Page 41 of Hunting Gianna

I want to say, I want to know why you’re like this, why you need to own every room you walk into, why you touch me with such obscene tenderness when you just as easily could snap my neck. I want to say, I want to understand why I’m not more afraid, why I feel like living in the woods could be home if I just let it.

Instead, I say, “How do you even know how to fix a cabinet?” I lean in, arms folded, mimicking his posture. “What are you, some kind of handsy survivalist?”

He shrugs, gaze never leaving mine. “Dad taught me before he bailed. If something’s broken, you fix it. Or you learn to live with the brokenness.”

“Is that what you’re doing with me?” The words are out before I can stop them.

He grins, slow and lazy. “What do you think?”

I think I want him to touch me again, even though I shouldn’t.

Instead, I snatch the towel from his hands and throw it at the table. He doesn’t react, just takes a step closer, the space between us going electric.

For a long time, neither of us speaks. I want him to say something cruel, to remind me that I’m not here of my own will, that every kind gesture is just a new thread in the noose he’s braiding for me. But he doesn’t.

Finally, I break. “You’re a weirdo.”

He puts his hands on my hips, just barely, fingertips burning through the fabric of my sweatpants. “So are you.”

It’s probably true. Who else would negotiate her own captivity over breakfast and then make a pact not to murder anyone else? Who else would stand in a kitchen, post-coital and post-trauma, and let the man who kidnapped her cradle her like she’s made of spun sugar?

He pulls me into him, and I let myself go soft against his chest. For a second, it’s okay to just be here, to listen to the birds outside and the clock ticking and the steady, deep beat of his heart.

He presses his mouth to the top of my head, a gesture so gentle that I almost flinch. But I don’t. Instead, I breathe him in, the smell of soap and cigarette smoke and something sharp underneath.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“I know.” I say it because it’s easier than arguing, because even if I don’t believe it all the way, I believe it enough for now.

He pulls back, searching my face. “You’re not just some toy to me, Gianna. You’re my forever,” he says, almost to himself.

“That’s what all the guys say,” I joke, but there’s no bite in it.

He snorts. “I don’t care if you believe me.”

We stand like that for a while, until the clock says it’s after four and the light through the windows goes from cold to blue. He lets me go and returns to his project—this time, taping a torn screen on the porch. I go back to the couch, but the book is forgotten. I just watch him, watch the way he owns every inch of the space.

My phone is gone, of course, but the clock on the wall says it’s almost six when he finally calls me.

“You ever hike at night?” he asks, voice casual.

I blink, trying to process. “Is this a murder thing?”

He laughs, and it’s so genuine that I forget to be afraid. “No, Gianna. It’s a walk to the lodge. They’ve got a bar, and I think you could use a drink that isn’t instant coffee. Plus, you wanted dinner. Thought we could get some together since you’ve been such a good girl.”

He waits, letting me weigh my options. I know I’m not getting out of this, but I appreciate the illusion of choice.

“Sure,” I say. “But if you’re planning to hunt me, just know that I am starving so now is not a good time.”

He grins. “Noted. Go change, I found something for you to wear.”

I head into the bedroom and find a pair of jeans and a simple black shirt. Both my size. Half of me wonders how he got this, the other half doesn’t want to ask because I know it’ll be something creepy. Beside them is a red lace thong. No bra, because of course not.

After I put the clothes on, I head out of the bedroom and see him wearing dark wash jeans, a navy shirt and a black bomber jacket. He’s holding up a thigh length jacket for me. His eyes shine with appreciation and without thinking, I twirl.

“You look stunning.” He smiles.

“I’m not even going to ask how you got these.” I say in response.

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