Page 28 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Eighteen

Knox

She’s still got blood dried along the curve of her jaw, mud crusted up her shins, hair tangled in thick, wet snarls. If she were anyone else, I’d tell her to clean up. But she’s perfect like this. Raw. Real.

The walk home is a blur, like the forest has closed in around us, muffling everything but the slap of my feet and the faint, ragged sounds she makes.

Eventually I move her into a cradle position.

She buries her face in my shoulder and I can’t tell if she’s crying or laughing or just fucking wrecked.

Doesn’t matter. I carry her the last half mile like she’s a prize I just dragged out of the pit.

At the cabin, I kick the door open. My foot hits the splintered wood with a thud, echoes off the walls.

Inside is the same as we left it: cold, dark, smelling faintly of fire and rot.

I set her down gentle on the couch, and for a second, she just sits there, staring at her own hands like they don’t belong to her anymore.

I want to say something, but what the fuck do I say?

She killed a man and then sucked my dick, and then I burnt her camping spot to the ground.

Pretty sure there’s no real words to express how she’s feeling right now.

Instead I go to the hearth, scoop last night’s ashes into a tin, and build a fire the way my father taught me: crumple, stack, light, wait.

The flames catch quick, licking up the dry kindling, throwing weird orange shadows across the floor.

It’s warm. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to thaw out bones gone brittle with cold.

It was short-sighted of me not to let us dress before going out, but whatever, we survived.

I strip out of my wet shirt, toss it over the back of a chair.

She watches, eyes following the movement, but there’s no shame in it now.

I let her look. I want her to see all of me—the scars, the bruises, the map of violence that is my body and my history.

She’s shivering. Not from fear, I think, but from the aftershock. The come-down after the kill. I know the feeling. You ride that wave until it spits you out, then you’re left shaking, desperate for anything solid.

I grab a blanket and drop it over her shoulders. She makes a noise, a soft huff of surprise, then pulls the blanket tighter. Her face is a mess. Blood, snot, streaks of dirt. I want to clean her up, but I know better than to mother her.

Instead, I cross to the old side table, the one that she snooped in not too long ago. I reach in, and pull out what I’ve been hiding for days.

It’s the bird.

Not just any bird. It’s a little wooden thing, carved from pine, wings spread like it’s about to take off. I spent hours on it, the kind of labor that would have made my father laugh. I sanded the edges smooth, hollowed out the eyes, burned her initials on the base. G.V. For her.

I was going to give it to her last week. But she wasn’t ready. Hell, I wasn’t ready. When she found it, she freaked. Rightfully so, I suppose. I could have given it to her then, but I didn’t think it was time. Didn’t want her to think I was some kind of creep with a hobby, or worse, that I cared.

Now I don’t give a fuck. I walk over and set the bird in her lap, right on top of the blanket. I don’t say a word. Just wait.

She picks it up, turning it over in her hands, running a finger along the underside.

When she spots the initials for the second time, her breath catches.

She looks up at me, and for a second, I see the old Gianna—the one with the sharp tongue and the shit-eating grin.

It flashes across her face, then it’s gone, replaced by something I can’t name.

“You made this, right?” she asks, voice hoarse.

I nod.

She giggles. “You really are a psycho, you know that?”

I shrug. “You’re the one who stabbed a man tonight.”

She sets the bird down, stares at it. The silence stretches until it almost hurts.

Then she says, “I’ve been thinking.”

The words are soft, but there’s a spine of steel in them.

I settle in the armchair across from her, sprawling out like I own the room. “You want to talk, talk.”

She hugs the blanket closer, knuckles white. “I’m going home, Knox.”

I frown. “Mmmm, I don’t think so.”

She flashes her teeth. “I’m not finished.” She takes a breath, lets it out slow. “If you want to actually be with me—and I don’t mean own me, I mean be with me—you need to understand something.”

I arch an eyebrow, waiting.

She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I can fight and claw and resist things I don’t want. I might be a little bird, but this little bird’s got a beak and claws and I’m not afraid to use them.”

For a second, I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let the words tunnel into my chest, digging around for whatever heart I’ve got left.

Then I laugh, low and slow. “I expect nothing less.”

She looks surprised. Not much, but enough that I catch it. She was expecting a fight. She was expecting me to bark or snap or try to break her down.

Instead, I stand and walk over, kneel in front of her so we’re eye to eye.

The blanket slips down, pooling at her waist. Her legs are bare and trembling, but she doesn’t flinch when I touch her knee.

The t-shirt she’s wearing is dirty and wet, but I don’t move to help her out of it. I like the way it sticks to her skin.

“I want you because you’re dangerous,” I say. “I want you because you never let me win easy. I want you because when you look at me, you see what I am and you don’t run.”

She swallows, hard.

I put my hand over hers, covering it completely. “I could have anyone. But I want you. Even when you’re a mess. Especially when you’re a mess.”

She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to laugh, but I cut her off.

“And if you ever grow tired of me, you can leave. I won’t chase you. I’ll want to. But I won’t.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Then, “You’re full of shit.”

“Yeah, I am,” I say. “But it sounds good.”

We stay like that, my hand wrapped around hers, her other hand gripping the bird so tight I worry she’ll crush it.

I look at her, really look. Mine .

But for the first time, I think: Maybe I’m hers, too.

She doesn’t let go of the bird until I pry it gently from her hand. I set it on the table next to her, a totem for her to reach for if she needs it. Her skin’s cold and clammy, so I wrap my fingers around her ankle, feeling the trembling in her calf.

She looks at me, frowning. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer. Just dig my thumb into the arch of her foot, slow, deliberate, right at the spot where the muscle knots.

I’ve never done this for anyone before. My hands are more used to breaking things than fixing them.

But I remember the way my mother used to press her fingers into my father’s ruined hands after a fight, the way he’d go soft and quiet under her touch.

I want to see if Gianna will do the same.

Her eyes go wide when I start. She jerks her foot back, but I hold it, not hard, just enough to say: stay. I work my thumbs along the ridge of bone, up through the tendons, kneading out the tension one inch at a time.

She tries to fight it. “Seriously, what is this?”

I shush her, the same way I’d shush a child, and keep going.

I do her other foot, too, slower this time, tracing circles with my knuckles.

Slowly, I lean forward, brushing my lips over her skin.

Her breathing changes. It gets heavier, almost ragged, like she’s about to cry or scream.

I knead up to her ankle, her calf, the long line of muscle that’s still spattered with dirt from the woods.

She shifts on the couch, clearly uncomfortable with this kind of attention. She’s used to being handled rough, thrown and fucked and bruised. But this—this is different. This is mine, too.

“Lie back,” I say, soft but with the kind of authority she knows not to question.

She hesitates, then lets herself fall into the couch, head lolling on the cushion. The blanket slips further, exposing the curve of her thigh, the fading bruises barely visible now. I want to mouth each one, taste the proof that she belongs to me, but I make myself wait.

Instead, I slide my hands up, one on each leg, kneading the knots out of her calves, her quads. She twitches when I hit a sensitive spot behind her knee, but doesn’t tell me to stop.

The longer I do this, the more she melts. I can see it in her face—the way the lines go slack, the way her eyes drift closed. Her lips part and she makes these little noises, half moan, half sigh.

I could keep going forever. I want to. I want to spend hours mapping every inch of her, learning the way her body responds to every pressure point, every touch.

My hands reach her thighs. I squeeze, gentle at first, then harder, letting my fingers sink into the soft flesh. She bites her lip, trying to stifle a whimper.

“You like that,” I say, not a question.

She opens one eye, lazy, almost drunk. “It’s weird.”

“Why?”

“I’m not used to you being nice.”

I grin. “This isn’t nice. This is me taking what I want, just slow.”

She laughs, a real one this time, but it gets caught in her throat when I dig my thumbs into the line where her thigh meets her hip. She’s ticklish there, but she doesn’t pull away.

I keep going, slow, methodical, up and down, never breaking contact. Her skin gets warmer under my hands, color returning to her cheeks.

She’s breathing faster now, chest rising and falling in rhythm with the pressure of my touch.

I could fuck her right here, pin her down and make her come until she cries, but I don’t. Not yet. This is about patience, about making her want it so bad she begs.

I keep my voice low. “You trust me?”

She hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I do.”

I move up, fingers skimming under the edge of her shirt, tracing circles on her hipbone. She’s wearing nothing underneath, just bare skin, hot and smooth. I take my time, working slow up to her ribs, back down to her knee, then up again, every pass a little closer, a little deeper.

Her hands are curled into the blanket, gripping tight.

“You can tell me to stop,” I say.

She doesn’t. She just shivers.

I lean in, mouth at her ear. “Say what you want, Gianna.”

She’s silent for a minute, then quietly, “Don’t stop.”

It’s all I need.

I shift her on the couch, so she’s sprawled out, arms above her head, legs open for me. I shift between her knees, hands gliding over her thighs, kneading, stroking, claiming.

She whimpers when I squeeze the inside of her thigh, and I do it again, harder, just to watch the way her body arches.

“God, Knox,” she says, eyes half-shut, “you’re killing me.”

“That’s the point.”

I take her foot in my hand again, lift it to my mouth, and press a kiss to her ankle, then to the inside of her knee, then up, up, up. I kiss every bruise, every scratch, every place she’s broken.

She’s shaking by the time I get to the top of her thigh. Her hands are fisted in the blanket, white-knuckled.

“Relax,” I say, and massage her again, gentler this time, coaxing her muscles to let go.

She does. She lets go so completely I think she might float away.

I don’t let her.

I keep her right here, tethered to the earth by my hands.

This is mine. This is all I’ve ever wanted.

And I’m going to take my time with it.

Her body is pliable under my hands, all the sharp edges gone liquid. I watch her… the flush creeping up her chest, the slow roll of her throat when she tries to swallow her moans. I don’t touch my cock, but it’s throbbing, hard enough to hurt. Doesn’t matter. She comes first.

Always.

I put her knees on my shoulders, spreading her open. She makes a noise, half-protest, but I smother it with my mouth.

The first taste of her is sinful and sweat and something so fucking sweet I almost lose it. I drag my tongue slow, from the soft cleft at the top of her thigh to the slick heat between her lips. I take my time, mapping her out, learning what makes her buck, what makes her cry out.

She’s wild, squirming, trying to twist away from the pressure of my mouth. I clamp her hips in place, hands bruising into her skin, and keep going. I want to eat her alive. She’s divine.

My tongue circles her clit, gentle at first, just teasing. She shivers, nails digging into the couch cushion. When I suck it between my lips, she yelps—sharp and bright—and tries to close her legs. I won’t let her.

“Knox, fuck,” she gasps, voice strangled. “It’s too much—”

I ignore her, working her harder, faster, then slow again just to watch her squirm. She’s slick and swollen and perfect. I slip two fingers inside her, twist them up, and she damn near levitates off the couch.

Her eyes roll back, mouth falling open. I fuck her with my fingers, steady and deep, never letting up with my tongue. Her whole body goes rigid, then loose. She whimpers, breathless, a sound that’s all surrender and disbelief.

She comes once, then twice. The first is a tidal wave, the second a desperate, gasping aftershock. I don’t let up. I want her ruined, want her sobbing, want her to remember this every time she tries to come without me.

The third one breaks her. She screams, grabbing my hair and yanking, but I don’t stop until she’s slumped boneless, shaking, tears streaking her face.

Only then do I slow down, licking her clean with slow, careful strokes. I press soft kisses to her thighs, her stomach, the inside of her knee.

She’s a mess. She’s perfect.

I sit back on my heels, cock throbbing so hard it’s painful. But I wait. I want to see her eyes.

She blinks up at me, dazed, cheeks stained with salt.

“Why—” she starts, but can’t finish.

I climb up over her, propping her head on my arm, and brush the hair out of her face. “Because you’re mine,” I say. “Because I want you to remember who you belong to.”

She laughs, shaky and spent. “I don’t think I’ll forget.”

“Good.”

She stares at me for a long time, searching for something in my face. When she finds it, she smiles, slow and lazy.

“Come here,” she says, tugging me down. I let her. She kisses me, tasting herself on my mouth, moaning low in her throat.

I could fuck her now, split her open and fill her up, but I don’t. I just hold her, my hand cradling the back of her neck, her body melting into mine.

She runs her fingers through my hair, lazy and soft. “You’re something else,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.

I grin. “Yeah. But at least now you won’t forget me.”

She grins back, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she pulls me closer.

I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want her, and yet… if she were to tell me she wanted to walk away, I’d let her.

Not because I want to, but because I’d give her the fucking world, even if it meant putting an end to mine.