Page 116 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
Blood floods the space between them.
Javi rises slowly.
Gideon does not.
The Prime lies still, his blind eye staring, mouth slack. A thick pool of blood spreads under his neck, soaking into the wood. He doesn’t move. He won’t move again.
I don’t breathe until I see Javi—still shifted, still panting, still here—shuddering from nose to tail. He turns toward me, his eyes wild and glassy, and I rush to him.
I throw myself over him, running my hands through his thick fur, searching for wounds. He’s shaking violently, not from pain, but from the aftershock of adrenaline and kraken.
“Javi,” I whisper, holding his face between my hands.
He meets my gaze, eyes spinning but focused for the briefest second.
His lips barely move, and his voice is slurred but certain.
“Promised,” he says.
A howl goes up from the dock and I look at Tilda, begging her with my gaze to help.
She doesn’t try to fight me on it—just drops her gun long enough to crouch beside me and lift. But Javi is too big for the two of us. I drag on him with everything I’ve got, managing only a few feet before more hands close in to help.
Will grabs him under the shoulders, Reyes taking the other side. Frankie’s already scoping out the descent, barking directions into the dark.
“This way—there’s a cargo ladder rigged down the south side. Colt’s waiting in the boat.”
I blink. “A ladder?”
“It’s either that or jump,” she says grimly. “And we all know how well that would go.”
We stagger toward the edge together, Javi’s weight distributed between the four of us. The Rig groans beneath us as wolves scramble at the other end of the deck, howls ringing out louder and closer. I don’t dare look back.
The cargo ladder is old, rusted, bolted to the side of the platform. It disappears into the shadows below—long, steep, and swinging ever so slightly with the wind and motion of the waves. Colt’s boat is visible at the bottom, lights low, engine humming. He’s got it steady, waiting for us.
Two’s already climbing down fast, Ephraim right above her. Tilda goes next, moving with surprising grace. Will and Reyespause to coordinate, then start lowering Javi between them, one rung at a time.
I go last.
I keep one hand on Javi’s leg the whole way, whispering encouragements even though he probably can’t hear me, even though I’m shaking so hard I almost lose my grip.
Frankie’s just above me, pistol slung across her back, muttering about how if one more man causes her this much trouble, she’s gonna open a bar and only serve women.
By the time our feet hit the deck of the fishing boat, we’re all breathless—sweaty, salt-slick, shaking. But we’re off the Rig. We’re off.
I stay behind with Will and Reyes as they ease Javi onto a padded bench, and I find myself grateful—overwhelmed with gratitude—for the family that came for me.
The family I chose.
The family that never once thought I wasn’t worth saving.
The ship hums as it comes to life, old engines rattling with effort, golden lights flickering across the floorboards. It smells like oil and rust and sea spray, the air humming with motion and adrenaline and grief.
Tilda kneels near the stern, checking the ammo on a spare pistol. Will lingers nearby, watching Javi with the wary tension of someone who’s seen too many things go wrong too fast.
I stay curled against my mate, brushing my fingers through his fur, whispering quiet things into the dark. Begging the bond to hold. Praying his breathing stays steady.
The deck rocks with the tide. The hum of the engine vibrates through my bones.
