Page 31 of Hunting Gianna
“Get some rest, Gianna.”
I lie beside her, arm thrown across her waist, the chain running cool and heavy between us.
She’ll sleep. She’ll dream of running, of fighting, of maybe even winning.
But she won’t.
She never will.
Not while I’m here to love her.
Chapter Eleven
Gianna
Iwakeupstillhandcuffed to the bed.
I figured he’d have at least undone it last night, but no such luck. I may have to use my feminine wiles to seduce him. As much as he intrigues me, I can’t seem to get over the fact that he killed that man without remorse.
If he has no remorse, what the fuck could he possibly feel for me besides obsession?
The pain in my shoulder registers before anything else. Every muscle in my body feels tight. My mouth tastes like defeat andadrenaline and the faint ghost of his skin, but I’m not going to think about that. I’m not going to think about the way his hands felt, or the way he said my name, or how I said his right back.
I focus on the chain, the cold press of steel, the bite of the cuff against my wrist. I pull, slow at first, then hard, but all it does is drag the metal link across the post and make the wood groan.
Maybe if I ask him nicely, he will let me go.
It’s too bright. I shut my eyes and try to remember what happened, but my brain only coughs up scraps. Maybe it’s the trauma that’s been inflicted on me in such a short period of time. Brain’s short circuiting so that I can survive.
Block it out and fight.
The taste of iron, the sound of his voice, the heat of his breath at my ear. The chain rattling with every thrust. His laugh when I said “please” and how I hated that I meant it.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. There’s a knot of wood above me that looks like an eye. I stare at it until the tears burn off. I will not cry. I will not give him that.
Instead, I inventory the damage.
My wrist is chafed raw, a red ring encircling the bone like a cheap tattoo. My thighs are bruised, inside and out, the colors already blooming blue and purple. There’s a constellation offingerprints on my hip, perfectly spaced, each one a little trophy he left behind.
I try to reach the nightstand with my free hand. It’s just out of range. I grab the sheet and pull, dragging the lamp closer inch by inch until it wobbles and tips over, clattering to the floor. There’s nothing under it except dust and a single hair tie.Useless.
I laugh. The sound is wild, and I have to bite my lip to keep from going further.
That’s when I hear him.
The careful tread of boots across the floor. The pause at the door. He knocks. He fucking knocks.
I roll onto my side, twisting the chain so it bites deeper into my skin, and wait.
He opens the door with his foot, carrying a tray balanced on one hand. Food. I watch the steam rising off the mug, the neat little sandwich triangles, the orange sliced into perfect moons.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He sets the tray on the dresser, like this is a normal morning and I’m not chained to the bed like a dog in heat.
Then he turns.
His eyes are flat. Not cold—there’s too much fire in them for that—but empty, like he’s emptied himself out to make more room for me. He doesn’t smile. He just stares.
“Good morning,” he says.
