Page 31 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

After, she falls asleep on my chest, drool pooling on my ribs. I don’t move. I just listen to her breathing, and I think about the cabin, and Creed, and the animal that lives inside me and what happens when it runs out of space.

In the morning, there’s a text from Creed. All it says is, “She’s better than yours.”

I laugh, for real this time, and toss the phone on the floor. Fucker.

She stirs, eyelids fluttering, then grins at me like she knows every secret I’ve got.

“Good morning, monster,” she says.

“Morning, little bird.”

And for a minute, it feels like home.

The mask stares at me from its perch on the bookshelf. The face is lacquered, black, painted with red lines that cut down the cheeks and end halfway down. I miss it. I miss what it makes me.

She’s making breakfast, for dinner. Eggs and something else that’s starting to burn. The air smells like ash and pepper. She’s humming, but there’s a hardness under it.

When I stalk into the kitchen, she doesn’t look up. Just cracks another egg, the shell splitting in her palm like it’s nothing.

“You want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Talk about what.”

She flips the eggs. “You’re pacing again. Last night you walked the whole block twice. You’re gonna get a reputation.”

I lean against the counter. “I don’t care.”

She doesn’t smile. “You’re not sleeping, either.”

She slides the eggs onto a plate and shoves them in front of me. I don’t bother with a fork. The yolk bursts under my fingers, hot and bitter.

She leans in, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, the way it never fully washes out the scent of me. She kisses my cheek, slow, then whispers in my ear:

“Put it on.”

I blink.

She says it again, softer: “Put on the mask.”

She walks away, hips moving slow, every step a dare. She heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The lock clicks.

I finish the eggs, not wanting to eat them, but knowing I probably should. I look at the mask again. It looks back.

I wait for the sound of the shower, the hum of pipes. Then I get dressed—black jeans, boots, the old grey hoodie with the fraying cuffs. I slide the mask into my backpack, next to the coil of rope and a roll of duct tape. Always be prepared.

When she finally emerges, hair wet and braided, she’s wearing a short black skirt, running shoes, and loose white t-shirt. She tosses me a look over her shoulder.

“Meet me at Ellison Trail,” she says. “I’m taking the Jeep, have fun with Egg.”

She grabs her keys, and then she’s gone. The door slams, and the apartment is silent.

I let the quiet sit for a second. Then I smile, slow and mean, and grab the bag.

The drive is a blur—traffic, billboards, the ugly sprawl of the city peeling away into a strip mall wasteland and then, finally, the trees. My blood starts to fizz.

Ellison Trail is a joke of a hiking path, three miles of groomed dirt with benches every quarter mile and signage warning about poison ivy and “natural hazards.” But just past the main entrance, the land falls away into a tangle of scrub and shadow, a real forest lurking behind the safety rails.

I park the car, kill the engine, and just breathe for a second. It’s better out here. The air is colder, cleaner. The sky is gunmetal, thick with clouds and the promise of rain.

I pop the trunk, grab the bag, and walk.

She wants me to hunt her. She’s been begging for it, in all the ways she knows I can hear.

I pick up her scent before I even see the first sign—her perfume, the cheap floral kind she buys by the gallon, cut through with sweat and the faintest hint of blood.

She’s clever, but she always underestimates how good I am at this.

The first marker is a pink thong, knotted around the branch of a dead tree. I laugh, can’t help it as I grab it and shove it in my pocket.

The second is a lipstick trail on the back of the trail sign, the word “Slow poke” scrawled in shaky red.

The third is her.

She’s running ahead, hair loose and wild behind her, legs slicing through the undergrowth. She glances back, once, and catches me watching and bursts out giggling. She slows down, just a little, and I know she wants me closer.

I let her run. I want her tired, I want her desperate. I want her to feel the way I do—heart pounding, mouth dry, vision tunneled down to a single point.

I cut off the path, moving through the brush, every step calculated. I know these woods better than she does, even if it’s my first time here. The city is behind me now. Out here, the rules are mine.

It doesn’t take long to catch up. She’s moving slower, watching her own back, not seeing the trap I’m building around her. I step on a branch, snap it loud, and she jumps, eyes wide. She looks right at me, and for a second, she smiles—real, unguarded, bright.

Then she bolts.

I chase, not run, just moving steady, patient, the way a predator should. I close the distance in five minutes.

She trips, falls, scrapes her knee on a rock. She scrambles up, bleeding and laughing.

“You’re getting old,” she taunts, voice echoing between the trees.

I don’t answer. I just slip the mask over my face, the world narrowing to a perfect, silent tunnel.

She stops when she sees it. Her breath fogs in the air. Her mouth is open.

I close the rest of the distance in three steps, and then she’s mine.

I drag her to the ground, pushing her face in the dirt.

She thrashes, wild at first, then goes limp as the zip of the rope bites her wrists.

I work fast, looping the cord around her ankles in an X so they’re spread wide open, cinching it tight so she can’t kick.

The forest floor is cold and wet, leaves sticking to her bare thighs, but she’s not complaining—she’s laughing, breathless, eyes gleaming under the curtain of hair.

So different to the first time we did this.

I flip her onto her back and yank the mask off. I want her to see my face. I want her to know who caught her.

Her smile is a red gash, hungry. “Took you long enough, old man.”

I don’t answer. I grab her by the jaw, thumb pressing against her pulse. It’s frantic, racing. I could choke her out if I wanted to. Instead, I let her feel the pressure. Let her remember.

“You want to run again?” I ask, low.

She shakes her head, hair falling across her face.

“Didn’t think so.”

The rope is rough against her skin, making red welts where it rubs. I drag the knots tighter, double loop the ends, then run a palm over her hip, testing the tension. She shudders, biting her lip. She’s so fucking wet, the smell of it is a pulse in the cold air.

I put my mouth on her. She arches, nearly bucks me off. I keep her down with one hand, tongue working her clit in slow, lazy circles. The taste of her is sharp, sweat and salt and the faint copper tang from the scratch on her thigh. She screams when I suck, the sound splitting through the trees.

“Knox, fuck—” She tries to wriggle out, but she’s not going anywhere.

I keep at it, slow, steady, until she’s sobbing, until the sound of her voice is half pain and half plea. Then I shove two fingers in, curling them to hit the spot that always makes her lose it. She spasms, clenching around me, the orgasm hitting so hard it cuts off her scream mid-word.

I pull back, licking her off my lips. She’s crying, but she’s laughing, too, helpless, every inch of her shaking.

“You’re an asshole,” she manages.

“Yeah,” I say. “But you love it.”

I undo my jeans, cock already hard, aching.

Flipping her over, I admire my rope work.

She’s beautiful, the lines cutting red into her skin, opening her to me like a flower.

I line up and push in slow, letting her feel every inch.

She’s so fucking tight like this, the rope pulling her knees up, making the angle brutal.

She moans, low and raw, the kind of sound that makes my head go white.

I fuck her hard, not holding back. The ground scrapes her back, dirt smearing her ass, but she doesn’t care. She’s begging for it, every thrust making her scream louder. I feel the wave build, the need to mark her, to fill her up, to own her completely.

She comes again before I do, body seizing, toes curling, fingers clawing at the leaves. I keep pounding, chasing my own high, until the pressure breaks and I’m emptying into her, hot and sharp and perfect.

For a minute, I can’t breathe. My head spins. I collapse onto her, letting her feel the weight, the truth of me.

She kisses my neck, slow, almost gentle.

“You’re never going to let me go, are you?” she whispers.

I shake my head, not even bothering to smile. “Not a chance.”

She grins, then head-butts me in the chin. “Good. I’d be bored as shit without you.”

We lie there after I untie her and check the marks, slowly rubbing sensation back into her. We’re tangled in rope and sweat and each other, the city just a shit blip on the horizon.

I roll over, sit up, then pull her into my lap. She curls up, arms around my neck, face buried in my shoulder.

“You ever get tired of this?” she asks.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

She laughs, softer this time, almost sweet. “Next time, you run. I’ll hunt.”

I consider it, then nod. “Deal, but I doubt you’ll catch me, little bird.”

We sit like that, the two of us, until the sun starts to rise. I don’t think about the city, or the future, or what happens when we have to go back. All I care about is the feel of her against me, the memory of her voice, the way her body fits so perfectly in my arms.