Page 43 of Hunting Gianna

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Page 43 of Hunting Gianna

He laughs, and for a second, the air gets lighter. “Nah, my family didn’t care enough to keep me around, let alone teach me shit. My dad taught me a few things in between being a drunk, but he didn’t give a shit much beyond that.” He kneels by the firepit, digs at the blackened logs with a stick. “You want the long version or the short?”

“Short. I don’t need your autobiography, just the SparkNotes.”

He pokes at the ashes, thinking. “Grew up in the city. Hated it and loved it at the same time. Dad was a gun nut, taught me to hunt and shoot before I could do multiplication. Mom was gone by the time I was ten. Dad drank himself to death by the time I was sixteen.” He shrugs. “The end.”

I blink, surprised at how fast he rattles it off, like he’s told this story so many times it’s just muscle memory.

“What about work?” I ask.

He looks up at me, eyes catching the moonlight for a second. “Work for a guy named Kairo. You’d hate him. Energy sector stuff. Creation and innovation of new projects.” He grins, a real one this time. “But what I really do? That’s more fun.”

I sit on one of the logs, ignoring the way the damp soaks through my pants. “Which is?”

He leans in, voice lower. “I move things. People, sometimes. Mostly guns. Some drugs, if the price is right. Off the books, off the grid. No one cares as long as the money’s good.”

He says it like he’s reading a menu, no weight, no apology.

I watch his face, trying to spot a tell—something that says he’s testing me, trying to see if I’ll flinch. But I don’t.

“Gun running,” I say. “That tracks.”

He laughs, the sound big and rolling. “You’re not surprised?”

I shrug. “Nothing about you is subtle. Besides, you handle a knife like a pro, and you’re way too casual about dead bodies.”

He lets that hang for a second. “You ever shot a gun?”

“A couple times. Boyfriends who thought it was hot to ‘teach a girl self-defense.’ They never realized I could shoot better than they could.” I can’t help the grin that creeps across my face.

He seems to like that answer. “Maybe I’ll take you to the range sometime. It’s by the ranger outpost you found”

I roll my eyes, but the idea isn’t as stupid as it should be. “Sure, as long as you’re the target.”

His smile stretches over his face and he winks.

We sit like that, both of us perched on opposite logs, staring at the dead fire like it’ll spark back to life on its own. The woods breathe around us, and I’m aware—painfully aware—of how alone we are, how the world feels both too big and too small at the same time.

He’s the first to break the silence. “You want to ask me something else.”

It’s not a question. He just knows.

“Why me?” I ask. “Why not any of the dozens of other girls who came through this place? Why risk your job, your life, whatever, just to… keep me?”

He thinks for a long time. Then, “You smell like survival. Like someone who’s been to the edge and decided to push back. Most people crumble when you show them who you are. You didn’t.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees. “I could spend a lifetime looking for that and never find it again.”

I look away, flustered. “You’re such a fucking psycho.”

He grins, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

He stands and brushes dirt off his hands before bending and picking something up, smoothly placing it in his pocket. It looked like a rock, but maybe he has a collection. I’ve seen weirder hobbies. “Come on,” he says. “We’ll miss dinner if we don’t move.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence, but it’s a different silence than before. It’s full, weighted with everything we said and everything we didn’t.

As we hit the trail back to the lodge, he slips his hand into mine. Not rough, not demanding. Just a quiet claim.

His palm is rough, warm, callused in a way that tells the story of his life better than words could. I let him hold it as we walk, not because I want to, but because it feels weirdly necessary. Like letting go would be admitting defeat.


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