Page 2 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
The wildflowers are blooming—the first brave things to rise from the grey of winter. Tiny bursts of color peek out between the tall grasses, delicate blues and yellows dotting the landscape just beyond the fence. I breathe in deep, filling my lungs with the crisp, earthy scent of the changing season.
Beyond the fence, the prairie stretches open and endless, the kind of space that should feel like freedom. Instead, it’s off-limits. I am off-limits. Ever since Maggie’s mate, Colt, showed up and told us we were on the Gulf Pack’s radar, Reyes and Tilda have kept the omegas inside, convinced that someone is lurking out there, waiting.
All’s been quiet, though. No strange scents. No signs.
I wrap my fingers around the fence, feeling the metal give slightly under my grip. I understand why they’re cautious, but the feeling of being penned in, watched, protected—it itches at me. Reminds me too much of a place I swore I’d never return to.
The Rig.
A fortress on the water, all rusted steel and towering platforms, dressed up like a castle to disguise what it really was: a prison. It’s where my mother died, and where I was born, the first and only daughter of the Gulf Pack’s Alpha Prime, Gideon.
I escaped years ago.
But the fear stays with you.
I fight it every day, just…trying to stay positive.
A burst of laughter snaps me out of it, bright and carefree. I glance back toward the den, where Charlotte has scooped up Daisy and is spinning her in the air, the little girl squealing with delight. A few feet away, Maggie is murmuring softly to her newborn Luna, swaying on her blanket as the baby fusses.
It’s safe here.
I shake off the lingering tension in my chest and focus on what I came out here for.
A flash of color catches my eye—a bright purple mountain laurel blooming just within reach. I grin and move toward it, standing on tiptoe to pluck a single blossom from the tree. The scent is sweet and heady, a sharp contrast to the earthy green tang of the other plants I’ve already gathered. Weeds, Suyin would call them, but to me, they’re little pieces of beauty, worth saving.
I kneel to pick a few more, running my fingers over soft petals and sturdy stems, letting the scents mix and swirl around me. A breeze rolls through, rustling the grass, carrying the sound of voices—someone calling out near the entrance of the den.
I glance up and spot a small group moving down the dirt road, their arms laden with supplies. Will’s broad figure is easy to pick out, a crate balanced on one shoulder as he waves to someone at the gate. Grant, coming down from the watchtower to help out, claps him on the back, laughing as they pass through the entrance.
The den is always in motion, always alive with people coming and going. I know, without a doubt, that someone is watching me. Not in a trapped way, not like the Rig. Just…pack.
I turn back to my flowers, rolling a sprig of mint between my fingers, letting the scent of crushed leaves rise up around me. My heart has finally settled, and for the first time today, I feel calm.
Then the fence rattles.
Just a whisper of sound.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
The breeze stirs the leaves, shifting the scent of earth and green things, but something about the air feels wrong now. I swallow, straining to listen. The fence isn’t moving anymore, but I know what I heard. A rattle, just for a second, metal scraping against metal.
It’s probably nothing. A gust of wind. A squirrel darting through the grass.
And yet?—
I turn my head slowly, scanning the prairie beyond the fence. The horizon is still, the sky pale and open, the grasses rolling in gentle waves.
Nothing moves.
I release a breath and force myself to relax, rolling my shoulders. Maybe Maggie was right about the air shifting—maybe it’s just me feeling restless.
I crouch back down, reaching for another sprig of mint. The second my fingers brush the leaves, a twig snaps.
I whip my head toward the sound.
The prairie is still again, but I know what I heard. A crack, sharp and sudden, somewhere just beyond the fence.
A prickle of unease creeps up my spine.
