Page 16 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Eleven

Gianna

I wake up still handcuffed to the bed.

I figured he’d have at least undone it last night, but no such luck. I may have to use my feminine wiles to seduce him. As much as he intrigues me, I can’t seem to get over the fact that he killed that man without remorse.

If he has no remorse, what the fuck could he possibly feel for me besides obsession?

The pain in my shoulder registers before anything else.

Every muscle in my body feels tight. My mouth tastes like defeat and adrenaline and the faint ghost of his skin, but I’m not going to think about that.

I’m not going to think about the way his hands felt, or the way he said my name, or how I said his right back.

I focus on the chain, the cold press of steel, the bite of the cuff against my wrist. I pull, slow at first, then hard, but all it does is drag the metal link across the post and make the wood groan.

Maybe if I ask him nicely, he will let me go.

It’s too bright. I shut my eyes and try to remember what happened, but my brain only coughs up scraps. Maybe it’s the trauma that’s been inflicted on me in such a short period of time. Brain’s short circuiting so that I can survive.

Block it out and fight.

The taste of iron, the sound of his voice, the heat of his breath at my ear. The chain rattling with every thrust. His laugh when I said “please” and how I hated that I meant it.

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. There’s a knot of wood above me that looks like an eye. I stare at it until the tears burn off. I will not cry. I will not give him that.

Instead, I inventory the damage.

My wrist is chafed raw, a red ring encircling the bone like a cheap tattoo. My thighs are bruised, inside and out, the colors already blooming blue and purple. There’s a constellation of fingerprints on my hip, perfectly spaced, each one a little trophy he left behind.

I try to reach the nightstand with my free hand. It’s just out of range. I grab the sheet and pull, dragging the lamp closer inch by inch until it wobbles and tips over, clattering to the floor. There’s nothing under it except dust and a single hair tie. Useless.

I laugh. The sound is wild, and I have to bite my lip to keep from going further.

That’s when I hear him.

The careful tread of boots across the floor. The pause at the door. He knocks. He fucking knocks.

I roll onto my side, twisting the chain so it bites deeper into my skin, and wait.

He opens the door with his foot, carrying a tray balanced on one hand. Food. I watch the steam rising off the mug, the neat little sandwich triangles, the orange sliced into perfect moons.

He doesn’t look at me right away. He sets the tray on the dresser, like this is a normal morning and I’m not chained to the bed like a dog in heat.

Then he turns.

His eyes are flat. Not cold—there’s too much fire in them for that—but empty, like he’s emptied himself out to make more room for me. He doesn’t smile. He just stares.

“Good morning,” he says.

“You’re a real gentleman,” I say, rattling the chain. “Breakfast in bed is a classic touch.”

He tilts his head, studying the way the cuff has cut into my wrist. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not as much as you probably hoped.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks up the sandwich and holds it out, just out of reach.

“Eat,” he says.

I make a show of sighing, then grab the sandwich with my free hand. I take a bite, slow, never breaking eye contact. It’s ham and cheese, just enough mustard to make my tongue burn. The bread is stale. I eat anyway.

He sets the tray on the bed and crouches, close enough that I could kick him if I really tried. He studies the ring of bruises on my thigh, his fingers hovering above the skin but not touching.

“You’re healing fast.”

“You keeping score?”

He looks up, meets my gaze. “Always.”

I finish the sandwich in three bites, wipe the crumbs on the sheet. I want to throw the plate at his head, but I know he’d catch it. I want to hate him, but my body remembers every second he’s touched me, and I hate that more.

He stands and produces a tiny silver key. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, so small it could disappear if I blinked.

“I’m going to unlock you,” he says. “Don’t do something you’ll regret, little bird.”

I nod.

He unlocks the cuff. The pressure releases in a rush of blood, and I have to clench my fist to keep from moaning. He doesn’t move, just stands there, watching the way my hand trembles.

“There’s a change of clothes in the dresser. Cassidy’s old shit, it’ll be tight, but I think she has some weird stretchy dress. Get comfortable Gianna, we’re going to the lodge today for a grocery top up,” he says. “Shower if you want. I’ll wait outside.”

He leaves, closing the door with a soft click.

For a second, I just sit there, free hand clutching my wrist, the rest of me shuddering with the shock of movement.

Then I stagger to the dresser, open the top drawer, and pull out a t-shirt and sweatpants.

Fucking hell. The sweats are way too small.

Grabbing the dress he talked about, my mouth fell open.

It’s a clubbing dress. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?

Frustration claws through me, but I carry it into the bathroom with me. I miss my own clothes. Goddamn, I miss having a toothbrush. My hairs a wreck. I wanna go home.

The bathroom is tiny, but clean. The soap is unscented, the towels white and threadbare.

I strip and step into the shower, cranking the heat until the water scalds my back.

I scrub until the skin is red, until the bruises stand out like stains on a painting.

I scrub between my legs, over my wrists, behind my ears.

I want to erase him, but all I do is make myself raw.

When I finally step out, the steam has fogged the mirror. I wipe it clean with my palm, then stare at my reflection.

I look like hell. My eyes are ringed with dark circles, my cheekbone is swollen, my lips are chapped and cracked. I look like a girl who’s been dragged through the woods and fucked into submission.

I look like a girl who liked it.

I punch the mirror, not hard enough to break it, just enough to see the white flash of pain in my knuckles.

The dress is warm. I sink into it, relishing the softness even as I hate it. The t-shirt falls to my mid-thigh, I towel my hair dry, then tie it back with the hair tie.

Then… I feel the wet between my thighs.

Fucking fantastic. I’ve got my period and I’m stuck in here with the equivalent of a fucking shark. Maybe he will smell it, go feral and eat me.

When I open the door after shoving wads of toilet paper in the underwear I am forced to keep reusing, he’s waiting.

He stands at the end of the hallway, arms folded, leaning against the wall like he owns the place. Like he owns me.

He does. He fucking does.

I walk past him, refusing to flinch. He follows, slow and measured, every step a reminder of who is in control.

“It’s good we’re going to the lodge, my period started.” I state.

His eyebrows raise. “Is that so? You aren’t due for another week.”

I choke on my shock. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.” He sighs. “No matter, you can choose to bounce on my cock to help your cramps, or bleed yourself into a little painful ball.”

“You’re fucked.”

“Meh.” He gestures to the couch. I sit, hands folded in my lap, and stare at the floor.

He sits across from me, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on my face.

“You remember last night?” he asks.

“No,” I lie.

He smiles, the first real smile I’ve seen. It’s small, private, like a secret he doesn’t plan to share.

“I think you do.”

I meet his eyes, and something in me breaks. The chain is gone, but I’m more trapped than ever.

I look at my wrist. The mark is already fading, the skin pink and tender. I wonder how long it will take before the rest of me heals.

I wonder if I want it to.

“No, Knox, I think all the trauma you’ve forced on me has short-circuited my brain and now I’m basically a smooth brain.”

He chuckles, a loud, warm sound that makes me pause. Damn, I like that way too much. “You’re a funny girl, Gianna.”

We don’t talk for a long time. The fire cracks and pops. I listen to the sound of his breathing, slow and even, like he’s mastered the art of calm just to show me how badly I lack it.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“You want to know how this started?” he asks.

I shrug. “Why not. We have all day, but just remember, I’m bleeding so if your aim is to stain this couch before we go to the lodge, you’re doing just fine.”

He leans back, stretching his legs until his foot brushes mine. He doesn’t pull away. I don’t either.

“My brother,” he says. “Well. Not my blood brother. But may as well be. Kairo is the one who started all this, commissioned Noah into letting us use his cabin.”

I roll my eyes. “What, like, hunting people for fun? That kind of game?”

He smirks, a slow, mean thing. “Not at first. At first, it was just talk. Fantasy. Stories around the fire.” He glances at the flames, and for a second I see something flicker behind his eyes. Not regret. Hunger. “But the stories weren’t enough. Not for Creed. Or Kairo. Or Slade.”

“Those real names? Stupid fucking names. Makes sense though, Knox. ”

“Real enough.”

I rest my chin on my hand. “So, what? They picked up girls at bars and brought them out to the woods? Told them it was some rustic fuckfest and then let them run for their lives?”

His mouth curves. “The first time was just some chick who had the same kinks. I think it was Creed who found her. Over time it evolved into some kind of mission to find ‘the one’ and stayed that way. Out of all of us Creed was the worst. He went through women so often we never knew what the fuck was up. Slade is a close second, but he just enjoyed the hunt. Not so much the after, if you catch my drift. Kairo had held out. Found Harbor a few months ago and they’ve been happy ever since. ”

“And you?”

He takes his time with the answer, rolling it around in his head before he spits it out. “I never participated. Not really. I just… watched.”

I almost laugh. “So you’re the pervert in the corner with the camera? The guy who jerks off while the real monsters do their thing?”

He doesn’t react. Not even a twitch. “Maybe. Or maybe I was just waiting for the right girl.”

He says it so quietly I almost miss it.

I stare at him. “You mean me?”

He nods.

The room feels smaller, the air thick and heavy. My heart pounds, too loud, and I know he can hear it. He drums his fingers on the table, slow and steady, the rhythm matching the thud in my chest.

“Why me?” I ask, hating the way my voice breaks at the end.

He shrugs. “Because you fight. Because you don’t just run—you make me want to chase. You make me want to catch you.”

I should be terrified. I should be disgusted. Instead, my skin is hot, my palms sweat, and I can’t look away.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes locked on mine.

“You know what I think?” he says.

I don’t answer, because I don’t want to.

“I think you like it. I think you want to be caught. I think your idiot ex showed you that you wanted more. Needed more. And I think despite the fact that I killed a man in front of you, it doesn’t really matter to you.

You like the fact that I’m so obsessed with you that I’d do something like that.

But you don’t want to admit it because what kind of sick woman would that make you? ”

“Go fuck yourself,” I say, voice sharp.

He grins, flashing those infuriatingly perfect white teeth. “Maybe later. For now, I’d rather fuck you.”

I feel my cheeks flush. I hate that he can do this to me, hate that my body answers to him before my mind has a chance to protest.

“Do you know what they called it?” he asks, voice low. “The hunt?”

I shake my head.

“They called it ‘The Night Game.’ Because everything happens after dark. No rules. No witnesses. Just you and the woods and whatever you can get away with.”

He places his hands on the back of the couch, trapping me in place. His breath brushes my ear.

“I love the way you run from me, Gianna.”

I close my eyes, willing myself not to shiver. It doesn’t work. “You’re demonic.”

“Yeah, baby, but I’d be Satan himself if you’d be my queen.” He stands and leans down to grab my hand and pull me up. “Come, let’s go to the lodge. No funny business, Gianna, I mean it. I’m not above gutting guests.”

Goosebumps travel down my arms. “Fine.”

The smile he gives me somehow makes me fear him, while also making me want to sit on his perfect fucking face.

Maybe I will later.

Just to ease the cramps.