Page 8 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Six

Knox

Morning is a lie. The sun pretends to rise in this shit part of the world, but all it really does is turn the sky from black to the color of old bruises.

The light that leaks through the windows is gray, weak, half-hearted.

I don’t usually love coming here because rains so much, but that’s the Pacific Northwest for you.

The embers in the fireplace have all but given up.

I didn’t see the need to keep them alive, not when I had something better to watch.

She is so beautiful when she sleeps. It’s quiet in here.

The kind of quiet you get when you wake next to a woman you want more than air, but all you can do is wait and watch.

So I do both, waiting for Gianna to shift, her small breaths catching now and then as she dreams about God knows what.

She’s wrapped in the blanket, blissfully unaware of the dirty thoughts that roam my mind.

She pulls it closer around her, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

It does nothing to hide the line of her hip, the bare length of leg she’s left exposed in sleep.

My shirt hangs off her, too big in the shoulders, almost obscene in the way it gapes around her tits when she rolls.

I’ve never wanted anything so much as I want to peel that blanket away and taste the skin beneath it.

The urge to touch her is an ache I’ve had since she walked into my life.

Since she caught my attention. The difference now is she’s breathing easy, safe, and all I want is to keep her that way.

She stirs. Her lashes flutter. I watch the moment her consciousness returns, slow and ugly like a hangover, her first instinct to curl into the warmth, her second to flinch at the unfamiliar.

She sits up, the blanket falling away, and her gaze lands on me with the dull suspicion of someone who’s been caught stealing.

I like that. I like the way she gets defensive before she’s even remembered her own name.

“Morning,” I say, and it comes out smoother than I mean it. I’m not a morning person, not a person at all most days, but she brings out something feral in me, a kind of animal patience. I watch her swallow the word, roll it around in her mouth like it might taste better the second time.

She looks away, trying to hide her discomfort at the fact that I didn’t sleep last night and choose to sit here, in the corner of the room, unable to look away from her. “You always get up this early?” Her voice is rough. It suits her.

“I like to see the world before it ruins itself,” I say, and it’s true.

I like to see things before the tourists piss all over them.

Rich fucks who come here. I don’t particularly care about the resort, much less the people in them.

I just hate when I’m interrupted. My silence is my own and small talk makes me rather homicidal.

She rubs her eyes. Her hair is a rat’s nest, dark and wild. It’s beautiful, actually. Makes her look like she survived something. “Is there coffee?” she asks, voice softer now, like she’s decided not to even acknowledge the fact that I can’t keep my eyes off her.

“Yep. I’ll get you a cup.”

I pour a mug, and head back into the room and hand it to her.

She doesn’t say thank you, just wraps her hands around the heat and drinks.

My eyes track every movement, the way her fingers grip, the way her lips part for the steam.

It’s almost a religious experience, a ‘coming to Jesus’ moment where I realize that I want to both devour and preserve her.

I could worship her, if I was the kind of man who believed in worship.

She drinks, then sets the cup down on the nightstand. Her eyes slide over to the door. I watch the tension draw her shoulders up, the subtle shift in her jaw. She’s thinking about leaving. Of course she is.

“I should check my car,” she says, not looking at me.

I nod, slow and deliberate, then shake my head. “You’ll want to give it a while,” I tell her. “Storm last night knocked out half the road. Trees are down, and the mud’s a mess. Besides, you’d freeze your ass off before you made it three miles.”

She bristles. “I’m not helpless.” The words are a reflex, I can tell. They come out clipped, defensive, like she’s had to say them a thousand times to people who thought she was.

“I know you’re not,” I say, softer than I want to.

“But you’d die anyway. Not for lack of effort, but because the world doesn’t give a shit about effort.

It only cares about who’s left standing at the end.

” I sip my coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug.

“You want to get out of here, you’ll need help. ”

She doesn’t answer right away. She looks at her hands, the calluses on her fingers, the fresh scabs from the hike. One’s I took time to clean last night. I want to run my tongue over each one, but I don’t move. I wait.

Finally she sighs. “When can we try?”

“Tomorrow,” I say. “Give the ground time to settle. I can look at your car then. Probably just a battery thing, maybe the starter. Either way, I’ll get you moving.” I let the words hang, then add: “If you want to leave.”

She blinks at that, and her whole body shifts a little. A tiny, almost imperceptible flinch. She’s not sure if she wants to go. I file that away, a small victory in a long war.

She stands up, the blanket dragging behind her, and starts to pace the room.

Her bare feet are silent on the wood. I watch the way she moves, the way she avoids the animal skin rug, the way she lingers by the window.

She presses her palm to the glass, breath fogging the pane, and I catch a glimpse of her in profile—shoulders squared, chin up, the muscle in her jaw ticking as she fights whatever war is happening in her head.

“You staring at me for a reason?” she asks, not turning around.

I smile, baring my teeth. “I like what I see.”

She flips me off, but it’s half-hearted. I can see the corners of her mouth twitching, the urge to laugh fighting with the urge to stay aloof.

She walks out of the room, to the couch, sits, pulls the blanket up over her knees. I follow like a lost fucking puppy. She watches me now, eyes narrowed, measuring. “You live out here alone?”

“No. I live in the city. Every now and then I come out here,” I tell her. “I like the quiet, even if I hate the fucking rain. I like knowing what’s mine.”

“And what is?” Her voice is sharp. Like a test.

I lean forward, set my mug down, elbows on knees. “Everything I can see. Everything I can touch.” My eyes rake her body, slow and unapologetic. “Sometimes, the things I want most are the ones I stop myself from taking.”

She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t blink. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Why not both?” I say, and her breath stutters just enough for me to see the effect.

The silence that follows is thick, sticky. It clings to the air. I can taste her uncertainty, her curiosity, the small, secret thrill she gets from being watched. She doesn’t know what to do with it, so she just sits, hands in her lap, waiting.

“I need clothes,” she says finally, almost a whisper.

I get up, the movement deliberate, and cross the room to a battered old trunk.

Noah cleared out Cassidy’s shit when they moved, but left some of her shit here on Kairo’s request. Guess he wanted them in case Harbor needed clothes.

I can feel her eyes on me, taking in the width of my back, the scars on my arms, the tattoo curling up my neck.

I’m proud of every mark. They’re warnings as much as they are history.

I pop the trunk, dig around, and come up with a pair of worn PJ shorts and a t-shirt.

They’re going to be too small for her, and it sends a thrill through me.

That will let me eye fuck her more easily, with her busting out of the fabric that will hardly hide her curves.

I toss them over, and she catches them one-handed.

“Thanks,” she says, this time looking straight at me.

I nod. I wait as she stands, awkward for a second, and looks around for privacy. There isn’t any, not unless she goes to the bedroom… in which case I’ll just follow her anyway. She knows it, and I know it, and for a moment she pretends to care, then just turns her back and drops the blanket.

I watch the line of her spine, the dip at the base of her back, the pale stretch of skin before the shorts swallow it whole.

She wriggles them up, and they fit tight over her thighs.

She struggles with the waist band, laughs under her breath, and then yanks the t-shirt down.

It hugs her tits, clings to her ribs. She turns, arms crossed, cheeks flushed.

She hates that I’m watching, but she loves it more.

“Better?” I ask, my voice low.

She nods. “Yeah.”

We spend the next few hours in a kind of dance.

She tests the edges of the room, the edges of me.

She opens cabinets, pokes through drawers, makes a show of not being afraid.

I let her. I let her think she’s free. I make her a sandwich and watch the way she devours it, like she hasn’t eaten in days.

Damn, I love a girl who isn’t afraid of eating and enjoying it.

At some point she sits across from me, legs pulled up, her chin resting on her knees. “Why are you being nice?” she asks.

“Do you want me to stop?” I counter. I half-debated on it. This isn’t me. The nice guy. I’m more introspective than extroverted, I think murderous thoughts but have enough restraint not to act on them.

Though… for her… I would. I’ve been in bar brawls and prison fights.

Yeah, my time in state jail was a fucking trip.

Got tripped up on illegal carry with a weapon whose serials I’d filed off.

Good thing considering I had been on my way to some stupid fucking college fight that Creed had started.

With every intention of killing the guy.

That stop saved me from a longer stint in prison because it turned out, Creed had pissed off the police commissioners son. That pig stopping us that day saved his ass.

She shakes her head. “No. Just… not used to it, I guess.”

I stare at her, let the silence stretch until she squirms. “People are shitty,” I say. “But not all the time. Sometimes, you get lucky.”

Not with me though, little bird. Soon, you’ll be running, screaming from me and you’ll understand why they say ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing.’

She smiles at that, a real one, and I feel it hit me in the gut. I want to ruin it. I want to make it permanent. Maybe I’ll tattoo it across my chest.

The day crawls by. We talk about nothing—her job, her travels, the dumbass ex who thought he was doing her a favor by dumping her.

She doesn’t know that I know all of this already, that I made it my business to know her inside and out.

Once I set my sights on her, I used Noah’s surveillance systems to dig into her life.

I ask questions anyway, just to hear her answer, just to see the way her mouth moves when she lies.

At dusk, she stands by the door, staring out at the line of trees bleeding into the sky. “It’s beautiful out there,” she says.

“It’s beautiful in here, too,” I say, and I mean it.

She glances over her shoulder, hair catching the last of the light. “You’re full of shit,” she says, but it comes out gentle. Like a compliment.

I close the distance, just a step, maybe two, and reach out. My hand lands on her shoulder, my palm heavy, fingers curling just enough to let her know who’s in charge. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. She just stands there, breathing slow and even.

“You ever think about just… disappearing?” she asks, voice quiet.

“All the time,” I say, and I let my hand slide down her arm, slow, steady, the way you’d touch something fragile but not breakable. I can feel the heat of her through the fabric, the tension wound up tight beneath the skin.

She leans into it, just a little, and I know I have her.

“Tomorrow, then,” she says. “We’ll see if you can get me out.”

I nod, but my mind is already working the angles, already planning every second I get with her. I could keep her here for days, weeks, years. She wouldn’t know the difference until she tried to leave.

As the light dies, I let her go. “You can have the bed again,” I tell her. “I’ll take the couch.”

She hesitates, then nods, then disappears into the bedroom, the door left half-open behind her.

I sit in the dark, staring at the embers, watching the last of them flicker and fade. The air is thick with her scent, sweet and full of promise.

I pour myself another coffee, fingers tight around the mug, jaw aching from the effort it takes to play nice. Tomorrow I’ll check her car, I’ll play the hero a little longer. But tonight, I let myself think about what it would be like to never let her go.

Mine. The word tastes good on my tongue.

It always does.

The coffee isn’t cutting it and my thoughts are turning dark again.

How easy it would be to seduce her, to do this the nice guy way.

But something about her defiance makes me want to see how she feels when she shatters.

When the illusion of control breaks and she realizes there’s been nothing but the truth of me staring her in the face this whole time.

I pour myself a drink, whisky burning a hole in my stomach.

I watch the moon come up, a thin, sickle thing barely bright enough to cut through the trees.

I want her to come to understand that I’m fighting against my base nature, all for her to figure out the game. A test, if you will. Downing my drink, I realize that my cock is so hard it’s painful.

When I finally move, it’s to the bedroom door. I stand outside, listening. Her breathing is even, almost peaceful. I imagine her on her back, arms flung wide, taking up space she’s too proud to admit she wants. I imagine her dreaming of water, or blood, or me.

I lean against the frame, let the darkness settle in my bones.

This is the part I like best—the waiting. The knowing. The slow bleed of control from her world into mine.

She’ll wake in the morning and think nothing has changed. She’ll eat, and dress, and ask me to go fix her car, and I’ll say yes. I’ll always say yes. But even through the compulsion to give her what she wants, I know I’ll never let her leave.

And when it’s time, when she’s ready, when she’s so sure of her freedom that it’s the only thing she believes in, that’s when I’ll take her.

Because that’s what I do. That’s what I am.

The perfect host.

The patient predator.

The man who won’t let go of what’s his.