Page 61 of Hunting Gianna

“Wait here,” he says, and disappears into the trees.

I hug myself, rocking on my heels, the adrenaline turning to a sick, sweet ache in my gut. I hear him rummaging in the dark, then the sharp metallic scrape of something heavy against stone. He returns, arms loaded with firewood and something else—an old gas can, battered and dented.

He stacks the wood in a heap at the center of the clearing, douses it with gasoline, then leans down and grabs a box of matches. The sulfur stings my nose as he strikes the first one, the tiny flare of yellow like a promise.

He drops the match, and the pile erupts, a tower of flame shooting into the air. The heat hits my face, driving back the cold in an instant. I step closer, mesmerized by the way the fire eats everything in its path, turning solid wood to ash and memory.

He stands next to me, shoulder to shoulder, watching the blaze with a solemnity that makes my chest ache. I wonder if he’s thinking of his dead parents, his wasted childhood, all the things he had to burn just to survive. I wonder if he’s thinking of me, of what I am now, and what I might become.

I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am.

The old Gianna is dead and gone. And I like that more than I care to admit.

I reach for his hand, lacing my fingers through his. He squeezes back, so tight it almost hurts.

We watch the fire together, not speaking, not moving, until the last log collapses in on itself and the world goes quiet again.

He turns to me, eyes shining in the dark.

“We start over now,” he says.

I nod, knowing that whatever happens, I’ll let him set me on fire again and again.

Because this is what it means to be alive. Because this is what it means to be his.

Because after everything, I’d rather burn than be alone.

He takes my hand and leads me back into the dark. My breath mists out, and I try to keep pace, but his stride is longer, driven. My bare feet slap against the pine-needle carpet, gritty and cold.

He picks me up, a clean jerk under my arms, and slings me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing. I squeal, more surprised than scared, and his palm comes down on my ass, leaving heat in the shape of his hand.

“You like it rough,” I say, muffled against his back.

He grunts, “I like it real.”

It’s with startling clarity I realize… he’s the most real thing I’ve ever experienced, and that’s the moment when I finally understand. My world was different shades of gray until he cracked me open and poured himself into the spaces where I didn’t exist.

The world tilts, branches whipping past my face, the scent of moss and rain and something wild underneath. I let him carry me, let myself be transported without resistance, because I trust him more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. Even if it’s only because I know how easily he could end me. Maybe that’s what trust is.

“You’re not the little bird I watched anymore,” he says. “You’re my phoenix. My pretty little girl.”

And somehow, everything shitty that’s ever happened to me disappears and all I see is him.

Chapter Eighteen

Knox

She’sstillgotblooddried along the curve of her jaw, mud crusted up her shins, hair tangled in thick, wet snarls. If she were anyone else, I’d tell her to clean up. But she’s perfect like this. Raw. Real.

The walk home is a blur, like the forest has closed in around us, muffling everything but the slap of my feet and the faint, ragged sounds she makes. Eventually I move her into a cradle position. She buries her face in my shoulder and I can’t tell if she’s crying or laughing or just fucking wrecked. Doesn’t matter. I carry her the last half mile like she’s a prize I just dragged out of the pit.

At the cabin, I kick the door open. My foot hits the splintered wood with a thud, echoes off the walls. Inside is the same as we left it: cold, dark, smelling faintly of fire and rot. I set her down gentle on the couch, and for a second, she just sits there, staring at her own hands like they don’t belong to her anymore.

I want to say something, but what the fuck do I say? She killed a man and then sucked my dick, and then I burnt her camping spot to the ground. Pretty sure there’s no real words to express how she’s feeling right now. Instead I go to the hearth, scoop last night’s ashes into a tin, and build a fire the way my father taught me: crumple, stack, light, wait. The flames catch quick, licking up the dry kindling, throwing weird orange shadows across the floor.

It’s warm. Not hot enough to burn, but enough to thaw out bones gone brittle with cold. It was short-sighted of me not to let us dress before going out, but whatever, we survived. I strip out of my wet shirt, toss it over the back of a chair. She watches, eyes following the movement, but there’s no shame in it now. I let her look. I want her to see all of me—the scars, the bruises, the map of violence that is my body and my history.

She’s shivering. Not from fear, I think, but from the aftershock. The come-down after the kill. I know the feeling. You ride that wave until it spits you out, then you’re left shaking, desperate for anything solid.

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