Page 33 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

I untie the blindfold, slow, letting her eyes adjust to the new world.

She blinks, pupils huge, face slack with pleasure.

She looks at me, really looks, and for the first time, there’s love in her gaze.

Pure. Unfiltered through pain. Getting up, I untie the rope and massage her wrists before laying down beside her, tracing circles down her skin.

Her hands float to my shoulders, weak but insistent. She pulls at me, mouth searching for mine. I let her kiss me, tongue soft and hungry, tasting herself on my lips.

“You’re mine now,” I say, not a question, not a hope. A fact.

She smiles, lazy, like a cat in the sun. “I’m yours,” she says, and the words are music.

We lie there, a tangle of limbs and sweat, nothing left to prove.

For once, I don’t think about tomorrow.

There is only this. The warmth of her skin under my hand, the sound of her breathing, the surety that I have finally, truly, fucking won.

And she has, too.

We stay that way for a long time, neither moving, neither speaking. She drifts, deeper and deeper, every thought slipping away until only the feeling remains.

I hold her as she goes, and I know: I will never let her go.

Not for anything.

Not even if she begs me.

She’s dead weight in my arms. Not limp—sated. I memorize the way she folds, the boneless curve of her body as I cradle her, the warmth of her skin sinking into mine.

I brush the hair from her face, cupping her cheek with a hand I haven’t cleaned. “I’ll be right back.”

Her lips are cracked, dry. I fetch a glass of water and hold it to her mouth. “Come, my girl, you need water.” She drinks, a few drops escaping down her chin, and I wipe it away.

I stand, scoop her up, and carry her to the bathroom.

One Creed and I had especially installed in case we ever found ‘the one’.

It’s never been used. Not until today. The tile is cold, the lights dim.

There’s a clawfoot tub, white and huge, set beneath a tiny window crusted with frost. I set her on the closed toilet lid, steadying her with a hand.

I turn the tap and let the water thunder into the tub, adjusting the temperature with obsessive care. I add a scoop of lavender salts from the tin by the window. The scent punches the air, floral and sharp.

While the tub fills, I examine her, slow, methodical. She lets me, arms heavy. The marks on her thighs from where I held her are already bruising, handprints in blue and purple. I want to bite them, but I resist. Such a beautiful constellation.

She shivers, nipples pebbling, arms folded over her chest.

“Cold?” I ask.

She shakes her head, but she’s lying.

When the tub is full and steaming, I lift her and lower her in.

She hisses, then relaxes, body floating just below the surface.

The lavender blooms around her, petals and salt.

I kneel behind the tub and wash her hair, pouring water in slow, careful streams. She tips her head back into my hands, trusting.

The feel of her scalp beneath my fingers is addicting.

I wash her skin next, using a sponge so soft it’s barely there. I follow the lines of her body: down the back of her neck, over her shoulders, along her arms. I clean her wrists last, making sure no residue of rope fibers or sweat remains.

She hums, eyes closed. I wonder if she even knows she’s making the sound.

When I finish, I pull the plug and let the water swirl away, carrying the traces of what we did with it. I towel her dry, soft and slow, then wrap her in a thick robe from the hook on the wall.

She climbs on the counter, legs swinging, hair dripping down her spine. I comb it out with my fingers, working through the knots. It’s pure gold, impossibly fine, and for a moment I just run my hands through it, back and forth.

“You’re staring,” she says, voice still raspy.

“Yeah,” I answer, not bothering to deny it.

She looks up, meets my eyes. She looks clean, but there’s a wildness now, something raw just beneath the surface.

“Turn your head.”

I start to braid her hair. I don’t think about it, I just do it: section, divide, cross, repeat. My hands remember even if my brain doesn’t.

She watches my reflection in the mirror out of her peripherals, brow furrowing. “How do you know how to do that?”

I tie off the end with a spare elastic from my wrist and shrug. “Used to do it for my little sister. Before she died.”

Brooklyn blinks, surprise short-circuiting whatever retort she had loaded. She reaches back, touches the braid, feels the symmetry of it.

“She was lucky,” she says.

I shrug. “Not really. Couldn’t save her in the end.”

There’s a moment, soft and full of things we’ll never say out loud. I let it stretch, not wanting to be the one who breaks it. Shaking my head, I finish the braid and help her off the counter before leading her upstairs.

Grabbing her more water, I set it on the table and have her drink while I turn my phone back on.

My phone rings almost immediately, the vibration buzzing obnoxiously. Rolling my eyes, I answer.

Kairo’s voice blares through the speaker, businesslike and electric. “Fucking finally. Slade. That girl with you?”

“Yeah.”

“The crew wants to meet her. Dinner at the lodge in forty.”

I look at Brooklyn, whose mouth is hanging open. Her face goes pale, then resolute.

“Copy,” I say, and hang up.

I turn to her, hands resting on her shoulders. “You heard.”

She nods. “Do I have a choice?”

“You always do,” I say. “But if you want to stay, it’s part of the deal.”

She stands, shaky but determined. “Guess I’ll need clothes.”

I lead her back to the bedroom. On the bed, I lay out her best options: her washed jeans, a flannel, a sweater that might not be the sexiest but it’s mine. She dresses, slow, fingers fumbling the buttons, but she gets it done.

I dress too, black shirt and dark jeans, boots laced tight. I watch her in the mirror as I do, marveling at how fucking beautiful she is even when she’s terrified.

When we’re both ready, I walk her to the door. She pauses, hand on the knob, and looks back at me.

“You’re not going to abandon me, right?”

“Never.”