No, this is a beast of a very different nature.
Lucky for me, the woods make sense again. A familiar bush to my right with flowers that are red in the daylight but darken to black in the shadows. Up ahead, I know how the ground slopes. I head to the spot where the trees separate so I can slip through without making noise.
I gradually turn left, forcing him to follow me into the dark, and he does. Less careful now, feet stomping, rocks skittering. Someone who doesn’t know how to move out here.
He gets closer, probably thinks I don’t know.
The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise, that primal warning blaring through my body, the one that tells you when someone’s watching. Hunting.
I almost grin, in control for the first time this evening.
There’s only one predator in these woods.
Me.
The trees fall away, and the clearing opens up before me. The worn-down patch of earth. The punching bag and the tree where Carrson left his blades, sunk deep into the bark like they belong there. The dark hilts blend with the wood, invisible unless you know where to look.
Home.
I take one more step and spin.
Jackson’s right behind me, just like I knew he would be.
He comes out of the dark fast, faster than I expected, a hand shooting for my arm, the other reaching for my throat. I twist just in time, his fingers grazing skin instead of locking down.
“Got you,” he breathes, close enough that I smell him, sweat and alcohol.
“No,” I snap, shoving hard against his chest.
He stumbles half a step, more surprised than hurt.
I don’t run.
I circle.
“Playing hard to get,” Jackson says with a grin, rolling his shoulders. “I like it.”
My pulse is loud in my ears, but it’s more adrenaline than fear.
“You followed me,” I say, keeping my voice calm. “That’s your first mistake.”
“No, Becky. My first mistake was letting you walk away from me earlier.”
He steps forward, and I match it, shifting to maintain distance, angling myself, keeping my feet moving, heading closer to the tree. Always closer to the tree.
“You should’ve taken my offer,” he goes on, voice low, coaxing. “Would’ve been easier.”
“Yeah?” I breathe. “Easier for you, you mean.”
He laughs at that. Then he lunges.
This time he gets me.
His hand clamps around my upper arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, yanking me forward. I slam into him as his other hand comes up, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking my head back.
Pain flashes a blinding white behind my eyes.
“Stop fighting,” he says, voice dropping, ugly now. “You don’t get a say in this.”
