Page 74 of Hunting Gianna
He picks up on the first ring, like he’s been waiting for this moment. His voice is low, a rasp that makes my skin crawl. “Yeah?”
“It’s Gianna.” I keep my voice low, glancing at the bathroom door. “Knox is dying here.”
A pause, then a laugh, sharp and bright. “Took you this long to notice?”
“It’s not a joke.” I want to punch the wall, but I’d just break my own hand. “He’s losing it. I’m losing him.”
Kairo hums, considering. “You want out?”
“I want the woods.” I let the silence stretch, hang him with my need. “Is there somewhere we can go?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. I hear a click—maybe a lighter, maybe a gun, maybe him pulling out the tweezers to masturbate. Finally: “Cabin thirty-three is empty. Noah won’tnotice, not for a couple months, at least.” The way he says Noah’s name is almost reverent, like he’s talking about a dead god.
“Will it be enough?” My voice goes thin, almost begging.
Kairo snorts. “Nothing’s ever enough for you two. But it’ll keep you alive. Just don’t get comfortable. You want to stay, you build your own. Creed is the one you want.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Thank you.” The words taste weird, unfamiliar.
He hangs up without saying goodbye.
The bathroom fan kicks on, drowning out the pipes. I set the phone back down and press my hands to the counter, staring at the reflection in the microwave door. I look like a raccoon who lost a fight with a lawnmower. My hair’s a rat’s nest, and there’s a bite on my collarbone that’s already scabbing over. I poke at it, smiling despite myself.
The whole place smells like wet tile and old sex. I hate it, but I hate what comes after more. The usual routine of death and dying.
I slide open the junk drawer and start making a mental list. Knife, obviously. The one on the coffee table is dull, but the one in the bedroom—his favorite—is still sharp enough to shave with. And leave pretty little marks on my skin.
I glance at the clock. Seven minutes left.
I pull my shirt sleeve up, examine the finger-shaped bruises on my wrist from last night. They’re already turning yellow at the edges. I drag my nail across them, feel the heat simmer underneath. I could have stopped him. I could stop him any time. But I like the marks. I like the proof.
I wonder if he ever looks at his own bruises and thinks of me.
I pace the apartment, counting steps. The Egg is parked outside, tank full, battery barely hanging on. We could be out of the city by noon if I play it right. Knox has a meeting at ten, something with Kairo and a bunch of other wolves in sheep’s clothing. But if Kairo is half as smart as Knox says he is, he will understand that he will in attending, alone. If I time it right, I can have us packed and ready before he realizes what’s happening.
I check the phone again, just in case. Nothing. Kairo’s always been a man of action, not words.
I run through the plan in my head—pack, drive, get to Cabin 33. The idea of being back in the woods makes my whole body ache. I can almost taste the air, sharp with pine and decay, wet earth under my nails. I imagine Knox there, eyes alive again, the predator instead of the pet.
The shower shuts off. I freeze, every muscle tensed, as if I’m about to be caught doing something dirty. Maybe I am.
I tuck the phone back where I found it and grab a towel from the dryer. He likes them warm, says it’s the only thing that keeps him from breaking shit first thing in the morning. I hear the bathroom door creak, his feet bare and heavy on the tile.
He steps out, a cloud of steam following. His eyes are red, not from crying, just from existing. He looks at me, sees the towel, the bruises, the way I’m clutching the counter like it’s the only thing holding me up.
“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still thick with fatigue.
I smile, slow and sly. “Yeah. Everything’s perfect.”
He takes the towel, wraps it around his waist. He’s beautiful, in a way that’s almost cruel—cut and sharp and just a little bit damaged. He tilts his head, studying me, like he knows I’m up to something. Maybe he does.
He wanders back to the bedroom, leaves the door open. I watch him go, heart pounding with anticipation.
We’re getting out. We’re going home.
I glance at the clock again.
Four minutes to spare.
