Page 9 of Hunting Gianna (Stalkers in the Woods #3)

Chapter Seven

Gianna

I wake to the sound of an axe.

It’s not a cartoonish, “here’s Johnny” kind of threat, more like the metronome of rural necessity—steady, unhurried, precise. Each thunk splits the air in measured increments.

He’s been out there for twenty, maybe thirty minutes, hacking away at an old tree near the edge of the clearing.

I watched him from the window for a while, arms bare, blade flashing above his head, the muscles in his shoulders moving like something out of a low-budget god mythology movie.

But there’s only so much skin-show before it starts to look like I’m thirsty for him, and besides, the longer I stare the more it feels like he’s putting on a show for me.

The kind of show that ends in a grave and a clever local news headline.

No thanks. Today, he fixes my car and I can get back to tenting. Peace. Calm. Serenity.

The moment he’s out of sight, I make a decision. If I’m going to die in this cabin, I want to at least know what kind of horror movie I’m starring in. Something tells me this is the kind with a slow build and a lot of unsolved trauma.

I slip out of bed, still in my borrowed t-shirt, and prowl the main room.

There’s something off about him and I have every intention of figuring out what the hell it is.

The rough-hewn furniture is heavy, masculine, exactly what you’d expect from a guy who split his own logs and probably his own enemies too.

I drag my fingers along the spines of battered books.

Titles: wilderness survival, two volumes of Dostoevsky, and a bent copy of Misery with the cover ripped off.

The kitchen drawers are full of mismatched cutlery, the kind people hoard from takeout orders, and underneath, in the lowest drawer, a single paring knife that’s been sharpened so many times the blade is almost concave. I pocket it. Just in case.

The main hallway has three doors. The first is the bathroom—tiny, utilitarian, and disappointingly normal. The second is a closet, empty except for a battered duffel and a raincoat that looks dusty as hell. It’s the third door that stops me cold.

It’s at the end of the hallway, heavy and painted a dark, glossy brown that doesn’t match the rest of the cabin.

You wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking.

The knob is black metal, cold even though the rest of the cabin is baking.

I reach out to turn it and see, right at eye level, a halo of deep scratches around the lock.

They cut through the paint, angry and erratic, some of them wide and shallow, some so deep they reach bare wood.

The edges are stained darker, like something got in and wouldn’t come out.

I put my ear to the door. Nothing but silence. I try the knob. Locked, of course. Of course.

Something in my chest kicks into gear, full of adrenaline and survival instinct. My palms start to sweat. I’m not sure if it’s the door or the realization that this is real. There is something on the other side of this door that does not want to be seen. I want to see it anyway.

I keep moving, opening cabinets, feeling the air with my hands.

In the built-in hutch, I find a length of rope.

Not just rope—hemp, thick and neatly coiled, the ends bound with electrical tape.

I lift it out, and it’s heavier than I expect.

I can smell the residue of sweat and dirt, and as I unspool it, the fibers catch on my skin.

There’s a spot near the center that’s gone fuzzy, like it’s been looped and pulled and tightened, again and again, until the strands started to break down.

There’s a dark stain near one end, brownish and irregular, and it’s not sap.

I try to laugh at myself, but the sound comes out wet and small.

I imagine the look on his face if he caught me holding his favorite murder rope and almost drop it, but curiosity is a sick, bitch of a thing, and I can’t let it go.

I try to remember every episode of Criminal Minds I ever binge-watched, and then immediately wish I hadn’t.

The next find is almost accidental. A tiny alcove near the door, a single shelf, and on it, a wooden bird no bigger than my palm.

At first glance, it’s just a little souvenir, the kind of thing you buy at a craft fair and forget until you need to dust it.

But this one is different. The wings are sharp, almost knife-edged, and the eyes are obsidian beads set too close together.

It looks like it wants to take flight and never come back.

I turn it over. My blood freezes.

There, on the base, scratched in, are the words:

“G.V.”

My initials. My fucking name.

For a second, I can’t move. My hands go dead cold. My vision tunnels, the world reduced to the three inches between my face and this horror-show pigeon. The only thing that drags me out is the sound of the axe.

It’s stopped.

The silence is immediate, total. The way it would feel if you went deaf in the middle of a symphony, every note suddenly vacuumed out of the air.

I hear my own breath. There’s no way he carved this in two days.

The rope is still on the table, staring at me.

I rush to put it where I found it. I’m in such a panic, I forget to put the bird back.

The front door creaks. Heavy boots on the porch, then nothing.

I imagine him standing there, listening, calculating the new shape of the room from the echo of my fear.

I imagine the lock on that door, the scratches.

What the hell does he do in this cabin? I want to run, but my feet are stuck to the floor with pure terror.

I’m not ready for this scene. I’m not even sure what kind of movie I’m in.

But I know who the villain is. And I know he’s coming.

One minute I’m in a state of panic, frozen to the spot, the next he’s in the door, axe slung across his back like it’s just another piece of him.

He’s wearing a different shirt now—dark green, clings to his chest in a way that makes it look less like clothing and more like a shield.

His boots leave muddy prints on the hardwood.

He stops three feet away, breathes in, takes in everything.

His eyes aren’t blue, not really—they’re that metallic color that shifts with the light, and right now they’re so bright they don’t even look human.

He glances behind me. To where I didn’t shut the door all the way to where his rope is hidden and he smirks…

For a second, neither of us speaks.

I want to say something witty, but my voice is gone. Buried in the part of me that’s bracing for impact, bracing for the inevitable. He walks forward, slow and deliberate, and sets the axe down by the door. It makes a heavy, final sound against the wall.

He doesn’t lunge. He doesn’t yell. He just moves into my orbit, a planet with its own gravity, and holds out his hand for the statue. I want to hold onto it, make him earn it, but my fingers betray me. The bird slips out of my grip and into his palm, like it was always his to begin with.

He turns it over, thumb tracing the gouged letters on the base. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He just breathes, deep and untroubled.

“Dangerous thing,” he says, that low timber doing weird shit to my stomach. “Looking too deep into a man.”

His voice is even, almost lazy, but the warning sits under every syllable. I know it’s meant for me, meant to teach me something about curiosity and the price of staring down the wolf in his own den.

He circles me, one slow revolution, feet barely making a sound. The only thing louder is my heartbeat, and I know he hears it. I feel it in my throat, a vibration that threatens to turn into a scream or a sob or maybe something else entirely.

He stops at my back, so close I can feel the heat coming off his body. I hold perfectly still.

“Some truths,” he says, and the words are right against my ear now, “should be earned, little bird.”

The air crackles. I realize I haven’t exhaled in a full minute. My knees are close to giving out, but the rest of me is too proud to let them.

He’s not angry. He’s not anything. He’s just the stone face of fate, waiting for me to blink first.

When he moves, it’s to brush a strand of hair off my neck, fingers grazing the skin like it’s an afterthought. He sets the bird on the shelf behind me, careful and precise, then steps back, letting the space fill with something thick and alive.

He looks at me for a long time, then past me, to the window where night is starting to muscle in. In my discoveries, I all but forgot about my car. Maybe I’ll just leave and go find the resort…

He pulls down the blinds, one by one, the sound sharp as gunshots in the quiet. Then he moves to the fireplace, stacking logs with practiced efficiency, striking a match and holding it steady until the kindling flares.

I stand there, useless, still trembling, until I realize he’s watching me in the reflection of the glass. Watching every movement, every flinch, every panic-stricken breath.

The fire catches. Shadows crawl up the walls, giving the illusion that this place is cozy. The illusion of safety. The only thing more alive than the flames is the man who brought them.

He settles into the armchair, legs stretched out, head tilted. He doesn’t say another word. Just watches, the way a hunter watches a trapped thing, curious what it’ll do next.

I wish I could hate him. I wish I could hate myself for needing to know what comes after.

“Um… I’m gunna go sleep… tomorrow. Car. I need to go.” My words come out in stutters.

“Mhmm.” Was all the acknowledgement he gives me.

I can’t sleep.

It’s not just the adrenaline. It’s not just the fear.

It’s the sense that the house is still breathing, that the shadows from the fire have found new ways to tangle around me, and none of them are friendly.

I stare at the ceiling and listen for footsteps.

Sometimes I think I hear them—just outside the door, sometimes closer—but it could be the house settling, the wind picking up, or my heart beating so hard it moves the air.

Or maybe it’s him. Waiting for you to sleep…

I replay every detail. The bird, the door, the rope.

The way Knox said “dangerous thing” like it was a curse and a love letter in the same breath.

The way he watched me across the room, eyes never closing, never forgiving.

Every time I start to drift, I see the flashes behind my eyelids—letters cut into wood, knots tightening, paint peeling away from deep, deep gouges.

Knees to my chest, I curl into a ball, tucked into his oversized shirt, and wait for sleep to claim me the way it always does: violently, without warning.

The dream comes in pieces.

First the forest, but not the real one. This one is made of teeth, the trees bending toward me like fingers.

I run, but my legs barely work. They’re full of mud, or maybe something thicker.

Every footstep lands with a wet, sucking sound.

I know he’s behind me but I don’t dare look back.

I want to scream, but the sound catches in my throat, locked behind my tongue like a dirty secret.

When I finally make it to the cabin, the door slams shut behind me.

The fire is lit, same as before, but the room is warped and doubled, like I’m seeing it through a funhouse mirror.

He’s there, but not—his face is a blur, a smear of light, except for the eyes.

They burn blue, sharp and unblinking, twin stars in the dark.

He’s sitting in the chair, hands folded, patient as death.

He stands. In the dream he’s taller, broader, his body all edges and shadow. When he comes close I shrink back, but there’s nowhere to go. He reaches for me, slow and deliberate, and puts both hands around my neck.

His hands are hot. Not just warm, but burning, like he’s been holding them to the fire for hours.

They fit so perfectly it feels like they were made for this, for me, like I’m the last puzzle piece in a box he’s been searching for his entire life.

He squeezes—slow at first, just enough to make the air catch, then harder, harder, until my breath comes in tiny, desperate gasps.

I want to claw at him, I want to run, but all I do is stare up into the void where his face should be. The nothingness. The absence. Except for the mask.

I hadn’t noticed it at first, but now it lowers onto his head—a demon mask, half red, half black, with curling horns painted the same color as blood. He pulls it into place, hides everything but his lips and chin, and then he leans in, lips brushing my ear:

“Some truths should be earned, little bird.”

He squeezes harder.

I’m not scared, not really. I should be, but I’m not.

Instead, I feel the heat between my legs, a pulse that matches the throb in my throat.

My body betrays me. I’m shaking, but it’s not from fear.

It’s something else, something alive and dark and hungry.

I feel myself bucking against him, desperate for the friction, desperate for the permission to let go.

He presses his thumb to my windpipe, and I come apart.

The dream fractures, splits into light, and I jerk awake in a sheet of sweat.

My body is trembling, heart clawing its way out of my chest. My hand is between my thighs, pressed hard against my own wetness.

I gasp, half in pain, half in pleasure, and it takes a full minute before I can breathe again.

I lie there, frozen. Staring into the dark.

There’s no sound from the rest of the cabin. No footsteps, no breathing, no nothing. Just me, alone with the ghost of my own fucked-up fantasy.

I wipe my hand on the sheets and curl in tighter, shivering even though the room is warm. I know I should be scared. I know I should pack my shit and leave. But I also know that if I walk out that door, he’ll find me.

Worse, I want him to.

I want to see what’s behind the door with the scratches.

I want to know if the rope is for me. I want to see the mask in real life, feel the weight of it, press my fingers to the horns and taste the sweat and smoke and iron.

I want him to wrap his hands around my throat and call me “little bird” with that smile, the one that isn’t really a smile at all.

I want to see if I’m the kind of girl who runs, or the kind who stays and finds out what happens next.

I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling, and wait for morning to save me.

But deep down, I know it won’t.