Page 36 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Twenty

Slade

A fter the plates are cleared and the last toast burns out, the night leaks into its softest colors. Fire light pulses on the exposed beams overhead, and the old lodge swells with the pressure of too many bodies refusing to go home.

The pack is sated. Kairo sprawls on a rug in front of the fireplace, an arm flung over Harbor’s waist as she reads aloud from a battered poetry anthology, sometimes skipping words or inventing new ones when the originals don’t please her.

Cassidy and Noah are in their own little world; she’s curled up in his lap, their hands laced, as he strokes his thumb over her knuckles.

Gianna is using a butcher knife to whittle a chunk of driftwood into something while Knox watches her, guiding her every now and then.

Julianna sits at the baby grand piano, running a finger up and down the keys, never quite pressing hard enough for a sound. Creed sits beside her, just staring.

Brooklyn is perched on the deep-cushioned bench seat beside me, knees drawn up, fox charm between her lips as she nervously plays with the charm.

She watches everyone, but especially me, the way a dove might watch the shape of a hawk above the trees.

I lean into her, not for show, just because I can.

She flicks her gaze sideways, catches me staring. “You look happy,” she says, the words half-dared.

I blink, considering. She’s not wrong. Something about the easy spill of voices, the illusion of a future not written in teeth and blood, has wrung a certain peace from me.

And the fact that my girl is here, beside me.

Willingly.

“It’s the company,” I say. “And the view.” I run my finger over her thigh, watching for the goosebumps to rise. They do, reliably.

She flushes, bites the charm. “Liar.”

I grin. “Never.”

Across the room, Harbor puts down the book. “Slade. Brooklyn. You two should dance,” she calls, not quite slurred, but loose. “It’s basically tradition.”

Gianna immediately yelps, “YES!” and drops her block of wood. “Do the thing! The slow one!”

Cassidy groans but doesn’t object. “There isn’t even music. Let them hang out in peace.”

Brooklyn blinks, startled. I watch the conflict stutter through her: the old nerves, the need to please, the hunger to belong.

“Come on,” I say, standing and offering my hand. I’m not usually like this, I don’t care for theatrics, I don’t care to be soft in front of the others. But my girl deserves my discomfort, if only to bring a smile to her face.

She hesitates just long enough to tell me she’s thinking about how she’ll trip, or step wrong, or fuck it up. Then she takes my hand anyway.

I lead her into the open, bare-wood space in front of the fire. The light here is brutal: every scar, every bruise, every bright part of her is exposed. Good. Harbor squeals and runs to start up the music again.

I pull her in close, one hand on her hip, the other at her back. I don’t bother with the proper grip. I want her flush against me, chest to chest, as if we might fuse at the fault lines.

She smells like lavender, and the ghost of the meal, and something high and sharp beneath it—terror, maybe, or exhilaration. I can never tell with her. Maybe it’s both.

We start to move, the way you do when your body remembers more about rhythm than your brain does. She’s stiff for the first few bars, her shoulder blades pinched, chin tilted up as if daring me to notice her discomfort.

“Relax,” I say, a murmur only for her.

“I don’t know how,” she whispers back, voice thick.

I squeeze her hip, gentler than usual. “Let me.”

She breathes out, lets her head fall to my chest. The rest is easy. We sway, and the room hushes, they’re watching, but I don’t give a fuck. This is all I care about, right here.

The song is slow, drifting. The fire makes a halo at Brooklyn’s hairline, catching gold in the strands. Her hands clutch my back, not for balance but for reassurance. I hold her tight, knowing she needs it. She needs me. The eyes that matter are closed, and they’re right against my collarbone.

After the first verse, she lifts her head, opens her eyes, and looks at me like I’ve just handed her the rules to the game.

“Do you ever think about what happens next?” she says, the words a challenge.

I consider it, weighing every possible answer. “No,” I admit. “I like to be surprised.”

She snorts, but there’s something like affection in it. “Liar.”

I bend down so my lips brush her ear. “Would you rather I lied to you?”

She shivers, a full-body tremor. “No. Not ever.”

I squeeze her, slow and deliberate, my hands spanning her waist as we turn, careful not to step on the old pine knots in the floor.

Behind us, the group quiets. They’re pretending not to stare, but the air is thick with the shared knowledge that something irreversible is happening.

At the edge of the dance, Brooklyn pulls back just far enough to see my face. Her cheeks are red, eyes glassy.

“You want to go somewhere? I need some air,” she says. It’s not a question; it’s a dare.

I nod, just once.

She turns on her heel and pulls me with her. The song is still playing, but the only rhythm now is the echo of our footsteps on the wood.

Out the side door and onto the deck, the air is a chill after the heat of the room. Brooklyn doesn’t flinch. She walks to the railing, arms folded tight, breath leaving clouds in the blue-black dark.

I stand behind her, hands in my pockets, waiting.

After a minute, she says, “You’re really going to leave with me. Aren’t you.”

It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” I say. “You’re worth it.”

She turns, leans against the rail, and studies my face like she’s looking for proof.

“You’re sure?”

I nod.

She closes her eyes, and I see the precise instant when her fear loses to the wanting.

She steps in, wraps her arms around my waist, and buries her head in my chest.

“I’m scared,” she says, muffled.

I rest my chin on her hair. “So am I.”

We stand there, cold creeping up our ankles, until the music inside goes quiet and the world shrinks to just the two of us.

She lifts her head, finally, and grins. “This is the part in the movie where we kiss and the camera pans away, right?”

I laugh, low and real, and kiss her until my cock stiffens, pressing against her. She moans but pulls back, lust heavy in her eyes as she whispers later .

When we go back inside, the fire is low, and the couches are full of sleeping bodies, arms and legs tangled in ways that don’t look comfortable but must be.

We tiptoe past them, Brooklyn pausing to tuck a blanket over Gianna, who’s half-on, half-off the ottoman, her wood block still in her hands.

In the hush, we climb the stairs to the guest rooms, Brooklyn’s hand in mine, her pulse beating against my knuckles.

At the top landing, she stops. “What are you thinking?” she says, searching my face.

I tell her the truth.

“That I’ve never felt more alive,” I say. “Or more at home.”

She kisses me, soft and slow. “Good,” she says. “Me too.”

We disappear into the dark, and this time, nobody follows.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of breakfast: bacon popping in the pan, voices pitched low, the slow grind of coffee beans in the antique mill.

As much as I want coffee, I don’t want to get out of bed.

Brooklyn is a tangle of limbs beside me, hair jammed under my chin, her body flush and fever-hot under the blanket.

I want to stay here and never move again, but the clock in my head is already ticking.

I study her face, memorizing each detail: the sleep-creased cheek, the microbruises at her collarbone, the dark pink of her lips. She looks peaceful. Happy.

Untangling, careful not to wake her, I pull on yesterday’s clothes.

The air upstairs is thin, flavored with woodsmoke and maple syrup.

I pause at the landing, scanning the room below.

Kairo is in the kitchen, shirtless, slinging pancakes onto a plate and narrating every move with the voice of a low-rent cooking show host. Creed sits at the head of the table, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, tapping out texts with military precision.

Harbor and Gianna are perched on the counter, arguing about whether pancakes are breakfast or dessert.

Cassidy and Julianna set the table, their movements a study in opposites: Cassidy efficient, Julianna meticulous.

No one notices me. I stand at the top, listening.

“You can’t just put sprinkles on everything and call it breakfast,” Harbor says, snagging a pancake from Gianna’s plate.

Gianna protests, “If it’s not fun, why bother eating it? The world is full of boring food. Sprinkles make it a party.”

Creed grunts approval without looking up. “Sprinkles are fine. Just don’t put them on my eggs.”

Cassidy flashes a smile over her shoulder, sees me, and lifts her chin in greeting. “Morning, Slade.”

I raise a hand, noncommittal. “You’re up early.”

She shrugs. “Some of us have jobs.”

Kairo laughs, popping a strawberry in his mouth. “Yeah, and some of us get paid for being beautiful and mysterious.”

“Which one are you?” I ask, deadpan.

He flips me off. “You wish you looked this good before noon.”

I don’t answer, just take a seat at the table and accept the mug of coffee Harbor slides over. It’s hot, black, perfect.

Brooklyn emerges a few minutes later, dressed in one of my shirts and a pair of borrowed leggings. She’s pink-faced, hair in a wild twist. She moves like she hasn’t slept in a week, but there’s a light in her eyes I haven’t seen before.

She sits next to me, tucking her legs under her body. I pour her coffee. She doctors it with a criminal amount of sugar, stirs, and drinks. No one says a word, but the attention in the room shifts, subtle but absolute.

This is how it happens: you wake up one morning and realize you’re no longer an outsider.

You’re part of the algorithm. You’re accounted for.

That’s what she’s experiencing right now.

We will always be more on the outside than the others, that’s just the way it is with how private I am, but we are more a part of something than we have ever been before.

And that’s enough.

After the food is done, after the plates are stacked and the syrup cleaned from the table, I clink my spoon against my mug and wait for the hush.

“We have an announcement,” I say, keeping my voice cool, measured.

Brooklyn sits up, hands folded, as she watches me.

The room goes still. Even Kairo, who usually has a joke locked and loaded, is silent.

“We’re going back to South Africa,” I say. “Brooklyn will take over her father’s company. I’ll handle the other side—clean up his enemies, bring the stray dogs to heel, and make sure no one tries for a shot at her.”

Cassidy leans forward, elbows on the table. “You’re merging the business?”

“In phases,” Brooklyn answers. “We’ll integrate with Kairo’s operations over the next year. Expand into Europe and Asia once the current mess is sorted. I will maintain control of my company and Kairo, his, but we will form a partnership that benefits us all.”

Creed nods, respect in his eyes. “That’s good strategy.”

“We’ll rebuild it,” I say, never breaking eye contact with Brooklyn. “Darker, smarter, untouchable.”

There’s a long silence. Harbor is the first to break it: “This is so hot,” she says, voice soft but intense.

Cassidy claps her hands once, loud. “I love this. I love you guys together. It’s fucking terrifying, but also kind of beautiful.”

Kairo lifts his glass, pride all over his face. “To the new empire. May the blood only ever be on your hands, not your doorstep.”

Julianna tips her mug, the corners of her mouth turning up. “It’s a good plan.”

Gianna is the only one who looks anything but pleased. She slumps in her chair, bottom lip trembling. “But I like Brooklyn,” she whines. “Now you’re taking her away and we can’t hang out.”

Brooklyn stands, circles the table, and kneels beside Gianna. She puts a hand on Gianna’s shoulder, voice soft. “We’ll visit. A lot. And you can come see us whenever you want.”

Gianna lights up instantly, the sulk vanishing. “Really?”

“Really,” Brooklyn says, and hugs her, hard. Gianna squeezes back, then lets go and wipes her eyes, muttering about allergies.

The tension dissolves. Cassidy starts making lists of who will visit first, Kairo bets on how long before Brooklyn gets bored and buys another company, and even Creed cracks a smile when Harbor dares him to a pancake-eating contest.

I watch Brooklyn float through the room, her laughter sparking in the corners. She’s still sharp, still calculating, but she’s lighter now. The edges are softer. She’s not running anymore.

When the dishes are done and the conversations split off into smaller cliques, I find Brooklyn at the back porch, staring at the treeline.

I step behind her, arms around her waist. She leans into me, easy.

“You sure you want this?” I ask, low.

She tilts her head back, eyes glittering. “Are you?”

I think about all the ways I could lose her. All the ways I’d kill for her. It’s a long list, but not as long as the one of reasons I’d stay.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m sure.”

She turns, facing me. “Then let’s go home.”

We leave the next morning, bags packed, goodbyes short and clean. The others line up at the porch to see us off: Kairo with a mock salute, Harbor blowing kisses, Cassidy holding back tears, Gianna waving both arms, and Julianna just nodding, but it means more than words.

Creed is last. He shakes my hand, grip iron. “Take care of her,” he says, then adds, “Take care of yourself.”

I nod. “You too.”

Brooklyn and I climb into the Jeep. She grabs my hand and doesn’t let go until we’re miles down the mountain, past the sign for the Pine Ridge Wilderness Retreat, past the ghost of the old life.

We drive in silence for a while, windows down, the chill air making her nose red.

Eventually she says, “Do you think we’re fucked up?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and she laughs, wild and bright, the sound echoing off the trees.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she says.

“Me neither.”

We don’t look back.

And if we ever do, we’ll just smile and keep going.

Some stories end with escape. Some with revenge.

Ours is simpler.

We survive each other. We get out alive.

We get out together.