Page 62 of Hunting Gianna
I grab a blanket and drop it over her shoulders. She makes a noise, a soft huff of surprise, then pulls the blanket tighter. Her face is a mess. Blood, snot, streaks of dirt. I want to clean her up, but I know better than to mother her.
Instead, I cross to the old side table, the one that she snooped in not too long ago. I reach in, and pull out what I’ve been hiding for days.
It’s the bird.
Not just any bird. It’s a little wooden thing, carved from pine, wings spread like it’s about to take off. I spent hours on it, the kind of labor that would have made my father laugh. I sanded the edges smooth, hollowed out the eyes, burned her initials on the base. G.V. For her.
I was going to give it to her last week. But she wasn’t ready. Hell, I wasn’t ready. When she found it, she freaked. Rightfully so, I suppose. I could have given it to her then, but I didn’t think it was time. Didn’t want her to think I was some kind of creep with a hobby, or worse, that I cared.
Now I don’t give a fuck. I walk over and set the bird in her lap, right on top of the blanket. I don’t say a word. Just wait.
She picks it up, turning it over in her hands, running a finger along the underside. When she spots the initials for the second time, her breath catches. She looks up at me, and for a second, I see the old Gianna—the one with the sharp tongue and the shit-eating grin. It flashes across her face, then it’s gone, replaced by something I can’t name.
“You made this, right?” she asks, voice hoarse.
I nod.
She giggles. “You really are a psycho, you know that?”
I shrug. “You’re the one who stabbed a man tonight.”
She sets the bird down, stares at it. The silence stretches until it almost hurts.
Then she says, “I’ve been thinking.”
The words are soft, but there’s a spine of steel in them.
I settle in the armchair across from her, sprawling out like I own the room. “You want to talk, talk.”
She hugs the blanket closer, knuckles white. “I’m going home, Knox.”
I frown. “Mmmm, I don’t think so.”
She flashes her teeth. “I’m not finished.” She takes a breath, lets it out slow. “If you want to actually be with me—and I don’t mean own me, I mean be with me—you need to understand something.”
I arch an eyebrow, waiting.
She holds my gaze, unflinching. “I can fight and claw and resist things I don’t want. I might be a little bird, but this little bird’s got a beak and claws and I’m not afraid to use them.”
For a second, I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just let the words tunnel into my chest, digging around for whatever heart I’ve got left.
Then I laugh, low and slow. “I expect nothing less.”
She looks surprised. Not much, but enough that I catch it. She was expecting a fight. She was expecting me to bark or snap or try to break her down.
Instead, I stand and walk over, kneel in front of her so we’re eye to eye. The blanket slips down, pooling at her waist. Her legs are bare and trembling, but she doesn’t flinch when I touch her knee. The t-shirt she’s wearing is dirty and wet, but I don’t move to help her out of it. I like the way it sticks to her skin.
“I want you because you’re dangerous,” I say. “I want you because you never let me win easy. I want you because when you look at me, you see what I am and you don’t run.”
She swallows, hard.
I put my hand over hers, covering it completely. “I could have anyone. But I want you. Even when you’re a mess. Especially when you’re a mess.”
She opens her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to laugh, but I cut her off.
“And if you ever grow tired of me, you can leave. I won’t chase you. I’ll want to. But I won’t.”
She’s quiet for a long time. Then, “You’re full of shit.”
