Page 32 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Epilogue

Gianna

I used to love the city. I used to think it was alive—churning, electric, a million stories all crammed together just waiting to be uncovered.

Now, every time I look out my window, all I see is sadness.

Desperation. Being a housewife for the last two months has been great, only… I know Knox isn’t happy.

The blinds are drawn so tight you’d think the sunlight was a stalker. The glass is sealed with duct tape—Knox’s handiwork—to keep out “the bugs,” which is code for neighbors, traffic, and whatever else he feels we need protecting from.

He’s sitting at my old kitchen table, hunched over his laptop, typing so hard the keys sound like they’re groaning in protest. He’s been working for Kairo’s business the past few weeks, some kind of hush-hush security gig that involves a lot of encrypted spreadsheets and not a single second of fresh air.

His face glows blue from the screen; everything else is shadow.

He hasn’t shaved his face in a week. His beard is growing out, along with the hair that’s now falling in his eyes, almost hiding the color that used to knock me dead.

I watch him from the hallway, arms crossed, weighing whether it’s worth starting another fight about “the cave.” That’s what I call our living room now, since the sun hasn’t touched the floor since we moved in together.

My old paintings—flaming reds and screaming blues—look faded in this light, like they’re embarrassed to still be hanging up.

I’m not one to judge a man for losing his edge, but I can’t help cataloging the difference.

In the woods, Knox was an animal. All sinew and muscle, eyes flicking to every movement like he was starved for it.

He was violence in a shirt that barely fit, and it turned me on more than I care to admit.

Here, he’s a ghost of himself—pale, sullen, quick to irritation and slow to everything else.

I don’t know how to make him whole again.

I scratch at a bruise blooming on my forearm, a gift from last night.

We fucked like we were trying to kill each other, which, in a way, we were.

My thighs are still sticky from the after.

My neck’s got a half-moon of purpled bite marks that I traced in the mirror this morning, memorizing the pattern in case he ever stops leaving them.

But now, in the daylight, he’s different. Neutered. Tame.

I lean against the doorframe. “You gonna eat something today, or just mainline coffee until you have a heart attack?”

He doesn’t look up. “Not hungry.”

I wander in, kicking aside a mound of takeout containers.

Some are from last week, some older. The kitchen smells like sour sauce and the metallic tang of burnt plastic.

Sure, I’m a housewife, but even I need a break sometimes, and Knox is a difficult man to please on the best of days.

I open the fridge and laugh when I find an entire drawer devoted to Red Bull and nothing else.

I pull one, pop the tab, and take a long, gluttonous sip.

Knox pauses in his typing. “That’s my last one.”

“Maybe if you left the apartment, you could get more.” I make it sound like a joke, but the words curdle in the air between us.

He slams the laptop shut and leans back, pinching the bridge of his nose. His fingers are stained from the wood polish he’s been using on the old table, the one I insisted on keeping even though it’s ugly as sin. “We’re not doing this right now, Gianna.”

He always says my name instead of calling me little bird. It makes me sad.

“Fine,” I say, and wander to the living room.

It’s worse here: pizza boxes stacked like failed Jenga, the couch slowly dying under the combined weight of our bodies.

The hunting knife he used to carry on his hip is propped on the coffee table, next to a copy of Infinite Jest and a half-empty bottle of Four Roses.

I pick it up, test the edge with my thumb. Dull. Just for show now.

There are days when I wonder if we made a mistake. Maybe we should have stayed feral, out in the wild, eating each other alive instead of melting down in a city that doesn’t want us. Maybe Knox needs to kill something every now and then to feel right. Maybe I do, too.

I hear him pacing in the kitchen—back and forth, back and forth, like a zoo animal working a rut into the floor. When he thinks I’m not watching, he’ll pace for hours. If I catch him, he’ll freeze, go rigid, and pretend he was just stretching.

I flop onto the couch, legs splayed, and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a new water stain above the light fixture, shaped like a face screaming. I try to count the cracks in the drywall but lose interest after three.

This is how most days go: me killing time, him killing himself by work. The sex is the only thing that feels honest, and even then, sometimes I catch him with his eyes closed, like he’s picturing someone else. Maybe himself, as he used to be.

I rub the bruise on my arm, trace the outline with my fingernail until the skin raises in protest. I want to show it to him, see if it triggers anything in that dull animal brain. But I know it won’t. He’s too far gone for that.

I could fix this, probably. I could throw open the blinds, drag him out by the hair, force him to face the world until he remembers how to be hungry again. But I’m not his fucking therapist, and anyway, part of me likes him this way. Broken. Malleable. Easier to keep.

I shut my eyes and listen to the pacing. It’s almost soothing, the regularity of it. Like a heartbeat you can’t escape.

If this is what forever looks like, I’ll won’t stand for it it. I’ll be damned if I let it get boring.

Knox is in the shower, which means I have exactly twelve minutes to save his life.

He’s always the same in the morning: up at dawn, a punishing run through the city streets, then a scalding shower long enough to turn his skin the color of boiled shrimp.

It’s the only routine he hasn’t managed to ruin yet.

I watch the bathroom door, steam crawling out under the crack like a living thing, and I count down the seconds.

His phone sits face-down on the counter, screen already splintered from last week’s tantrum.

I pick it up, thumbprint override, easy.

He hasn’t changed the passcode since we left the woods—one more little sign he’s not really here, not really present.

I scroll past the calendar reminders, the texts from Creed and Slade and the rest of his feral support group, and land on the only number that matters.

Kairo Evans. The King of the Crazies.

I don’t hesitate. I hit call.

He picks up on the first ring, like he’s been waiting for this moment. His voice is low, a rasp that makes my skin crawl. “Yeah?”

“It’s Gianna.” I keep my voice low, glancing at the bathroom door. “Knox is dying here.”

A pause, then a laugh, sharp and bright. “Took you this long to notice?”

“It’s not a joke.” I want to punch the wall, but I’d just break my own hand. “He’s losing it. I’m losing him.”

Kairo hums, considering. “You want out?”

“I want the woods.” I let the silence stretch, hang him with my need. “Is there somewhere we can go?”

He doesn’t answer for a long time. I hear a click—maybe a lighter, maybe a gun, maybe him pulling out the tweezers to masturbate.

Finally: “Cabin thirty-three is empty. Noah won’t notice, not for a couple months, at least.” The way he says Noah’s name is almost reverent, like he’s talking about a dead god.

“Will it be enough?” My voice goes thin, almost begging.

Kairo snorts. “Nothing’s ever enough for you two. But it’ll keep you alive. Just don’t get comfortable. You want to stay, you build your own. Creed is the one you want.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thank you.” The words taste weird, unfamiliar.

He hangs up without saying goodbye.

The bathroom fan kicks on, drowning out the pipes.

I set the phone back down and press my hands to the counter, staring at the reflection in the microwave door.

I look like a raccoon who lost a fight with a lawnmower.

My hair’s a rat’s nest, and there’s a bite on my collarbone that’s already scabbing over. I poke at it, smiling despite myself.

The whole place smells like wet tile and old sex. I hate it, but I hate what comes after more. The usual routine of death and dying.

I slide open the junk drawer and start making a mental list. Knife, obviously. The one on the coffee table is dull, but the one in the bedroom—his favorite—is still sharp enough to shave with. And leave pretty little marks on my skin.

I glance at the clock. Seven minutes left.

I pull my shirt sleeve up, examine the finger-shaped bruises on my wrist from last night. They’re already turning yellow at the edges. I drag my nail across them, feel the heat simmer underneath. I could have stopped him. I could stop him any time. But I like the marks. I like the proof.

I wonder if he ever looks at his own bruises and thinks of me.

I pace the apartment, counting steps. The Egg is parked outside, tank full, battery barely hanging on.

We could be out of the city by noon if I play it right.

Knox has a meeting at ten, something with Kairo and a bunch of other wolves in sheep’s clothing.

But if Kairo is half as smart as Knox says he is, he will understand that he will in attending, alone.

If I time it right, I can have us packed and ready before he realizes what’s happening.

I check the phone again, just in case. Nothing. Kairo’s always been a man of action, not words.

I run through the plan in my head—pack, drive, get to Cabin 33. The idea of being back in the woods makes my whole body ache. I can almost taste the air, sharp with pine and decay, wet earth under my nails. I imagine Knox there, eyes alive again, the predator instead of the pet.

The shower shuts off. I freeze, every muscle tensed, as if I’m about to be caught doing something dirty. Maybe I am.

I tuck the phone back where I found it and grab a towel from the dryer. He likes them warm, says it’s the only thing that keeps him from breaking shit first thing in the morning. I hear the bathroom door creak, his feet bare and heavy on the tile.

He steps out, a cloud of steam following. His eyes are red, not from crying, just from existing. He looks at me, sees the towel, the bruises, the way I’m clutching the counter like it’s the only thing holding me up.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still thick with fatigue.

I smile, slow and sly. “Yeah. Everything’s perfect.”

He takes the towel, wraps it around his waist. He’s beautiful, in a way that’s almost cruel—cut and sharp and just a little bit damaged. He tilts his head, studying me, like he knows I’m up to something. Maybe he does.

He wanders back to the bedroom, leaves the door open. I watch him go, heart pounding with anticipation.

We’re getting out. We’re going home.

I glance at the clock again.

Four minutes to spare.

“We’re moving,” I say, interrupting his search for clothing.

He laughs, a single, bitter bark. “Right. I’ll call the movers. Get a place with more natural light. Maybe a fucking balcony.”

I shake my head. “No. Not the city. Not anywhere with a lease and a mailbox and a name on a deed.”

He looks at me, really looks, eyes narrowing to the predator’s slit I remember from the woods. “What are you saying?”

I stand up, stretch until my spine cracks, and walk to the window. I pull back the corner of the blackout curtain, let in a slice of dying sun. I turn to him, holding that gold in my palm like a dare.

“I talked to Kairo,” I say. “Cabin thirty-three. Pine Ridge. We leave right now. Pack your shit baby, we’re going home.”

He’s still for a heartbeat, maybe two. Then he’s up, crossing the room in three steps, hands in my hair, mouth at my ear.

“You’re serious,” he says. Not a question.

I nod, and he makes a sound—a low, guttural thing that’s almost a growl. The city dies in him all at once. His eyes sharpen, his hands get rougher, and he presses his body to mine until my breath comes up hard against my ribs.

He laughs again, but this time it’s joy. “You fucking maniac. You want to run wild again?”

I dig my fingers into his shirt, bunching the fabric at his waist. “I want to see you alive again,” I say, and the words almost choke me. “I want to see you hungry.”

He kisses me, open-mouthed and brutal, teeth clashing. He tastes like beer and blood and the promise of something better than survival.

He lifts me, pins me against the wall. My legs wrap around his hips, and I can already feel the monster waking up under his skin, desperate to be free.

“We leave as soon as I’m done fucking you half to death,” he says, voice hoarse.

I nod, biting his lip until he shudders. “Fuck me until I forget my name.”

His hands go everywhere—waist, thigh, throat. He marks me with every touch, as if we didn’t already belong to each other in ways that can’t be undone.

We fuck against the wall, hard and desperate, like we’re already in the woods, like there’s no one in the world but us and the hunger that gnaws at our bones.

When it’s over, I let him hold me, even though neither of us will ever say the words.

His breath is ragged in my ear, heartbeat wild against my back.

I close my eyes and count the seconds until we’re ready to get up and go.

I know he’s doing the same.

God, I love that man.