Page 17 of Hunting Gianna
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 wayhe 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.
