Page 16 of Hunting Gianna
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 comeup, 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.
Chapter Seven
Gianna
Iwaketothesound of an axe.
It’s not a cartoonish, “here’s Johnny” kind of threat, more like the metronome of rural necessity—steady, unhurried, precise. Eachthunksplits 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, andbesides, 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 ofa 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.
