Page 71 of Hunting Gianna
She says it again, softer: “Put on the mask.”
She walks away, hips moving slow, every step a dare. She heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The lock clicks.
I finish the eggs, not wanting to eat them, but knowing I probably should. I look at the mask again. It looks back.
I wait for the sound of the shower, the hum of pipes. Then I get dressed—black jeans, boots, the old grey hoodie with the fraying cuffs. I slide the mask into my backpack, next to the coil of rope and a roll of duct tape. Always be prepared.
When she finally emerges, hair wet and braided, she’s wearing a short black skirt, running shoes, and loose white t-shirt. She tosses me a look over her shoulder.
“Meet me at Ellison Trail,” she says. “I’m taking the Jeep, have fun with Egg.”
She grabs her keys, and then she’s gone. The door slams, and the apartment is silent.
I let the quiet sit for a second. Then I smile, slow and mean, and grab the bag.
The drive is a blur—traffic, billboards, the ugly sprawl of the city peeling away into a strip mall wasteland and then, finally, the trees. My blood starts to fizz.
Ellison Trail is a joke of a hiking path, three miles of groomed dirt with benches every quarter mile and signage warning about poison ivy and “natural hazards.” But just past the main entrance, the land falls away into a tangle of scrub and shadow, a real forest lurking behind the safety rails.
I park the car, kill the engine, and just breathe for a second. It’s better out here. The air is colder, cleaner. The sky is gunmetal, thick with clouds and the promise of rain.
I pop the trunk, grab the bag, and walk.
She wants me to hunt her. She’s been begging for it, in all the ways she knows I can hear. I pick up her scent before I even see the first sign—her perfume, the cheap floral kind she buys by the gallon, cut through with sweat and the faintest hint of blood. She’s clever, but she always underestimates how good I am at this.
The first marker is a pink thong, knotted around the branch of a dead tree. I laugh, can’t help it as I grab it and shove it in my pocket.
The second is a lipstick trail on the back of the trail sign, the word “Slow poke” scrawled in shaky red.
The third is her.
She’s running ahead, hair loose and wild behind her, legs slicing through the undergrowth. She glances back, once, and catches me watching and bursts out giggling. She slows down, just a little, and I know she wants me closer.
I let her run. I want her tired, I want her desperate. I want her to feel the way I do—heart pounding, mouth dry, vision tunneled down to a single point.
I cut off the path, moving through the brush, every step calculated. I know these woods better than she does, even if it’s my first time here. The city is behind me now. Out here, the rules are mine.
It doesn’t take long to catch up. She’s moving slower, watching her own back, not seeing the trap I’m building around her. I step on a branch, snap it loud, and she jumps, eyes wide. She looks right at me, and for a second, she smiles—real, unguarded, bright.
Then she bolts.
I chase, not run, just moving steady, patient, the way a predator should. I close the distance in five minutes.
She trips, falls, scrapes her knee on a rock. She scrambles up, bleeding and laughing.
“You’re getting old,” she taunts, voice echoing between the trees.
I don’t answer. I just slip the mask over my face, the world narrowing to a perfect, silent tunnel.
She stops when she sees it. Her breath fogs in the air. Her mouth is open.
I close the rest of the distance in three steps, and then she’s mine.
I drag her to the ground, pushing her face in the dirt.
She thrashes, wild at first, then goes limp as the zip of the rope bites her wrists. I work fast, looping the cord around her ankles in an X so they’re spread wide open, cinching it tight so she can’t kick. The forest floor is cold and wet, leaves sticking to her bare thighs, but she’s not complaining—she’s laughing, breathless, eyes gleaming under the curtain of hair.
So different to the first time we did this.
