Page 18 of Hunting Gianna
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’snowhere 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.
Chapter Eight
Knox
