull a silk band from the shelf. It’s black, smooth, wide enough to block out the world. I brush her hair off her face, tuck it behind her ear, and tie the band around her head, slow and deliberate. The knot sits at the base of her skull.

“Close your eyes,” I say, even though she already has.

I cinch the silk until no light gets through.

When I’m done, I step back and look at her—really look.

She’s trembling, but not with fear.

With anticipation.

With trust.

With the certainty that whatever happens next, it’s hers as much as it is mine.

Brooklyn deserves to feel like the most beautiful goddamn creature in the world, and I won’t stop until she believes she is.