Page 19 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
I can feel it in my bones, in my blood, in the way my body is softer, weaker, pliable to instincts I don’t want. The wolfsbane is nearly gone from my system, burned away by time and my own traitorous biology, leaving me open and vulnerable, my body primed for something I can’t have.
Something I shouldn’t want.
I turn over in the cot, grinding my wrists against the rope that still binds them, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. My clothes are still damp, clinging too tight to my skin, every brush of fabric making me more aware of how sensitive I feel—how raw and exposed I am, even in the solitude of this room. Wearing my favorite sweater from back home almost makes it worse, because it’s a reminder that just a few days ago, I was picking wildflowers at the Austin den.
And the walls…the walls are too thin.
The Rig is too alive tonight, filled with the sounds of alphas drunk on power, betas laughing at things that aren’t funny, the distant cries of women who don’t get to say no. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to hear it. But it doesn’t matter…because my body isn’t listening to fear anymore.
My body is listening to him.
To Javi.
To the way his hands felt on me, firm, steady, his fingers curling around my wrist, my bicep, my waist when he threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I can’t be.
But the memory is already there, already sinking into me, threading through the heat pooling between my thighs. I flip onto my stomach, pressing my face into the scratchy blanket, my hips shifting restlessly, searching for something—anything—to ease the ache.
My body doesn’t care that Javi is the one who dragged me here.
That he’s the one who delivered me to my worst nightmare.
That he is a bad, bad man.
My body only cares about the way it feels when he touches me.
A whimper catches in my throat.
I press my hips into the mattress, my thighs squeezing around nothing, frustration mounting, the ache in my core growing sharper, more demanding. I fumble blindly, still bound, until I manage to hook my leg a pillow, dragging it between my thighs, straddling it like it’s him.
The relief is instant—the pressure, the friction, the way my clit grinds against the seam of my shorts, not nearly enough, but better.
So much better.
I rock forward, sucking in a shaky breath, my pulse hammering, my body buzzing with a need so thick, so unrelenting, it makes me want to cry. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m already lost to it—lost to Javi’s hands, Javi’s mouth, Javi’s weight pressing me down. I can picture him, feel him, that big body pinning me in place, claiming me, taking what I?—
I bite my lip, my body tensing, chasing, so close, so close?—
And then I break.
The pleasure rips through me like a fevered wave, heat spilling over my skin, leaving me breathless, trembling, wrecked. My body clenches around nothing, needing more, but there’s no one to fill the ache, no hands to pin me down, no hot breath against my throat, teeth poised to sink in.
No Javi.
But his name still slips out of me, a broken sound, a gasp that escapes before I can swallow it down.
"Javi—"
The moment it’s out, I freeze, my whole body going still, horror curling tight in my chest. I burrow my face into the blanket, heat washing over me all over again, but this time, it’s not from pleasure—it’s shame.
I just?—
I just came on a pillow, tied up like a prisoner, moaning the name of the man who stole me.
The one good thing about finally letting go is that sleep comes easy after that. I manage to pass out, only to start to dream…and in that dream, he’s there, taking me in hand, giving me exactly what I’m asking for.
This is a special kind of hell.
