Page 15 of Hunting Harbor

She thinks she's safe.

Her silhouette is grainy at first, an outline against the grainy black-and-white camera feed, but I see her moving. Slower than usual, stumbling around, trying to take off her clothes as she makes her way to her room.

I zoom in, click a few buttons, adjust the angle. There's a tiny delay, and I might have to talk to Creed about it later, but it's not enough to stop my pulse from quickening. Not enough to make me miss what I've done.

Now I don't have to be there. Now I get to watch as she unravels.

The best part? She still thinks I'm the concerned stranger who told her to get some sleep.

Chapter Six

Harbor

Staringatablankpage with my brain still slogging through a hangover is like watching two drunks try to waltz. It's so fucking confusing, but I can't look away. So I stare at the screen and will my fingers to move. Last night was supposed to help—just a few drinks, a little escape. Instead, my skull feels like it’s cracking open, and I can’t stop thinking about him. Those eyes, that smile, the way he made me feel like a wick dipped in gasoline. I sit and remember, waiting for the spark.

It's all coming back to me now. How I walked into the bar hoping to forget myself and found something entirely new instead. We’d started talking and it felt so Goddamn effortless. Like I just wanted to spill my guts to him and somehow knew he’d say the right things. Make me feel safe.

It didn’t help that he is sexy as fuck. I tried so hard not to stare, but failed miserably. Not that it was subtle, the way I stared.God, I probably looked desperate. Maybe I was. But it felt like we were the only two people there, and everyone else faded into the background. Those dark eyes locking on to me, drawing me in like a riptide. He’d leaned in close when I talked, smiled like he could see every tangled thing inside of me.

Effortless. That’s how I’d describe him. Effortlessly sexy. Dark hair that looked like he just woke up, but suited him. Tanned skin, dark stubble that spread over his chin. Dark eyes. Oh God, those eyes. Almost black in their darkness. But it was his smile. Crooked, off center, kind of like he was constantly smirking and when he laughed, the deep rumble set me on fire.

It was a concoction that dared me to jump. I’d almost invited him back to my place, just to jump his bones.

God, I’m such a lush.But a woman has needs and apparently, mine were satiated and I wasn’t even awake. What the fuck kind of bullshit is that.

The longer I sit, the less I can stand it. The quiet anticipation builds in my chest, spilling down into my fingers. I have to write something, even if it’s trash. I have to write him out of me. My hands hover above the keyboard, and—

Words start tumbling out.

They trip over each other at first, clumsy and unformed, but soon they take shape. They start to feel like something, something I thought I'd lost. A figure stalking through dense forest. A mask glinting in the moonlight. His breath fogging inthe night air as he tracks his prey. A thrilling chill races through me, electric and wild. It fuels the rush of inspiration. Words pour faster than I can catch them.

It's as if I've been holding my breath for weeks and can finally exhale.

There's the dangerous curve of a smile beneath the mask. The way leaves crunch underfoot. Shadows casting long fingers across the forest floor. He moves with an animal grace, always just out of reach but impossibly near. I type as fast as I can, struggling to keep up, terrified that the words will stop before I get them all out. My heart is racing. I can feel it hammering behind my eyes, in my fingertips, and oh god, there’s no stopping this.

I’ve written more in one feverish burst than I have in weeks, and it feels like oxygen rushing back into a room.

But as I pause to read, a different feeling steals over me. The hair-raising chill of something too real, too familiar, as if the story is being fed into my mind rather than created by it. My heart skips in my chest, uncertain. It's a pulse of excitement tangled with fear, the thrill of finally writing again muted by a creeping unease.

The spark, igniting.

The man is in my head, a living thing ready to escape, and I don’t blame him. Hefeelsreal. The story is more alive than I am right now, an entire universe growing out of one drunken night at thebar. I see myself in the words but at the same time... not. It’s not me. It can’t be me. But maybe it is. Maybe it’s all been there, hiding, waiting for a spark to set it loose. I drop my hands from the laptop, my breath catching, and sit back at the laptop. It's alive.

So I keep writing.

There is the masked man, the woman in the woods. It terrifies me how real it all feels, as if I'm inside their world instead of my own. The air between us is static, my pulse in my throat, and I want to run. Instead, I let the words pour out, hot and breathless. It’s alive, it’s breathing. It’s—

The door groans as he pushes it open, the sound swallowed by the hush of the forest. Inside, the cabin is dim, lit only by firelight and shadow. The air smells of cedar, smoke, and something t him.

He sets her down, gently this time, onto a threadbare couch. She doesn’t try to run. Not now.

“You still haven’t asked who I am,” he says, removing his gloves with slow, precise movements. His voice is calm, but charged, like lightning behind the clouds.

“I don’t need to,” she says. “I’ve dreamed you before.”

The mask tilts. A moment passes. Then he steps closer.

“You dreamed it wrong.”

---