Page 56 of Hunting Gianna

“So are you.” I grab her by the waist, my hands spanning the bruises I left. “You want a drink?”

She nods. I can see the tremor in her jaw, the way her teeth chatter, not from fear but from whatever it is we’re building between us.

“You can go put on one of my shirts, but leave that pussy free for me.”

She giggles and runs down the hall before coming back a minute later. I go to the cabinet and pull the only decent bottle I own: cheap whiskey, brown as old teeth, but it burns clean and that’s all I care about. I set out two glasses, pour them deep. She watches my hands as I slide her a glass.

“To endings,” I say.

She lifts hers and clinks it to mine. “And to beginnings,” she adds with a small smile.

We drink. The first swallow scorches its way down, and she coughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. I want to take her hand and suck it off her fingers, one at a time.

“You’re still staring,” she says, half-accusation, half-dare.

“I like what I see.” I don’t blink. “I always have.”

We sink onto the couch, the ancient springs giving way under our combined weight. She curls her legs under her, her thighs denying my eyes the pleasure of seeing between her legs. There’s a cut across her shin that gives me pause. I’m not gentle about it—I yank her ankle up, resting it across my knee, and inspect the wound. She tries to pull away, but I hold her still, running my thumb around the edges of the cut.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, and the way I say it makes it clear I’m not just talking about her leg.

She laughs, but it’s soft. “Everything hurts. But I like it.”

“Yeah?” I meet her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. The pain is a reminder. The pain means she’s real.

I let her go and refill our glasses. The bottle’s already half gone, but she doesn’t slow down. She drinks like she’s trying to forget about who she was and step into this new version of her.

After a while, the buzz settles in, smoothing the edge off her tongue. She leans back and stares at the ceiling, the lines ofher throat elegant even under the mess of blood. “Tell me something,” she says softly.

“Ask.”

She turns her head, her eyes dark. “Do you ever dream? Like, have you ever wanted something so bad it made you sick?”

I swallow, not ready for this kind of interrogation. “Not really.”

“Liar,” she says. She grins, then takes another gulp. “You wanted me.”

She’s right, but I don’t say it. I reach for her hand instead, tracing the lines in her palm. She sighs.

“Dreams are for people who think they’ll live long enough to see them come true,” I say. “I never did.”

She sits up, sudden and fierce. “What would you do if you could have anything?” Her voice is urgent, like the question is burning her from the inside out.

I think about it. I think about a hundred things I could say, but all I want is what’s right in front of me.

“I’d keep you,” I answer. “Forever.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. She holds my gaze, and I see something bloom in her that wasn’t there before.

“Good,” she says, voice rough. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, her legs trapped in the little triangle it creates, the whiskey burning a hole through my ribs. “Your turn,” I say. “What do you want, Gianna?”

She bites her lip, chewing it raw. “I want to see the world. All the places I never thought I’d be brave enough to go. I want to swim in every ocean, climb every mountain, eat every disgusting street food until I puke.” She stops, laughs at herself. “I want to be the kind of person who takes what she wants, instead of waiting for permission.”

I nod. “That’s easy. We’ll do it. I’ll take you everywhere.”

Her eyes are glassy, but not from the whiskey. She wipes at them, embarrassed.

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