Page 9 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Chapter Four

Slade

T hey say the first step to controlling a situation is understanding its terrain.

The second is never letting your target realize she’s lost the ground beneath her.

I move before dawn, shadowing the ridgeline a quarter mile behind Brooklyn Marcus as she climbs into the black-boned wilderness above the city. The air up here is clean. Refreshing.

What does she look at when she thinks no one is watching? What is her face when her muscles burn, and her lungs are about to fail?

By 8:32 she has already passed the park boundary, traded tarmac for ragged singletrack. I ghost her at twenty feet and disappear into the trees, no closer. It’s not fear of detection—she will never see me coming, not unless I want her to. It’s about anticipation. Let her think the morning is hers.

The sun is already blazing down, and I wonder how the fuck she’s wearing pants when I wanna strip naked under this heat.

The dirt is soft from last night’s rain, the exposed roots slick as glass.

I watch her through the military grade optics built into my sunglasses.

Her silhouette is a lesson in contrast: sturdy legs and generous hips, a belly big enough to prove she eats more than salad and air, arms packed tight in a flannel overshirt two sizes too large.

Her hair is tied back with a green elastic, but it still escapes in pale, electric wisps around her face.

She’s fucking beautiful. Quite possibly the most beautiful being I’ve ever fucking seen.

And I don’t use words like beautiful.

Women are always dirty little cum dumps, no more. But not her. She shines with the light of thousand suns, and I want nothing more than for her to eviscerate me with it. She’d take one look at my darkness, and her soul would devour me and send me straight to hell.

Worth it to spend one fucking moment listening to her voice.

She does not walk like a victim. She walks like someone who wants to be left alone and doesn’t expect the favor.

Her stride is short, determined. She takes the left fork at the river instead of the right.

She pauses not at the bench but at the rough, unmarked boulder.

She refuses to check her phone, even when it vibrates.

She is not checking in. On a mission, this one is.

Her bag is old, but the way she’s rigged it tells me everything: double-knotted sternum strap, webbing reinforced with an extra carabiner, the main zipper always tucked under her right elbow.

I see her inventory in my head from my recon, neat rows: two liters water, medical kit, notebook, folding knife. Smart. Not smart enough.

She picks her way up the first climb, breathing hard, cursing under her breath at the mud that cakes her boots.

She the at the ridge to adjust her laces, then checks her pulse on her wristwatch.

I can almost hear the internal monologue: slow down, pace yourself, don’t look behind you.

I want to touch her, not with my hands, but with words.

I want to whisper into her skull and see what she does with the suggestion. With the promise of her being mine.

My little fox.

The trail narrows. Steepens. Now it’s just a worn thread along the spine of the hill, hemmed by cedar and wild protea.

She slows. Not because she’s tired, but because the ground demands it.

I imagine her soles slipping, the delicious terror of an unexpected slide, the little gasp she would make when gravity reminds her she’s not in charge.

At the first switchback, she stops. Looks over her shoulder, eyes scanning the tree line.

There is nothing to see. I am a part of the shadow, a negative space between two branches.

Still, the hairs on her neck stand up. She rubs the spot, like a child, and then—my favorite part—she laughs at herself.

Not a real laugh, more an exhalation of disbelief.

Her face in profile is open, unguarded, so fucking pretty.

I watch her for a full minute, frozen mid-breath, waiting to see if she breaks. She doesn’t, just sucks in a deep breath. She keeps climbing.

I let her gain ground, slip behind a screen of old growth pine, and leap the drainage gully in two strides.

It’s an old habit, taking the most difficult route, just to prove to myself that I can.

I close the gap to fifteen feet, then ten, until I can almost smell the shampoo she used this morning.

I can smell her sweat, too, saltier than the average, laced with something sharp. Adrenaline.

She moves like she’s trying to beat a clock only she can hear.

The trail rises in a series of brutal, uneven steps, each one carved by years of boots and storms. Most hikers would zigzag, favoring the shallow contour, but she drives straight up, hands grabbing at rocks and branches, knees beading with mud.

I see her left leg tremble—she’s favoring it, maybe an old injury, maybe just fatigue.

She tries to hide it, but her body gives her away. She doesn’t like to show weakness.

Her phone buzzes again, more insistent this time.

She stops on a flat of sandstone, props her foot on a stump, and stares at the screen.

The light is too bright to read, but I know she has three unread messages.

I sent one of them myself, just to see if she would notice the strange number.

She deletes it without a second thought.

She tucks the phone away, sighs, and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand. Then, with a groan that is all exhaustion and a little bit rage, she pushes off the stump and keeps going. I want to tell her she’s beautiful like this—dirty, stubborn, refusing to quit.

I mark the terrain ahead, calibrate my own trajectory to stay invisible. I test every step before I commit weight. No sticks break under my boot. No loose gravel slides. I am as silent as she is noisy, and the gap between us shrinks to less than seven feet.

She crests the final rise before the lookout. The morning light catches her in silhouette, rimmed in gold, and for a second the primitive part of me wants to howl. Instead, I wait, holding position until she is past the lip of the ridge.

There is a dangerous stretch ahead, an exposed traverse of unstable shale and greasy mud. She approaches it with the same idiotic confidence as before, but I see the set of her jaw, the way her lips press tight. She knows the risk, but she isn’t backing down.

I count the seconds as she crosses. The rock shifts under her left boot, and she freezes, arms splaying wide.

For a moment, she looks impossibly fragile, a small animal caught on a wire, every muscle tensed for flight or failure.

The trail crumbles under her right foot, and she pitches forward with a sound that is half shriek, half curse.

She catches herself, barely, but now her center of mass is too far forward and she’s accelerating, knees buckling, fingers clawing at nothing.

This is the moment.

Time slows. I see the trajectory, the arc of her fall, the soft bulge of her thigh as it hits the rock. I see the terror in her eyes as she realizes she is about to go over the edge, and for a split second I savor it—the purity of fear, the surrender of control.

She’s not going to catch herself. Not this time.

I move.

The distance between us is nothing. Five strides, a single leap. My hand closes on her wrist before she even realizes she’s not falling alone. Her skin is hot, damp, and so fucking alive it hurts to hold her. She screams, loud, a sound that splits the air and echoes down the valley.

But I have her.

She dangles there for a moment, feet scrabbling against loose scree, unable to find purchase. My grip is iron. I could let her go, watch her tumble into the gulley and shatter on the stones below. The thought makes my pulse pound, a drumbeat against my ribs.

But I haul her up, slow and deliberate, until she is back on the trail, collapsed against my chest, lungs heaving with panic.

She does not speak for a long time. Neither do I. Her breathing slows. Her body goes slack against mine, sweat soaking into my sleeve. I count her pulse through the point of contact on her wrist. One-twenty, one-ten, ninety. She is not afraid of me, not yet. She is still afraid of the fall.

Finally, she looks up. Her eyes are blue, but not soft. There is a fury in them, a spark that wants to fight even as her whole body trembles.

I don’t let her go, even as she tries to push against her, her head craned upward, staring at me like she is trying to figure out what species I belong to.

“Thank you,” she says, voice brittle as glass.

Goddamn… her voice… it’s so pure I want to taste it.

The moment between crisis and aftermath is the purest silence.

It lasts exactly the time it takes her blood to travel from heart to brain—one, two, three seconds of chemical overload, Brooklyn Marcus slack in my arms, eyes dilated, mouth open on a half-formed scream.

I hold her weight easily; she’s heavy with muscle and softness and curves I long to run my hands over, and her heartbeat thunders.

Her skin is fever-hot. Her fear is exquisite.

“Are you all right?” My voice is low. I don’t let the shake of adrenaline reach it.

She jerks away, breath tearing through her. She’s looking everywhere but my face: the trail, her boots, the hand on her wrist. She smells like panic and citrus shampoo, and when she finally risks a glance at me, she goes perfectly still.

“Yeah,” she says. Her voice breaks on the syllable, then rebuilds itself, brick by brick. “Yes. I’m—” She tries to step back, but her balance isn’t ready for that yet. I steady her with a gentle, corrective pressure. “I’m fine.”

“No concussion,” I say, scanning her pupils, her focus. “You should sit down anyway.”

She bristles, chin up. “I don’t need to sit. I’m fine.” But she’s shaking, and her lips are bloodless. She releases herself from my grip, but not with anger—more like a swimmer kicking away from a rock, afraid to trust the bottom.

I let her go, hands open, nothing threatening. I study her as she regains composure: her shoulders roll back, spine locks straight. She’s assessing me now—wary, but not afraid to show dominance.

She steps back and plants her boots solidly, eyeing the drop-off where she almost died. Then she looks at me—really looks. I feel her gaze run up my arms, absorbing my tattoos, across my chest, to my face. It lingers on my mouth, then skips away.

“Thank you,” she says, voice steadier. “I don’t know what happened. I guess I—”

“You trusted the trail,” I finish for her. “Bad habit.” I smile, just enough to show I mean no harm, just enough to let her see the wolf behind my teeth. “You’re far too clumsy for your own good. I can’t leave you alone now.”

She bristles again, but this time there’s heat behind it. I see it in the way her pulse jumps under the skin of her throat, in the way her left hand balls into a fist, knuckles going white.

“I can manage,” she says, but there’s no conviction. She glances over her shoulder, then at me. “Do you hike here often?”

The question is a test. I can smell it.

“Every day,” I reply without hesitation. I’ve never been here in my fucking life.

She huffs, a sound halfway to a laugh, and rubs her arms as if she can erase the memory of me holding her. “Well, you’re my hero for the day. But you can go now.”

“No,” I say, calm and absolute. “I’ll walk you out. The slope’s bad this season.”

I actually have no fucking idea if that was true, but hopefully it is.

She weighs the words, turning them over in her mind. I can see her wanting to protest, to reassert control, but the shock isn’t out of her system yet. Instead, she takes a shaky breath and gestures down the trail, as if she is the one leading the way.

We walk, not together, but in parallel, like animals circling the same kill. She glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. I let her. I want her to. Her curiosity is a raw nerve, and every time she looks my way it’s like a dare.

“You’re not from around here,” she says at last. “The accent.”

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Nope. I’m from the States. Figured I’d come here, vacation for a few months.”

“Interesting.”

We descend in silence for a while, the crunch of gravel and the sigh of wind the only conversation. She’s less wary now, or maybe just more tired. When she slips again, this time she catches herself, and I see her smile in triumph at the tiny victory.

“Thanks again,” she says, when the ground evens out and the parking lot is in sight. “Really.”

I nod. “You’re welcome. Watch your step next time, Brooklyn.”

The use of her name lands like a stone in a still pond. She turns, surprised, a flicker of alarm crossing her face.

I wait, let the moment expand. “You dropped your phone,” I explain, holding it out. She hadn’t, but I want her to think about how I know her name. I want her to think about me.

She takes the phone, fingers brushing mine for an instant too long. “Right. Thanks.”

“See you around,” I say, and watch her walk away, hair swinging behind her like a banner.

She doesn’t look back until she’s at her car. When she does, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are wide with something between fear and fascination.

She gets in, starts the engine, and sits for a moment, staring into the steering wheel.

I wait until she’s driven off before I allow myself to smile. It’s not satisfaction. It’s hunger.

She’ll never know peace again.

And neither will I. Not until she’s mine.

The world is full of watchers and runners, of monsters and girls who want to believe they’re immune to the hunger of others. But the truth is simpler: some wolves don’t chase. They wait, patient, until the pack thins and there’s only one left.

This is how obsession begins: not with lust or violence, but with a question that only one person can answer.

Will you let me consume you? Devour you? Would you give me your soul in exchange for mine?

I will have her answer. One way or the other.

And when I do, the world will shift again.

Little Fox will be mine, whether she wants to be or not.