Page 25 of Hunting Gianna

My mouth drops open and I’m at a loss for words.Who the fuck does he think he is to talk to me like that?

He’s already down the hallway before I can try and formulate a protest.

He leaves the bathroom door open, lets the sound of water fill the cabin. It’s a challenge. An invitation. A leash.

I stare at the door for a long time. I try to remember the rules of survival. Stay calm. Be obedient. Wait for a mistake. I don’t know if the mistake is going to be his or mine.

My legs are jelly when I finally stand. The air in the hallway is steamy, warm. I stop at the threshold, just out of sight, and listen.

He’s in the shower, humming again. The same song as before. Something low and foreign and full of minor chords. I should run. I should barricade the door and call for help, even if no one would hear me. I should do anything except step forward.

But I do. I do because he told me to, and because some part of me—the dark, broken part—wants to watch him.

He’s turned away from me, water running down his back in thick, streaming lines. His muscles shift and bunch with every movement, every small adjustment. There’s a constellation of scars across his shoulders, white and ragged. He’s not just a monster. He’s a survivor.

I stand in the doorway, arms crossed, not sure what to do with myself. It’s… weird.

Watching him like this. Seeing him vulnerable.

He turns, slowly, and looks at me. He’s naked, and the sight of it is almost too much. His body is beautiful, in a brutal, dangerous way. The kind of beauty that would crush you if you got too close.

He doesn’t beckon. He just waits.

“Come here,” he says. The words are soft, but they hit me like a fist.

I step forward. He holds out a hand. I take it.

He pulls me into the shower, fully clothed, and the water is so hot it stings my skin. He wraps his arms around me, and I stiffen, expecting pain, expecting violence. But he just holds me there, under the spray, hands on my shoulders, his head bent to rest against mine.

We stand like that for a long time. I can’t tell if I’m shaking or if he is.

He turns me around, gently, and starts to strip the wet clothes off me. His fingers are careful, reverent, almost tender. He strips me down to bare skin, and I let him, because what’s left to lose?

He lathers my hair, working his fingers through the knots. He washes my back, my arms, every inch of me. It’s not sexual, not exactly. It’s more like erasing, more like starting over.

He rinses me clean, then shuts off the water. He wraps me in a towel, presses his lips to my temple, and lets me go.

I hate him. I hate myself more for wanting him to touch me again.

He dresses and leaves me in the room, alone. It feels like it takes me forever to get dressed and head out into the kitchen. I’m getting tired of the same shit everyday.

Only this time, the kitchen is empty and there’s a note on the counter.

GONE TO FIX YOUR CAR.

A thrill shoots through me as I head towards the front door and test the lock. It’s unlocked. An oversight?

I stare at it for a long time. My hands shake, but I can’t tell if it’s fear or the withdrawal from adrenaline. I want to run. I want to stay. I want to slam my fist into his perfect fucking face and scream until the world ends. Instead, I pour myself a cup ofcoffee and sit at the table, legs folded under me, back straight, just waiting for the next move.

God, I have to take this chance. It might be the only one I have before he kills me the way he killed that hiker.

The silence stretches until it starts to vibrate, until the air hums with it.

I move, slow and careful, back to the door. This has to be some kind of joke. A guy like Knox doesn’t just fuck up. I stare at it, dumbfounded, for a full ten seconds before I push the door open.

It’s not a taunt. It’s a dare.

He wants me to run because he wants to hunt me. He wants to chase me down. He wants me afraid but aching for him.

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