Page 16 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
I don’t bother to greet them. Especially not Abel.
The asshole is leaning against the bar, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s still pissed I pulled my omega out of his reach earlier.
Wait—not mine.
The prisoner.
"Our new friends were just telling me how grateful they are for bringing their sweet princess home," Boyd drawls, tapping his empty glass against the counter. "Isn’t that right, Abel?"
Abel doesn’t answer at first; he just watches me. His head tips slightly, studying me, eyes too sharp, too knowing—like he’s already laid claim to something I don’t realize I’ve given him.
"Next round’s on me if you want it," he says at last, voice too casual.
I glance at the bartender, a skittish beta female with fresh bruises blooming under her collarbone, the mark of a hand still lingering in yellowing purple. She won’t look at Abel, not at me…not even at Boyd, even though Boyd’s a beta like him. I slide a few bills across the counter. Old human currency. Nearly useless these days, except in Miami, where we can use it to buy new gear.
"Water," I mutter, not taking Abel up on his offer to buy.
Abel’s lip curls in a snarl.
Boyd doesn’t notice the shift in tension, but I do.
"You staying for the festivities tomorrow?" Abel asks.
Boyd, drunk and oblivious, jumps in before I can speak. "I think we’ll be here a couple days. Storm rolling in. Need to restock anyway. Ain’t that right, Javi?"
Abel cocks his head and smirks.
"Good," he says, his gaze lingering on me, and there’s something about it that makes me want to snarl, makes my fingers curl into a fist before I force them loose.
"Tomorrow night," he continues, tipping his glass toward me like a toast, "we’ve got a hunt planned. Should be fun."
Boyd just grins, taking another long drink. "You fuckers and your traditions," he chuckles. "What’re you hunting all the way out here? Sharks? Seagulls?"
Abel chuckles.
"Something sweet," he says.
Omegas.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, forcing my body to stay calm, unreadable. Don’t let them see when they’ve pissed you off. If they see you’re angry, you can’t take them by surprise later.
I don’t want Abel to see me coming when I tear his throat open.
A door slams somewhere behind us. The room shifts, the sound of low conversations, dice rolling against a table, boots scuffing against metal. A radio plays in the background—some ancient song, warped and grainy, barely recognizable beneath the hum of voices.
Abel takes his drink, tosses it back in one long gulp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Boyd.
"I’ll see ya around," he says. Then, to me, his voice harder, colder—"Make sure to let me know before you two take off."
He doesn’t say why, but I know—because he doesn’t like that I took his moment back on the docks.
He wants me gone before he claims his prize.
I say nothing, just watch as he steps away from the bar. He lingers for a second—just a second—his body angled slightly toward me, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll react. I don’t; I just stare, long enough that he finally scoffs under his breath and stalks toward the door, disappearing into the darkened hallway beyond.
There’s a beat of quiet after he’s gone.
Boyd lets out a whistle, turning back toward me.
