Page 11 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)
The mask is there, hanging like a severed head on its hook.
Half red, half black, horns curling back from the brow.
The eyes are dead and blank and empty, a void to stare through.
It’s cut off just below the nose. I run my thumb over the paint, the smooth rise of the horns.
It fits perfectly when I slide it on, the leather straps tight behind my skull.
Next, my knife, a gleaming strip of steel honed to a razor edge.
The rope she found, coiled neat, ready to tie her hands in front of her.
I feel alive in a way I haven’t in years.
The trees are still dripping from last night’s rain, small splatters on me as I take off jogging.
It’s not long before I find the tracks her feet left when she slipped and crashed into a bush.
I hear her before I see her—heavy, ragged breathing; the slap of feet on wet ground; the crash of brittle twigs.
She’s moving fast, fueled by adrenaline and the terror of what we just did.
I follow the trail, tracking the sound of her panic.
I take my time, listening to her path grow wilder, more erratic.
She veers off the old logging road, into the denser thicket, where the branches will claw at her arms and face.
I imagine her blood blooming in thin lines, bright against her skin, the cold air biting the sweat that beads down her chest.
I move at a light jog, knowing she’ll tire out soon.
By the time I catch up, she’s on her knees in the brush, hands pressed to the earth, trying to catch her breath.
Her hair is tangled with leaves, her shins streaked with mud.
She looks up, wild-eyed, and I know she sees the mask first—the demon, the monster, the nightmare that followed her out of the cabin and into the waking world.
She screams, but her voice is raw and broken. She staggers to her feet, stumbles forward, crashes through the last tangle of undergrowth.
That’s when she sees him.
He’s not from here. Out-of-towner, probably.
Backpack, flannel, boots too clean to belong.
Short, kinda wimpy looking. Light hair. Not a threat.
Maybe a lost hiker, maybe someone trying to camp nearby.
She barrels into him, wraps her arms around his neck, babbling, crying, clutching him like he’s the last branch on a cliff’s edge.
A growl rises in my throat as I step behind a tree to see what she says. That just simply won’t do.
“There’s someone after me—please, you have to help, please, he’s—”
He steadies her, putting himself between her and the woods. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he says, looking over her head. “Who is chasing you?”
She’s shaking so hard her teeth rattle. She turns, points, and that’s when he sees me as I step out and into the path.
The hiker’s face blanches, then settles into something like determination. He sets his jaw, squares his shoulders, and steps forward, chest out, like he’s got something to prove. He pushes her behind him. A little show of bravado.
How cute. Willing to die for a girl he hasn’t even had a taste of.
“Back the fuck off,” he says. “Leave the girl alone.”
I say nothing. The mask is enough.
He takes a step closer, his hand reaching for something—a phone, maybe, or a knife.
I let him close the gap, watch the calculation in his eyes as he tries to size me up.
He glances down at the blade in my hand, the rope slung over my shoulder.
For a second, I see his confidence waver, the bright spark of heroism guttering out. But he masks it well.
“Hey, man. I don’t know what your problem is, but you need to walk away right now.”
He puts his hands up, palms forward, trying to deescalate. It would almost be funny, if it wasn’t so sad.
I let him talk. I let him feel the hope swell up in his chest. Then I move.
He doesn’t see it coming.
I close the distance in three steps. The knife is out and up, slicing through the air.
He manages to get a hand on my shoulder, but it’s nothing—no more than a mosquito on a dog.
I bury the blade in the soft space below his jaw, twist, and pull free.
Blood jets out in a hot, pulsing arc, splattering across my mask, across Gianna’s white, terrified face as I push him away from me and towards her.
The hiker tries to scream, but it’s all gurgle and blood. He drops to his knees, clutching at his throat, red pouring over his fingers. His eyes roll up, wide and shocked. He collapses in the mud, twitching, then still.
Gianna is frozen. She doesn’t even run. She just stands there, staring at the corpse, hands over her mouth, stained with his life force. The world is silent except for the wet drip of blood onto the ground, the ragged wind through the trees.
I pull off the mask and let her see my face. Let her see the man, not the monster.
She doesn’t scream. The only indication that she even understands what happened is her eyes, tracking the blood on her hands, on my skin.
I walk up to her, so close she can feel my breath. I wipe a smear of blood across her cheek, red bright on her skin. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move at all.
“You see?” I whisper, voice raw. “There’s no one here to save you.”
I press the mask into her hands, closing her fingers around the horns.
She takes it, numb, eyes glazed and vacant.
I turn her face up to mine, thumb still sticky with blood, and kiss her.
I want her to taste it. The possession, the hold I have over her.
I want her to know what’s real. She needs to understand that she became everything to me the moment she stepped foot in these woods.
Shrugging the rope off my shoulder, I grab her hands, putting my mask back on, and tie them in front of her. She doesn’t even fight me, and I can see the fight has drained out of her.
Pity that killing someone was all it took. I took her for more than that.
Her hands are slick with blood from when she tried to grab him. She doesn’t protest, doesn’t even try. Her face is pale except for the smear across her cheek.
Behind us, the forest is silent. Even the birds are smart enough to stay quiet.
I make her look. I stop us at the body, force her to open her eyes and take in the stillness, the ruin of the man who thought he could save her. The smell is thick, coppery, sharp. I kneel beside him, unhurried, and press my hand into the open wound, the heat of it still alive and throbbing.
I look up, let her watch as I smear it down my face, then across hers, bright red streaks like war paint.
“Was his life worth your little run?” I ask, voice muffled behind the mask.
She doesn’t answer. Her teeth are clenched so hard I think they’ll shatter. Her chest rises and falls, breath a thin whistle through her nose.
I stand, step into her space, close enough to hear her heavy breathing, to feel it fan over my skin. I lift her chin with the tip of my blade, gentle as a lover, and study her eyes.
“Look at you,” I murmur, “covered in someone else’s mess. You’re perfect.”
Her knees give out, but I catch her, haul her up against my body, her feet just barely ghosting the ground.
I kiss her, forcing her mouth open, let her taste the death on my tongue. She chokes, almost retches, but I hold her tight, one blood-slick hand cupping the back of her neck.
“Bad little bird,” I whisper against her lips. “Trying to fly away.”
She shudders, and slumps into my chest as I lift her off her feet and sling her over my shoulder.
She’s limp. Not unconscious, not broken, just… surrendered. I like the weight of her. I like the way her hair brushes my back, the way her feet dangle, like she trusts me, even though it’s clear she doesn’t.
She has to know I’d never hurt her.
As I walk, I hum, low and tuneless. The same lullaby I heard as a child, the only thing I remember from before I became this.
At the cabin, I set her on the couch. I cut the rope, but she doesn’t move, just stares at her hands, the red slowly fading as I rub the life back into her.
I crouch in front of her, peel off the mask, let her see my real face.
She looks at me, eyes red, devoid of emotion. “What now?” she whispers.
I brush a strand of hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. “Now,” I say, “you learn how to stay.”
She starts to cry, quiet and steady, tears carving clean rivers through the blood on her face.
I watch, content. The world is quiet again. Everything exactly where it belongs.
Mine.