Page 20 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

After five minutes of walking, we break through a tangle of pine into a small clearing.

It takes me a second to realize where we are.

The cold firepit, the circle of logs, the black scar in the dirt—it’s my old camp site.

The place I started this entire disaster.

Everything is gone except a few things I didn’t pack, but there is still the stone circle, still the faint depression where my tent used to be.

He stops in the center and turns to face me. The setting sun, what little there is, falls on the sharp planes of his face, making him look both younger and harder than he does in daylight.

He waits until I catch up, then just says, “This is where I saw you.”

I should say something witty, but my chest is tight. “Creepy. You must have been thrilled when I arrived on your doorstep.”

He shrugs, shoves his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels like he’s auditioning for a role as “troubled yet irresistible lumberjack.”

“I knew I’d keep you,” he says. Not a joke. Just flat, like saying he knew the sun would rise or the river would flood if it rained enough. “I saw you and thought, that one’s mine.”

I want to roll my eyes, but the words land. Not soft, either. They thud somewhere low in my gut, vibrating like a struck bell.

I look around, trying to distract myself. “So what, you just stalked me for a while? Made sure I couldn’t get away?”

He smiles, a quick flash of teeth. “I wanted to see what you’d do. If you’d fold. If you’d run. If you’d break.”

He takes a step closer. The moon shadows his eyes, makes them unreadable. “You didn’t break.”

I cross my arms, defiant. “Not yet, but maybe tomorrow is the day I do.”

He tips his head, like he’s considering whether he likes that answer or not. “You won’t.”

I want to ask how he knows, but instead I blurt, “What’s your story, anyway? You got a degree in Creeping, or is this just a family tradition?”

He laughs, and for a second, the air gets lighter.

“Nah, my family didn’t care enough to keep me around, let alone teach me shit.

My dad taught me a few things in between being a drunk, but he didn’t give a shit much beyond that.

” He kneels by the firepit, digs at the blackened logs with a stick.

“You want the long version or the short?”

“Short. I don’t need your autobiography, just the SparkNotes.”

He pokes at the ashes, thinking. “Grew up in the city. Hated it and loved it at the same time. Dad was a gun nut, taught me to hunt and shoot before I could do multiplication. Mom was gone by the time I was ten. Dad drank himself to death by the time I was sixteen.” He shrugs. “The end.”

I blink, surprised at how fast he rattles it off, like he’s told this story so many times it’s just muscle memory.

“What about work?” I ask.

He looks up at me, eyes catching the moonlight for a second. “Work for a guy named Kairo. You’d hate him. Energy sector stuff. Creation and innovation of new projects.” He grins, a real one this time. “But what I really do? That’s more fun.”

I sit on one of the logs, ignoring the way the damp soaks through my pants. “Which is?”

He leans in, voice lower. “I move things. People, sometimes. Mostly guns. Some drugs, if the price is right. Off the books, off the grid. No one cares as long as the money’s good.”

He says it like he’s reading a menu, no weight, no apology.

I watch his face, trying to spot a tell—something that says he’s testing me, trying to see if I’ll flinch. But I don’t.

“Gun running,” I say. “That tracks.”

He laughs, the sound big and rolling. “You’re not surprised?”

I shrug. “Nothing about you is subtle. Besides, you handle a knife like a pro, and you’re way too casual about dead bodies.”

He lets that hang for a second. “You ever shot a gun?”

“A couple times. Boyfriends who thought it was hot to ‘teach a girl self-defense.’ They never realized I could shoot better than they could.” I can’t help the grin that creeps across my face.

He seems to like that answer. “Maybe I’ll take you to the range sometime. It’s by the ranger outpost you found”

I roll my eyes, but the idea isn’t as stupid as it should be. “Sure, as long as you’re the target.”

His smile stretches over his face and he winks.

We sit like that, both of us perched on opposite logs, staring at the dead fire like it’ll spark back to life on its own. The woods breathe around us, and I’m aware—painfully aware—of how alone we are, how the world feels both too big and too small at the same time.

He’s the first to break the silence. “You want to ask me something else.”

It’s not a question. He just knows.

“Why me?” I ask. “Why not any of the dozens of other girls who came through this place? Why risk your job, your life, whatever, just to… keep me?”

He thinks for a long time. Then, “You smell like survival. Like someone who’s been to the edge and decided to push back. Most people crumble when you show them who you are. You didn’t.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees. “I could spend a lifetime looking for that and never find it again.”

I look away, flustered. “You’re such a fucking psycho.”

He grins, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

He stands and brushes dirt off his hands before bending and picking something up, smoothly placing it in his pocket. It looked like a rock, but maybe he has a collection. I’ve seen weirder hobbies. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll miss dinner if we don’t move.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence, but it’s a different silence than before. It’s full, weighted with everything we said and everything we didn’t.

As we hit the trail back to the lodge, he slips his hand into mine. Not rough, not demanding. Just a quiet claim.

His palm is rough, warm, callused in a way that tells the story of his life better than words could. I let him hold it as we walk, not because I want to, but because it feels weirdly necessary. Like letting go would be admitting defeat.

The trail widens as we near the lodge. Little lights are strung up along the path, blinking through the trees like half-hearted Christmas. Knox doesn’t look at them, but I can see his face in the glow—more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, eyes crinkled at the corners, mouth soft.

“Tell me something real,” I say, just to see what he’ll do.

He looks down at me, brow furrowing. “Like what?”

“Anything. Something about you as a kid. Something that isn’t murdery or weird.”

He snorts, but there’s no bite in it. “I had a pet monkey once.”

“What? How the?”

“Meh, my neighbor was a crackhead and bought weird pets. Couldn’t take care of this thing and gave it to me. I dunno what happened to it but it was gone by the end of the week.” He shrugged, his jaw clenching.

“What else?”

“Well, I like trapping. Hunting and all that. The wait for something to step in the trap you set is unlike anything else.”

“That’s why you like watching me?” I ask, cocking a brow.

He squeezes my hand, not letting go. “It’s better than anything else I’ve ever hunted.”

There’s a strange comfort in that, even if it’s sick. I could say something mean, but instead I just walk closer, matching his stride. Our bodies move in sync, the way animals do when they’ve stopped pretending not to want each other.

We pass the last of the lights and head up the porch steps.

Before we reach the door, I pull him to a stop. He turns, curious.

“Your dad,” I say. “You talk about him like he was the hero and the villain in your story.”

He laughs, bitter. “He was both. Mean drunk, but he made sure I never forgot how to survive. He died in a gutter with a bottle in his hand. Maybe that’s the way he wanted it.”

He tries to make it sound like he doesn’t care, but his jaw clenches so hard I can see the veins pop in his neck.

“Sounds like you miss him,” I say, soft.

“Don’t know about that.” His voice cracks on the words, barely audible. “I just wish he could see me now. What I turned into.”

For once, I don’t have a smartass reply. I just let the words hang.

He looks down at me, searching my face for something. I’m not sure what he finds, but he lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles, slow and deliberate.

It’s the most intimate thing anyone’s done to me in years.

I look away, because if I don’t, I’ll lose my Goddamn mind.

He releases my hand and motions me down a smaller path. “I have something I want to show you before we go eat. Don’t worry, dinner will be served until late.”

“But I’m—”

“Please.” Something breaks in me the way he says it and I just nod, allowing him to lead me down the path.

I follow him, and for the first time, I think maybe we’re not predator and prey anymore.

Maybe we’re just two animals who found each other, in a world that doesn’t care if we survive.