Page 35 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

“I’m just saying,” Kairo drawls, “she’s not what we expected. The daughter. That’s wild work man.”

Slade grunts. “She’s perfect.”

Kairo laughs, clapping him on the back. “I like her, man. But you gotta admit, you’re… different with this one.”

“I’m always the same.”

“You’re not. Creed says you haven’t killed anyone in weeks. That’s, like, a record.” Kairo leans in, voice dropping. “You going soft on us?”

Slade’s jaw tenses. “You think I’d let my guard down for a pair of tits and a fox necklace?”

I smile to myself. He’s posturing, but I don’t mind. It’s cute.

“I think,” Kairo says, “you’re one bad day from marrying her and buying a minivan.”

Slade huffs, then cuts him off. “Security’s still tight?”

“Never tighter,” Creed says from his post near the kitchen, voice so deep it vibrates my sternum from across the room. “Got eyes on the road, cameras on the trails, office is set. Every energy CEO is terrified after knocking off Marcus.”

“Good,” Slade says, finishing his whiskey in a single swallow.

He doesn’t say anything more, just scans the room, lands on me, and holds there like a promise.

The conversation at the fire shifts to dinner plans. Gianna proclaims herself “starving,” Cassidy suggests a group photo, and Harbor disappears to the kitchen to “help” but really just to avoid being in pictures.

Julianna takes my arm, gentle but insistent. “Let’s take a lap around the lodge before you’re stuck at the table with our chaos. I’ll show you the best hiding spots.”

We meander past a wall of taxidermized deer heads (each with a handmade party hat from some ancient New Year’s Eve), through a music room lined with battered guitars and an upright piano, then back to the dining hall where a table is set like a medieval banquet, every place card in perfect order.

Julianna touches my shoulder. “You look like you want to be anywhere but here.”

I shrug. “I don’t know where I want to be.”

She nods, as if that’s the only answer that could make sense.

By the time we return, the rest of the group is gathered at the long table. Creed stands at the head, carving a roast. Harbor and Cassidy arrange salads and sides, arguing about whether cranberry sauce is a food group.

Slade is waiting near my chair, and when I approach, he wraps his arm around my waist, casual but unyielding. It’s less a gesture of affection and more a line in the sand: she’s mine. Despite the blush creeping across my cheeks, I love it.

Cassidy, sliding into the chair next to us, gives Slade’s arm a quick smack. “Careful. Don’t break her before dessert. She’s the first new friend we’ve had since Juli.”

“She’s too good for you,” Harbor chimes in, then raises her glass in a toast: “To new friends. And psychotic men.”

Gianna erupts in giggles, nearly spilling her drink, and Creed barks a laugh so forceful the roast almost slides off its platter.

I sink into my seat and Slade pushes my chair in before taking a seat beside me, a strange heat flushing over my skin. This is what a family looks like, I think, and immediately feel stupid for thinking it.

Julianna leans over. “You’re not used to this.”

“Not even a little,” I say, unable to keep the awe out of my voice.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “We’ll ruin you for normal life within the week.”

“Too late,” I say, and I catch Slade’s hand squeezing my thigh under the table, just once, like a Morse code message I haven’t learned to translate.

The food is incredible—Creed’s skills with meat are apparently legendary—and the conversation is quick, sharp, laced with enough gossip and old stories to keep me from feeling like an intruder.

There are inside jokes I don’t understand, references to things I’m sure I’ll never be told, but the feeling of exclusion is gentle, almost friendly, like being left out of a card game on purpose so you can watch and learn.

At some point, Kairo and Slade lock eyes and something passes between them, a mutual understanding that doesn’t need words. Kairo nods, and for a moment I see the old hierarchy at work: the men keeping the wolves at bay, the women holding the fire.

But the balance has shifted, and for once, I’m not on the outside looking in. Suddenly, a wave of clarity washes over me and I know what I want.

I lean over to Slade, voice low. “Can we talk?”

He stands instantly, moving with the kind of lethal grace that makes every other man in the room look like a rental copy. The group hardly notices as we slip away, too busy dissecting which of Harbor’s past lovers was the most disastrous, much to Kairo’s chagrin judging by the anger on his face.

I lead Slade toward a back hallway, one lined with the ancient photographs of people who built this place and, probably, murdered each other for fun.

Once we’re alone, I stop, heart ricocheting in my chest. “I need to say something.”

He waits, arms crossed, eyes never leaving mine. I can feel the weight of his attention, the way he could crush me or cradle me and I’d never know which until it was over.

I take a breath, reach for the fox charm, and decide to jump off the cliff.

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” I say. “Not here, not with you. If we’re going to do this, I need to be all the way in.”

He steps closer, so near I can smell the smoke on his shirt, the whiskey on his breath. “What are you asking?”

“I want to go back to South Africa,” I say, voice a whisper. “I want to buy a mansion and merge my father’s company with Kairo’s. I want to build something that’s ours. Not because we have to, but because we can.”

He blinks, once. “You want me to run an empire with you?”

“I want to be more than my father’s daughter,” I say. “I want to be your equal.”

Slade grins, slow and wide. “You always were.”

I’m stunned. I thought it would be a fight.

He cups my jaw, thumb resting against my pulse. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

From down the hall, Creed’s voice booms, “Get your asses in here before Gianna eats all the pie!”

Slade lets his hand linger for a beat, then turns and heads for the dining room.

I follow, smiling like a fool, certain of nothing except this: I am not shrinking myself for anyone.

Not anymore.

The table is a battlefield of scraped clean plates, empty glasses, and half-shouted stories by the time Slade and I return. I expect more probing, but instead there’s a toast: “To Brooklyn, who survived Slade and lived to tell about it. May she have better taste in men next time.”

Slade stares Noah down, “There is no next time, you fucking moron.”

I raise my glass with everyone else, even as my ears burn.

We toast as staff file in, clear plates and serve dessert.

It’s nice. Normal. They all trade stories of the ways they met each other—all the guys attending Westpoint Academy together.

So many stories of crazy shit that I can’t repeat, lest I clutch my pearls.

I don’t know what’s true and what’s meant to be a joke, but I like it. I want to be part of the myth.

Harbor raises her glass again. “To new relationships.”

“To new relationships,” we echo.

Slade’s hand finds my thigh under the table. He squeezes, gentle but certain, and I lean into the touch without thinking. It’s not a claim; it’s a reassurance.

As the night grows louder, the barriers fall away.

Kairo dances with Harbor to a song only they can hear, Creed and Cassidy argue over who would win in a fight between a bear and a gorilla (the debate gets surprisingly technical), and Gianna and Julianna sneak off to the deck for a cigarette and end up stargazing instead.

I stay where I am, with Slade’s arm around me, just watching.

Slade kisses my hair, soft and slow. “You did good,” he says, just for me.

“So did you,” I whisper.

He laughs, and it’s a real laugh, nothing hidden. “We really going back to Africa, baby girl?”

“Yeah… I think so.”

“I’ll let the others know. We can make arrangements as soon as you’re ready.”

I nuzzle into his shoulder and the world feels right.