Page 29 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Nineteen

Gianna

The kitchen hums with a different energy now.

The air smells like the leftovers from the lunch we grabbed yesterday.

He moves around the kitchen like a wolf in a suit that doesn’t quite fit, the sleeves of his t-shirt tight around his biceps, the muscles in his neck flexing every time he glances over his shoulder.

I watch him from the doorway, one hand clutching the edge of the flannel shirt I stole from his closet.

It drowns me, the hem brushing mid-thigh, the cuffs swallowing my hands.

If I let go, the whole thing would puddle at my feet.

But I keep holding on, knuckles gone bone white, like if I lose the fabric I might unravel right there on the peeling linoleum.

I can’t pinpoint the moment it happened, but I’ve fallen for this tall drink of fucked up and couldn’t imagine my life without his intensity in it.

He’s got the stove light on, as he moves, grabbing plates.

It halos his hair, showing off the dark auburn in his brunette strands, catches the scar at his temple, softens the sharpness of his profile.

He’s cut the chicken into even pieces and arranged it on two mismatched plates, taking more care with this than I’ve ever seen him take with anything except maybe me.

“You could have just microwaved it,” I say, voice pitched just above the sizzle in the pan.

He doesn’t look at me, just shakes his head, scraping the spatula in slow, controlled arcs. “Not the same,” he grunts. “Ruins the texture.”

“Jesus, who are you?” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, my tongue fighting the urge to tease him harder.

He shrugs, but there’s a tightness to the gesture.

“It’s not like I have a lot to offer, but I can cook.

” The words hang there, naked and pathetic, and I want to go to him, but I don’t.

Instead, I watch the way his hands move.

How he wipes them on the towel, fingers flexing and unflexing like he’s prepping for a fight.

Something in me darkens every time I hear him talk about himself like that. He doesn’t see himself accurately, and I don’t think I do either. But I want to learn. I want to learn him.

He plates the food with weird precision, wiping a smear of sauce off the rim before carrying both plates toward the bedroom. I trail behind, all bare legs and nervous energy.

He sets the plates on the bed, then sits cross-legged on the far edge, leaving a gap between us. I crawl onto the comforter, balancing my plate on my knees.

We eat in silence at first. I watch him chase every crumb, methodical, eyes fixed on the food like if he looks up the spell might break.

The chicken is cold at the center but I don’t care.

I swallow the first bite and it catches in my throat, like my body knows I’m not supposed to be here, not supposed to be happy. Yet, I am, anyway.

Halfway through his meal, he sets the plate aside and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers drum a staccato on the ceramic, rat-tat-tat, a Morse code of anxiety.

“You’re leaving soon, right,” he says, so soft I almost miss it.

My pulse skids. I set my fork down, focus on the way it glints in the low light, anything to keep from looking at him. “I have to. I can’t live here, Knox. Surely, you know that,” I say.

He nods, jaw tight. “Will you come back?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands heavy. He’s never said it outright before, never let himself look needy. I glance at him, and for once, he looks human. There’s a shine in his eyes that makes me want to crack a joke, but the words die in my throat.

“I don’t know,” I say, which is a lie. “I want to.”

He looks away, the corners of his mouth turning down. “You don’t have to,” he says. “If you want to be rid of me, just say it.”

I want to throw the fork at his head. “I don’t want to be rid of you, asshole.

” I say it too loud, the words bouncing off the walls.

“I just… I don’t know how to make you fit in my world.

My real one. With boats, and captains, and people who don’t eat dinner off a gun-cleaning rag.

Come with me. I know you have your own apartment, but you can come live with me in mine.

We can… we can try have something here.”

He laughs, sharp and sudden. “I’d ruin your life,” he says, almost proud.

“Maybe,” I shoot back. “But maybe it needed ruining.”

We go quiet again. He picks at the callus on his thumb, digging at it like there’s gold underneath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, so low I have to lean in. “I don’t know how to want things without fucking them up.”

I slide my plate with me as I crawl towards him, closing the distance between us. I grab his hand—hard, like I’m trying to prove a point. His skin is rough, warm, real. He flinches, before steadying himself. The only glimpse of weakness I’ve seen him have.

“I’m not leaving you behind,” I say. “I’m just going to try and see if I can be a normal person again. Maybe I’ll fail. Probably will. But I want you there when I do.”

He snorts. “You really want to parade me around your friends? Take me to work parties, introduce me to your boss?”

I squeeze his hand tighter. “Let them see what you made me.”

He looks at me, really looks, and for a second, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he just laughs, a low rumble that starts in his chest and works its way up. “No one will understand.”

I brush my lips over his knuckles, one by one, tasting salt and chicken grease and the sharp tang of him. “They don’t have to.”

He’s quiet after that. We just sit, hands clasped, the world outside shrinking down to the small space between our bodies.

The chicken goes cold, the silence goes warm, and for the first time I think maybe there’s a version of this story where we both survive. Maybe even together.

Maybe that’s enough.

When the last word dies in the air, it’s like the whole world is holding its breath, waiting to see if we’re going to wreck this or just let it sit there and be sweet for a second.

I could let the silence take over. Could let us melt into the mattress and pretend we aren’t two fundamentally fucked-up people with a combined trauma history the length of the Mississippi. But I’m not that girl, and Knox is not that guy, so naturally he has to ruin it.

He clears his throat, staring at the bones of his dinner. “If we’re going to do this,” he says, “like, actually do it, you have to quit your job.”

I blink at him, fork paused mid-air. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, the motion tight. “It’s not safe. That fucking cruise ship? If you go back there, I’ll have to come with you, and nobody wants that.”

I can’t help it, I start laughing. Not a little giggle, but a full-on, snorting, chest-spasming cackle. He’s so earnest, so determined to keep me under his thumb, but he doesn’t even realize how much I want him to do it. How much I want to be wanted, violently, obsessively, completely.

“You’re insane,” I tell him, still laughing.

He leans back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I mean it, Gianna.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say, voice thick with a happiness I don’t quite recognize.

He grins, feral and proud. “Good.”

The air between us goes soft, syrupy, sticky with unsaid things.

He reaches over, grabbing another bite of chicken with his fingers, and shoves it into his mouth.

I can’t take my eyes off his hands, the way they flex, the veins, the scar on his middle finger that never healed straight. I want those hands everywhere, always.

I set my plate down, legs tucked under me, and tilt my head. “Okay, nutbar, I’ll quit. Then what? You gonna make me a little housewife? Apron, pearls, fresh pie cooling on the sill?”

He chews, then swallows, the motion of his throat oddly hypnotic. “Yes. You want pearls, I’ll find you the biggest one. Diamonds? Done. Just don’t go telling me to buy you a fucking electric car. I know the shit batteries in those things because of the corners Kairo cuts with R&D.”

I reach out, grab his wrist, pull his hand onto my lap and hold it there. His skin is warm, pulse steady.

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be your little housewife. I’ll bake cookies and scream at you from the porch when you don’t mow the lawn.”

He snorts. “You’ll burn the cookies and forget to put on pants.”

“I’ll wear your shirts and nothing else,” I say, eyes locked on his.

He doesn’t respond, just stares at me like I’m the only thing in the room. His pupils go wide, and he’s breathing harder, like he’s already picturing it. The sexual tension is so thick it’s practically a third entity, sitting there at the end of the bed, salivating.

I let my hand slide up his arm, fingers tracing the line of his bicep, up to the tattoo that snakes around his shoulder. I press my thumb into the flesh there, testing his strength, and he flexes in response.

“You’d get bored,” he says, voice gone low. “You need chaos.”

I lean in, close enough that I can feel his breath on my cheek. “I have you for that.”

He grabs me, sudden and rough, pulling me across the bed until I’m half in his lap. I squeak, then smack his chest, but I don’t move away. I wouldn’t even if he asked.

“Fuck, you’re trouble,” he says, but he’s smiling. Like he’s proud of me. Like he’s proud of us.

We eat the rest of the food together, stealing bites from each other’s plates, licking sauce off fingers, trading insults and dirty jokes.

He tells me a story about the time he and his cousin got caught shoplifting beer as teenagers, and I can see the kid he used to be, hungry and mean and desperate for approval.

I tell him about the woman on the cruise who got so drunk she slept through an entire port, then woke up convinced she’d been kidnapped by pirates.

He laughs, really laughs, and the sound makes something inside me loosen, like a knot I didn’t know was there finally coming undone.

By the time we’re done eating, we’re both so full we can barely move.

I toss the plates onto the nightstand and collapse back, arms flung over my head.

Knox stretches out next to me, one hand coming to rest on my stomach, fingers splaying out, thumb tracing lazy circles over the thin cotton of the shirt.

“We should probably shower before bed,” he says, but neither of us moves.

“We should probably do a lot of things,” I mumble, eyelids heavy.

He’s already half asleep, mouth relaxed, breathing slow and deep. I shift closer, nuzzling into his side. His arm comes up, wraps around my waist, pulls me tight against him. Our bodies fit together like puzzle pieces—jagged, imperfect, but somehow just right.

I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong, vibrating through my ribs. I match my breathing to his, slow and even, letting it lull me toward sleep.

The room is quiet except for the sound of our hearts, the soft hush of fabric against skin. The world outside could end and I wouldn’t care.

For once, I don’t have to think about survival. I don’t have to wonder if tomorrow will be worse than today, or if I’ll ever be enough. I don’t have to do anything but lie here, safe in the arms of the man who ruined me, the man who made me whole.

Tomorrow, we’ll probably fight. Tomorrow, I might hate him again. But tonight, I am his, and he is mine, and that’s all that matters.

I drift off with his hand on my stomach and the scent of him in my hair, the taste of chicken still on my tongue.

Somewhere, in the inky dark between sleep and waking, I hear him whisper, “I love you, little bird.”

I don’t answer.

I just squeeze his hand, and hope he knows that’s enough.