Page 29 of Hunting Gianna

Good girl.

I keep her pinned, feeling her body go slack as the fight drains out. But even then, even when she’s limp in my grip, hereyes never break away. She won’t give me the satisfaction of surrender. Not with her voice. Not with her face.

She doesn’t have to. I love this, I love her, just the way she is, because even behind her anger, her blatantly disrespect, I can see the way her nipples harden. The way her body sighs as it’s forced to submit.

I can feel it in the way her body molds to mine, in the way her hips shift against my thigh even as she tries to pull away. I can feel it in the way her breathing changes, in the way her nails curl and uncurl against my skin, desperate for a grip that isn’t there.

I press my mouth to her ear, close enough to feel her flinch.

“You’re mine now,” I whisper. “Every piece of you. Every fucking thought in your pretty little head.”

She tries to jerk away, but I bite her neck, just below the ear, hard enough to leave a mark. Her gasp is sharp, wounded, but I hear the edge of something else riding under it, a current of need that terrifies her more than I ever could.

I stand, hauling her up with me. She doesn’t fight now, just sags in my grip, the knife edge of exhaustion finally carving its way through the adrenaline.

I drag her out of the outpost, back into the cold morning, both of us drenched in sweat.

The hunt is over. The real work starts now.

It takes an hour to drag her back through the forest.

She puts up a fight for the first fifty yards—threshes, claws, tries to dig in her heels or break free. She fails, every time, but I let her believe in the effort. It’s all a show. To try remind me that she’s still got power. She doesn’t, and she knows it. I want her to have the story of resistance. Want her to remember every second she tried, and every second she was outmatched.

She stumbles. The bruises on her arms are already blooming, perfect, blue-black, the kind that will linger for a week or more. Her face is streaked with dirt and tears, but there’s still a stubborn tilt to her chin, even now. Even after I’ve ruined her. She’ll keep going, keep hoping, keep pushing the limits of what she can stand.

It makes me want to fuck her right here in the mud, but I don’t.

The cabin looms up out of the trees. She sees it and starts to whimper, low and desperate, but doesn’t beg. Not yet. She’s saving it, hoarding the last of her dignity for the moment she needs it most.

I haul her up the steps and inside. The air is warm—too warm, stifling after the chill outside. I let her breathe it in, let her catchher breath, inhaling the deeper animal funk of sweat and old sex that never truly leaves this place.

She stares at the room, at the bed, at the single heavy iron ring bolted to the footboard, a long chain attached by one end with a leather cuff on the other. One she didn’t notice before, but has been there this whole time. She knows what’s coming when she spots it. I put there before going on my hunt.

I throw her down on the mattress, face first. She bounces, tries to scramble away, but I’m already on her, knees on either side of her waist as I wrap the cuff around her wrist. The click of the lock is final. She goes still, forehead pressed to the sheet, hair fanned around her face. She shakes, not from cold, but from the hopeless, exhausted rage that she can’t get loose.

I stand over her. I want to see every inch of her. The way her ribs heave with each breath, the way her ass tenses and unclenches as she realizes there’s no escaping me. I let her stew. Let her feel the weight of the silence and the newness of her captivity. She flips over, pushing herself to the back of the bed, just watching me.

I unbutton my shirt and strip it off, peeling it from skin still sticky with sweat and dried blood. Her eyes flick up, just once, and I catch the glint of something electric in them—a flash of recognition that even now, she’s still looking at me. Still reading me. Still, against all reason, wanting to know what comes next.

“Now we play by my rules,” I say.

She flinches. “Please,” she whispers. “Please, Knox. You don’t have to do this.”

“I do.” I kick off my boots, strip down to bare skin. I want her to see me as I am—unadorned, unmasked, the man and the monster fused into something she can’t unsee. “You ran,” I say, walking to the foot of the bed. “You made me chase. You made me hunt you.” I kneel, stare her dead in the eye. “Now you will tell me the truth, Gianna.”

She looks away. I grab her chin, force her to meet my gaze. “Say it,” I growl. “Tell me you understand.”

Her throat works, the words trapped behind her tongue.

I squeeze harder. “Say it.”

“I—” She swallows, her voice barely a wisp. “I understand. I…”

“Yes?” I grin, “Does my little bird have something to confess?”

She looks strained as she tries to figure out what the fuck her feelings are. “I hate you. But I want you too.” Even as she says it, she loathes the words. The emotions.

“Good girl.” I let her go. For a second, she slumps, every muscle in her body slack with defeat. But she’s not really defeated. I can see the way her hands twitch, the way she flexes her legs, calculating. She’ll never give up. She’ll never stop.

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