Page 13 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

I watch, numb and alive at once, the air in the room thick with violence and eggs and the weird, relentless certainty that none of this is over.

Not by a long shot.

The rest of the day passes in a kind of trance, the hours pooling and spreading like old blood on linoleum. I don’t move from the couch for a long time. Every time I close my eyes, I see the hiker’s mouth opening, closing, trying to beg for air. I hear the wet rattle, the knife catching on bone.

At some point, Knox disappears into the back room. I hear him moving things, the thud and scrape of wood, the hum of low music. For a while, I think he’s forgotten about me. I wonder if he’s going to sleep, if he dreams, if his dreams are as loud and bright as mine.

I pull a throw around my body, try to remember what it feels like to be clean, to be untouched. There’s a bloodstain on my ankle, a thin line where it dried in the hair. I scratch at it until the skin turns raw.

I don’t realize I’ve dozed off until I wake to the smell of food again. This time it’s chili, tomato-sweet and full of cumin and spice, the kind that sticks to your ribs and won’t let go. My mouth waters and my stomach flips, but I’m not sure if it’s hunger or dread.

Knox appears with a tray, sets it in my lap, and sits next to me.

Not across, but right next. His thigh is pressed against mine, a hot, deliberate line.

He picks up his own bowl and starts eating.

I stare at my food. The spoon shakes in my hand.

The beans look like tiny, petrified organs. They’re red. Like the hikers blood.

I eat anyway, because that’s what he wants. Because I want it, too, and because it’s easier to let him decide what happens than to fight the undertow. I try to eat slowly, but my body betrays me, and I finish half the bowl before I even taste it.

He watches, just watches, never blinking.

He wipes his mouth, then licks the spoon clean, tongue curling over the metal in a way that makes my skin go tight and hot. I hate that I notice it. I hate that I feel my pulse in places I shouldn’t.

“Um… thanks. For the food. Not for keeping me kidnapped here.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “You’ll come around.”

He stands and collects both bowls in one hand. I think he’s going to leave, but instead he leans down, so close I can see the individual stubble on his jaw.

“I need to shower, there’s something so… beautiful about the way you watch me, watching you and I have an issue to take care of. You can join me and take care of the mess, if you’d like. I’d love to see how beautiful that mouth is around my cock.”

My mouth drops open and I’m at a loss for words. Who the fuck does he think he is to talk to me like that?

He’s already down the hallway before I can try and formulate a protest.

He leaves the bathroom door open, lets the sound of water fill the cabin. It’s a challenge. An invitation. A leash.

I stare at the door for a long time. I try to remember the rules of survival. Stay calm. Be obedient. Wait for a mistake. I don’t know if the mistake is going to be his or mine.

My legs are jelly when I finally stand. The air in the hallway is steamy, warm. I stop at the threshold, just out of sight, and listen.

He’s in the shower, humming again. The same song as before. Something low and foreign and full of minor chords. I should run. I should barricade the door and call for help, even if no one would hear me. I should do anything except step forward.

But I do. I do because he told me to, and because some part of me—the dark, broken part—wants to watch him.

He’s turned away from me, water running down his back in thick, streaming lines. His muscles shift and bunch with every movement, every small adjustment. There’s a constellation of scars across his shoulders, white and ragged. He’s not just a monster. He’s a survivor.

I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, not sure what to do with myself. It’s… weird.

Watching him like this. Seeing him vulnerable.

He turns, slowly, and looks at me. He’s naked, and the sight of it is almost too much. His body is beautiful, in a brutal, dangerous way. The kind of beauty that would crush you if you got too close.

He doesn’t beckon. He just waits.

“Come here,” he says. The words are soft, but they hit me like a fist.

I step forward. He holds out a hand. I take it.

He pulls me into the shower, fully clothed, and the water is so hot it stings my skin. He wraps his arms around me, and I stiffen, expecting pain, expecting violence. But he just holds me there, under the spray, hands on my shoulders, his head bent to rest against mine.

We stand like that for a long time. I can’t tell if I’m shaking or if he is.

He turns me around, gently, and starts to strip the wet clothes off me. His fingers are careful, reverent, almost tender. He strips me down to bare skin, and I let him, because what’s left to lose?

He lathers my hair, working his fingers through the knots. He washes my back, my arms, every inch of me. It’s not sexual, not exactly. It’s more like erasing, more like starting over.

He rinses me clean, then shuts off the water. He wraps me in a towel, presses his lips to my temple, and lets me go.

I hate him. I hate myself more for wanting him to touch me again.

He dresses and leaves me in the room, alone. It feels like it takes me forever to get dressed and head out into the kitchen. I’m getting tired of the same shit everyday.

Only this time, the kitchen is empty and there’s a note on the counter.

GONE TO FIX YOUR CAR.

A thrill shoots through me as I head towards the front door and test the lock. It’s unlocked. An oversight?

I stare at it for a long time. My hands shake, but I can’t tell if it’s fear or the withdrawal from adrenaline.

I want to run. I want to stay. I want to slam my fist into his perfect fucking face and scream until the world ends.

Instead, I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit at the table, legs folded under me, back straight, just waiting for the next move.

God, I have to take this chance. It might be the only one I have before he kills me the way he killed that hiker.

The silence stretches until it starts to vibrate, until the air hums with it.

I move, slow and careful, back to the door. This has to be some kind of joke. A guy like Knox doesn’t just fuck up. I stare at it, dumbfounded, for a full ten seconds before I push the door open.

It’s not a taunt. It’s a dare.

He wants me to run because he wants to hunt me. He wants to chase me down. He wants me afraid but aching for him.

He has to catch me first. I pull on my shoes and straighten my shoulders. I survived a fucking storm, I could survive running a few kilometers to the main lodge.

The outside world is cold and damp and smells like pine needles and rot. The forest is thick, but not impassable. The path is right there, a thin dirt line leading down to the lake, down to the lodge, anywhere but here.

Freedom. If I want it.

I hover at the threshold. The sky is silver and fat raindrops start falling. Of course. Why wouldn’t it fucking rain? The wind cuts through my shirt and makes my nipples hard, the fabric sticking wetly to my skin. I want to cry, but the tears won’t come.

I take a step outside.

The earth is wet and soft. Every footfall is a betrayal, every movement too loud.

I walk, then jog, then stop and turn, looking back at the cabin.

The windows are black and flat. There’s no movement, no shadow.

If he’s fixing my car, then I need to go around it, through the copse of trees on the outskirts of the trail to avoid a run in.

But I know better.

I run.

I don’t make it ten yards before I hear him. Not footsteps, not breathing. Just the sense of presence, the way a storm front feels before it breaks. I duck behind a tree, my breath clawing at my ribs, and try to make myself small.

It doesn’t matter. He finds me anyway.

He’s there, right behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body through the bark. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t need to.

“I knew you wanted to play hide and hunt,” he whispers, his voice a low, rough rumble, “keep running, little bird. I’ll be right behind you.”

I turn, slow, and see him.

He’s wearing the mask. Fixing my car, right. There’s something in the way he’s standing that makes me pause. He’s somehow soft, yet strong, calm yet on edge. It’s beautiful and terrifying and so perfectly him.

He doesn’t move.

I could run. I could scream.

Instead, I just stare.

He tilts his head, the gesture so human and so monstrous at once that it makes my bones vibrate.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll give you a head start.”

I run. I run until the trees blur, until the air is hurting my skin, until the world is nothing but the sound of my own pulse and the certainty that he’s right behind me, always, forever, just close enough to touch.

I run because I want to live. I run because I want him to catch me.

I run because I finally understand the game.