Page 25 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Sixteen

Knox

The walk back is slow and we’re riding a high.

I sling her over my back, piggyback style, her thighs bracketed against my hips, her arms looped tight around my throat like she wants to squeeze the life out of me or maybe keep me forever.

I’m fine with either. Her weight is nothing.

I could carry her through hell and not break stride.

Blood still streaks her skin, the black-red drying into warpaint.

Her breath stirs my hair at the nape, hot and unsteady, and every time I feel it, I get hard again.

I didn’t even let her put her pants back on and the wetness from her pussy is seeping through my shirt. I want to drown in her.

Gianna’s lips graze my ear, a shudder running through her that isn’t from the cold. Her legs flex around me. Sometimes she laughs, but it comes out shaky, like the muscles in her throat don’t remember how to make joy.

Halfway back, I slow down just to see if she’ll complain. She doesn’t. She tugs my hair and says, “You smell like wet dirt and violence,” and I laugh so hard I almost drop her.

“You love it,” I tell her. I want to turn and see her face, but instead I just keep moving, cutting a path through the black until the trees thin and the lights from the cabin bleed through the mist.

She shifts her grip, arms cinching tight enough to choke. “You think I’m a monster now?”

I shrug, her body moving with the motion. “No. I think you’re finally honest.”

She goes quiet after that. The rest of the trip is just the hush of needles underfoot, her heartbeat slamming against my spine.

When we break through the last line of trees, the night splits open: porch light buzzing like a drunk wasp, but the promise of what’s inside was the true prize.

Heat, a shower and whiskey. She doesn’t let go until I shoulder through the door and stand in the middle of the living room, our breath hanging like smoke.

“Down, little bird,” I say, but she doesn’t move. I have to pry her off, finger by finger. When I set her on her feet, she staggers, then grabs my wrist for balance.

Her face is feral. Blood and mud and sweat streaked together, her hair a wild snarl. Her shirt is torn open, one nipple peeking through the fabric and she’s naked from the waist down, and I don’t look away, not even when she catches me staring.

“You’re a fucking god, did you know that,” she says, voice low.

“So are you.” I grab her by the waist, my hands spanning the bruises I left. “You want a drink?”

She nods. I can see the tremor in her jaw, the way her teeth chatter, not from fear but from whatever it is we’re building between us.

“You can go put on one of my shirts, but leave that pussy free for me.”

She giggles and runs down the hall before coming back a minute later. I go to the cabinet and pull the only decent bottle I own: cheap whiskey, brown as old teeth, but it burns clean and that’s all I care about. I set out two glasses, pour them deep. She watches my hands as I slide her a glass.

“To endings,” I say.

She lifts hers and clinks it to mine. “And to beginnings,” she adds with a small smile.

We drink. The first swallow scorches its way down, and she coughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I want to take her hand and suck it off her fingers, one at a time.

“You’re still staring,” she says, half-accusation, half-dare.

“I like what I see.” I don’t blink. “I always have.”

We sink onto the couch, the ancient springs giving way under our combined weight.

She curls her legs under her, her thighs denying my eyes the pleasure of seeing between her legs.

There’s a cut across her shin that gives me pause.

I’m not gentle about it—I yank her ankle up, resting it across my knee, and inspect the wound.

She tries to pull away, but I hold her still, running my thumb around the edges of the cut.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, and the way I say it makes it clear I’m not just talking about her leg.

She laughs, but it’s soft. “Everything hurts. But I like it.”

“Yeah?” I meet her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. The pain is a reminder. The pain means she’s real.

I let her go and refill our glasses. The bottle’s already half gone, but she doesn’t slow down. She drinks like she’s trying to forget about who she was and step into this new version of her.

After a while, the buzz settles in, smoothing the edge off her tongue. She leans back and stares at the ceiling, the lines of her throat elegant even under the mess of blood. “Tell me something,” she says softly.

“Ask.”

She turns her head, her eyes dark. “Do you ever dream? Like, have you ever wanted something so bad it made you sick?”

I swallow, not ready for this kind of interrogation. “Not really.”

“Liar,” she says. She grins, then takes another gulp. “You wanted me.”

She’s right, but I don’t say it. I reach for her hand instead, tracing the lines in her palm. She sighs.

“Dreams are for people who think they’ll live long enough to see them come true,” I say. “I never did.”

She sits up, sudden and fierce. “What would you do if you could have anything?” Her voice is urgent, like the question is burning her from the inside out.

I think about it. I think about a hundred things I could say, but all I want is what’s right in front of me.

“I’d keep you,” I answer. “Forever.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. She holds my gaze, and I see something bloom in her that wasn’t there before.

“Good,” she says, voice rough. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, her legs trapped in the little triangle it creates, the whiskey burning a hole through my ribs. “Your turn,” I say. “What do you want, Gianna?”

She bites her lip, chewing it raw. “I want to see the world. All the places I never thought I’d be brave enough to go.

I want to swim in every ocean, climb every mountain, eat every disgusting street food until I puke.

” She stops, laughs at herself. “I want to be the kind of person who takes what she wants, instead of waiting for permission.”

I nod. “That’s easy. We’ll do it. I’ll take you everywhere.”

Her eyes are glassy, but not from the whiskey. She wipes at them, embarrassed.

“You’re really fucking weird, you know that?” she says.

“Yeah,” I answer, grinning. “But you love it.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “God help me, I do.”

The truth is, I have never once in my life believed I’d survive long enough to want anything.

Even now, with the wild animal warmth of her curled up against me, the quiet tick of the clock and the aftershocks of violence still buzzing in my teeth, I can’t picture a tomorrow. Not in the way she means it.

The last half an hour she’s grilled me on my future goals, and all I could say with certainty is what she already knew. I wanted her.

She’s now half asleep on my chest, eyelids at half-mast, lips parted, breathing slow and deep. Her hand rests on my stomach, fingers twitching with the dream she’s about to drop into. I could let her sleep, but I don’t want her too.

I tip my glass, let the burn coat my throat, then say, “You ever hear the story about the kid who watched his father strangle his mother to death?”

She doesn’t move, but I feel her pulse speed up where her wrist lies across my belly.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I go on. “I was eight. My father was drunk. My mother tried to hide me, but it was already too late. He’d always been an asshole, but that night he was a fucking devil in a cheap suit.

” I flex my fingers around the glass. “He killed her in front of me, slow and careful. She fought hard. You ever see someone try to survive something they know is inevitable?”

She shakes her head, just the tiniest bit, but I know she’s listening.

“I pissed myself,” I say. “I remember it clear as anything. The shame of it. The dark stain down my leg. My father didn’t even see me.

When he was done, he wiped off his hands on her dress, went out and never came back.

Not for a year anyway. I’d been shipped off to live with my aunt, but when he came back, they gave me back and I had to watch him drink himself half to death until finally he succeeded in dying. I was the only one left.”

Gianna’s hand goes rigid on my stomach. For a second, I think she’ll get up and leave. Instead, she moves closer, curling in like a question mark, face pressed to my chest.

“I grew up in state care after that. My aunt didn’t want me around.

Too many mouths to feed, she said,” I continue, because now that I’ve started, I can’t stop.

“Bounced from one shithole to another. Learned to take a punch and how to swing a meaner one back. Learned that love is just another word for who gets to hurt you the most.”

The room is so quiet I can hear the blood roaring in my own ears.

“I never thought about dreams,” I say, and my voice is so flat it doesn’t sound like me at all. “Never made sense to, when the next minute was always a question.”

Her breathing is shallow now, her hand curled into a fist against my side. I hate that she’s hurting, hate that I put it there, but I need her to know. I need her to see the bones under the skin, the dark under the paint.

“I wondered,” she whispers, her voice so soft it’s barely more than a ghost. “How you learned to hold on so tight.”

I stare at her, the crooked line of her nose, the bruised swell of her mouth, the blood caked under her nails. She looks like a fucking disaster, and I love her more than anything in the world.

“Because if I let go,” I tell her, “I’d disappear.”

She shakes her head, defiant even now. “You’d never disappear. You’re too much.”

I almost smile. “No such thing as too much.”

She sits up, the blanket pooling around her hips, and her eyes are wet. I hate that I made her cry. I reach for her face, thumb catching the tear as it slides down. Instead of wiping it away, I drag my tongue over it, tasting salt and skin and the sharp, bright edge of something new.

“Don’t cry for me,” I say, voice barely more than a rumble. “You taste delicious.”

She laughs, the sound broken but perfect. “You’re such an asshole,” she says, but her eyes never leave mine.

I lean in, forehead to hers, breathing her in. “Yeah,” I whisper. “But I’m your asshole.”

She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, then kisses me, the move awkward and messy and exactly right.

We sit there, holding each other, the silence thick but not uncomfortable. I run my hands down her back, slow and easy, mapping the ridges and valleys of every curve.

She’s still whimpering a little when I pull her into my lap, but it doesn’t make her soft. If anything, it sharpens the line of her jaw, makes the blue in her eyes starker, brighter. She blinks at me, confusion and awe warring with some new, bottomless hunger.

I watch her like a cat watches a half-crushed mouse. The urge to finish her off is matched only by the thrill of watching her realize how much she loves being with me.

“Do you understand what this is?” I ask her.

She hesitates. Then she shakes her head. “No,” she whispers. “I’ve never—” Her breath hitches. “I don’t know if I want to understand.”

I smile, slow and sure, and let her sit in the silence until it hurts.

“I’ll tell you,” I say, hand sliding up to grip her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes. “It’s obsession, Gianna. It’s need. It’s fucking violence, dressed up as love. You don’t run from that. You run to it.”

Her tongue flicks over her lips. She’s shaking, but she’s not afraid.

I bend her head, exposing the long white stretch of throat. “You never will, you know,” I murmur, lips just below her ear. “Not unless you’re running from me.”

Before she can answer, I bite her. Not hard enough to draw blood—this time—but enough to mark her, to bruise the flesh and make her feel it every time she swallows.

She gasps, whole body arching into mine, hands clawing at my back for something to hold on to.

I let her squirm, let her fight, let her writhe on my lap while I taste her salt and sweat. I don’t stop until I feel the heat pulse through her, a wet, beautiful surrender.

When I let go, she’s panting, dazed, eyes wide and glassy.

She laughs, shaking her head like she can’t believe how much she loves it. “You’re going to eat me alive,” she says, half fear, half prayer.

I wipe the tear track from her cheek, licking the last drop from my fingertip.

“Yeah,” I say, mouth full of her. “And you’ll beg for more.”

That’s what love is, when you strip it down: hunger and hurt, locked in each other’s jaws. I want her like a wound wants closure, like a starved lion wants meat. I want her to never, ever forget that she’s mine.

And she finally gets it. She finally understands what it means to be loved by a monster. She finally understands what it means to become one, too.

That’s what makes us perfect. That’s what makes us work.

The darkness that creeps into the light without extinguishing it whole.