Page 14 of Hunting Gianna
Knox
Morningisalie.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 halfthe 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 theway 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.
