Page 19 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Thirteen

Gianna

The next three hours are the kind of limbo no one warns you about.

After the messy, hard-won negotiation of our morning—after the groceries, the sex, the deal—I expected Knox to go full psycho or at least disappear to the shed and start dismembering squirrels as a hobby.

Instead, he domesticates. He’s not a man who needs to fill the silence, but today he does.

He starts tinkering around the cabin. He fixes the drawer that squeaks in the kitchen.

I watch him as I pretend to read on the couch.

The book is nothing—just a prop, spine never cracked, pages smelling like sun-bleached paper and disappointment.

The real show is watching him: the way his forearms flex under the white t-shirt when he tightens the screws, the smooth, graceful way he moves around the space, always aware of where I am, even when I think he isn’t.

Sometimes he hums, but never a full song, just a threadbare melody that evaporates when I listen too hard.

It should freak me out. Maybe it does, but there’s something about it that relaxes the panic center in my brain. Maybe this is how hostages develop PTSD—a slow drip of ordinary kindness, almost accidental, until you’re rooting for your captor to make a perfect fucking omelet.

Every now and then, he’ll glance over at me, just a flicker, eyes the color of steel gone hot in a forge.

If he catches me looking, he doesn’t smirk or preen.

He just stares until I look away, flushed and pissed that I let myself get caught.

I snap the book shut and cross the room to see what he’s doing.

He’s standing at the sink, arms braced on either side, staring out the window. The woods behind the cabin are full of mist and dripping leaves, the trees skeletonized against the dull sky. The faucet is running, splashing over a glass that’s already clean.

I hover. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge me, but I can feel the heat radiating off his body. It’s both an invitation and a dare. My mind says: get out while you can, idiot. My body says: just lean into him a little. See what happens.

So I do. I bump his hip with mine, just hard enough that water slops onto his hand and down onto the floor.

He looks down at me, one eyebrow up, and for a second we’re just two people in a kitchen, fucking with each other.

“You break it, you buy it,” I tease. My voice is thin but not as shaky as I expect.

“Not a thing in this place I can’t fix.” He says it like a threat and a promise, then shuts off the water and wipes his hands on a towel. “You want something?”

I want to say, I want to know why you’re like this, why you need to own every room you walk into, why you touch me with such obscene tenderness when you just as easily could snap my neck.

I want to say, I want to understand why I’m not more afraid, why I feel like living in the woods could be home if I just let it.

Instead, I say, “How do you even know how to fix a cabinet?” I lean in, arms folded, mimicking his posture. “What are you, some kind of handsy survivalist?”

He shrugs, gaze never leaving mine. “Dad taught me before he bailed. If something’s broken, you fix it. Or you learn to live with the brokenness.”

“Is that what you’re doing with me?” The words are out before I can stop them.

He grins, slow and lazy. “What do you think?”

I think I want him to touch me again, even though I shouldn’t.

Instead, I snatch the towel from his hands and throw it at the table. He doesn’t react, just takes a step closer, the space between us going electric.

For a long time, neither of us speaks. I want him to say something cruel, to remind me that I’m not here of my own will, that every kind gesture is just a new thread in the noose he’s braiding for me. But he doesn’t.

Finally, I break. “You’re a weirdo.”

He puts his hands on my hips, just barely, fingertips burning through the fabric of my sweatpants. “So are you.”

It’s probably true. Who else would negotiate her own captivity over breakfast and then make a pact not to murder anyone else? Who else would stand in a kitchen, post-coital and post-trauma, and let the man who kidnapped her cradle her like she’s made of spun sugar?

He pulls me into him, and I let myself go soft against his chest. For a second, it’s okay to just be here, to listen to the birds outside and the clock ticking and the steady, deep beat of his heart.

He presses his mouth to the top of my head, a gesture so gentle that I almost flinch. But I don’t. Instead, I breathe him in, the smell of soap and cigarette smoke and something sharp underneath.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” I say it because it’s easier than arguing, because even if I don’t believe it all the way, I believe it enough for now.

He pulls back, searching my face. “You’re not just some toy to me, Gianna. You’re my forever,” he says, almost to himself.

“That’s what all the guys say,” I joke, but there’s no bite in it.

He snorts. “I don’t care if you believe me.”

We stand like that for a while, until the clock says it’s after four and the light through the windows goes from cold to blue.

He lets me go and returns to his project—this time, taping a torn screen on the porch.

I go back to the couch, but the book is forgotten.

I just watch him, watch the way he owns every inch of the space.

My phone is gone, of course, but the clock on the wall says it’s almost six when he finally calls me.

“You ever hike at night?” he asks, voice casual.

I blink, trying to process. “Is this a murder thing?”

He laughs, and it’s so genuine that I forget to be afraid. “No, Gianna. It’s a walk to the lodge. They’ve got a bar, and I think you could use a drink that isn’t instant coffee. Plus, you wanted dinner. Thought we could get some together since you’ve been such a good girl.”

He waits, letting me weigh my options. I know I’m not getting out of this, but I appreciate the illusion of choice.

“Sure,” I say. “But if you’re planning to hunt me, just know that I am starving so now is not a good time.”

He grins. “Noted. Go change, I found something for you to wear.”

I head into the bedroom and find a pair of jeans and a simple black shirt. Both my size. Half of me wonders how he got this, the other half doesn’t want to ask because I know it’ll be something creepy. Beside them is a red lace thong. No bra, because of course not.

After I put the clothes on, I head out of the bedroom and see him wearing dark wash jeans, a navy shirt and a black bomber jacket. He’s holding up a thigh length jacket for me. His eyes shine with appreciation and without thinking, I twirl.

“You look stunning.” He smiles.

“I’m not even going to ask how you got these.” I say in response.

“Meh, I had them here the whole time, I just enjoy watching you bust out of your clothing. Didn’t figure it would be an issue.” His shoulders shrug as he helps me into the jacket. “Let’s go.”

We step outside, the air biting, but thankfully not raining. The path to the lodge is visible, just a thin, muddy track between the trees. The last of the light catches on the wet leaves, turning the forest into something both dangerous and holy.

He offers his hand. I pretend not to notice, but when I trip over a root two steps later, he catches my elbow. His grip is steady, warm, unyielding.

We walk like that for a while, not speaking. I listen to the crunch of gravel under our feet, the wind in the pine needles, the echo of my own breathing.

After a few minutes, I risk a glance at him. He’s not looking at me, but there’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth. Not a predator’s grin, just something softer, almost sad.

I want to ask what he’s thinking, but I already know.

I want to ask if he regrets any of it, but I already know the answer to that, too.

We’re just two people walking through the woods, alone but not lonely, bound together by something I can’t name.

Maybe it’s trauma. Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s just that we’re both too fucked up to know how to want anything else.

Either way, I keep walking. Either way, I stay.

The thing about walking through a forest with your kidnapper is that there’s no protocol for it.

You’d think there’d be at least one guidebook, a pamphlet in a doctor’s waiting room, something with cartoons and a bulleted list of “Do’s and Don’ts.

” There isn’t. There’s just the sucking noise of your shoes in the mud, the wet slap of a low branch against your cheek, and the man who alternates between being your tormentor and your only lifeline.

We keep to the main path at first, but then he veers off. No warning, no explanation, just a sharp turn left into the denser brush. I almost protest, but I catch the look on his face—mischief, maybe, or just intent—and follow without a word.

The woods are alive in the weird, muted way they get just after sundown. Knox moves through it like he was built for this: low, smooth, and unerringly quiet for a guy with a solid eighty or more pounds on me.

I try to keep up, but my foot catches on something and I stumble forward. He grabs my arm before I hit the ground. His fingers bite in, but he steadies me, then doesn’t let go, just keeps hold of my wrist like he’s afraid I’ll float off if he stops.

“Careful,” he says. “This is where the animals hunt. Don’t wanna bleed here. Mountain lions come out this way for mating season.”

“You mean… there’s animals that hunt here besides you?”

He grins, but doesn’t answer.