Page 41 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
“Son,” he says, the edge in his voice turning sharp again. “Show our guest and his girl to the suite.”
Ephraim scowls like he’s been handed a bag of shit, but he jerks his chin toward one of the stairwells.
“Right this way,” he says.
I don’t thank him. I don’t thankanyof them.
I just tighten my grip on Peaches and guide her away—out of the circle, out of the storm, out oftheirreach.
For now.
And I make myself a promise: by the time this is over, I’ll give Gideon a brand new scar.
9
PEACHES
I’m still reeling from the events of the past two days when Ephraim shuts me in my room with my mate.
My mate.
My whole life, I’ve dreamt of a great, sweeping love story—of something golden and soft, like the edges of a sunrise. Something I never thought I’d have on the Rig, but that began to feelpossibleonce I left. Once I saw what love looked like when it wasn’t twisted by power.
I watched my friends find it. Charlotte’s roguish alpha who looked at her like she hung the stars. Tilda—scarred and stubborn—finding a lover who knelt for her, who never made her feel like too much. Colt kissing Maggie’s belly while she was pregnant, whispering promises against her skin. Elijah bringing Charlotte wildflowers from the road.
And I wanted that. Iwaitedfor that. I let myself believe I could have it, too.
Now all of that has been torn away from me.
Stolen.
Stolen by the man standing in front of me.
And the worst part is…I don’t even knowwhy.
It wasn’t a rescue. It couldn’t be. We’re still on the Rig. I’m still a prisoner.He’sthe one who dragged me back to this place, who delivered me into the hands of a man who would have let me be torn to pieces just to prove a point.
So why did he step in?
Why did hemarkme?
Why did it feelrightwhen he touched me?
I wrap my arms around myself and sink to the edge of the bed, the thin mattress cold beneath me. My dress is still damp, clinging to my skin like seaweed. My collar is soaked in blood. The bite is swollen, tender, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
My whole body hurts.
But it’s myheartthat aches the worst.
I feel raw. Bruised. Humiliated. My hands tremble, and I can’t stop the image that flashes again and again through my mind—his mouth at my throat, the press of his cock between my legs, the way his scent wrapped around me and made mewant.
I hate him.
I want him.
I don’t know the difference anymore.
And I don’t understand how something so sacred could feel sowrong.
