Page 6 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
I should be nothing to him.
So why does he sound like he’s suffering?
Heat curls through my belly, twisting wrong and shameful.
The gag in my mouth is thick, rough fabric, and I try to speak around it, to beg, to snarl, to do anything to break whatever this is between us. But the words come out as a useless, garbled mess.
“Ih ooh annid ooh?—”
Javi tenses.
And then the other man—Boyd, the one who isn’t an alpha, the one who doesn’t smell like coconut and coffee and heat and ruin—laughs.
“Can’t understand you, darlin’,” he drawls, amused. “And we’re not taking out that gag. We know cute little omegas like you can wrap an alpha around their little finger, which is why we dosed up ahead of time.”
Dosed.
My stomach drops.
That’s why I can’t scent them. That’s why my omega instincts feel dull and wrong and sluggish. They’ve been drugging themselves so I don’t affect them. A fresh wave of humiliation burns through me, so sharp I want to bite someone.
Javi’s hands vanish from my head, and I hate how cold it feels without them. Hate the sudden, sharp distance he forces between us. I have no idea what that means, and I don’t much care. Tears fill my eyes, soaking into the hood covering my face.
“She’s crying, Boyd,” Javi mutters.
Boyd chuckles again, unbothered. “You good, sailor? Need another hit?”
Javi shifts me to a seated position, but then I hear him move again. “Pass it over,” he says. “I think she could use some too.”
I hear the clinking of glass, then Javi’s hand is gripping my arm again. I try to wrench myself away, but the needle goes in and I cry out around the gag, a burning sensation erupting along the vein.
“Gotta get your heat under control, little missy,” Boyd says, “before you drive my friend here crazy.”
My senses dull again. I don’t think they injected me with a sedative this time, but it seems to be doing the trick in terms of numbing my lycan abilities. I can’t smell them, can’t place their designation, and I feel a little more in control when it comes to the near irresistible urge to mate.
Which is, I guess, a good thing.
Javi groans from beside me, his breath hissing out like he’s in pain. I hear the glass clink again a second later; he must have injected himself as well.
“You should get some sleep,” Boyd says, his voice easy, like this is just another job to him. “No use in trying to talk; we’re not taking out your gag, and we’re not looking you in the eye. Nope—you won’t be set loose until you’ve been safely delivered home.”
I laugh, the sound muffled and bitter around the gag.
Safe? Home?
I think he and I have very different definitions for those words.
My laughter sets Boyd off. His amusement sours, voice turning sharp. “Shut her up.”
There’s a shift beside me, the weight of someone moving closer. The scent of him, thick and dark, washing over me.
And then—Javi’s hand closes around my wrist.
Heat breaks through the haze like a shock to the system. My whole body goes tight, every nerve attuned to him, like I’ve been yanked out of drowning waters and thrown onto scorching sand. His fingers press against my skin—just a touch, but it doesn’t feel small.
It feels like control—like he has every part of me in his palm, even the pieces I want to keep locked away. My breath comes out in a staggered gasp, body reacting against my will, muscles going slack, bones melting into the feeling of him, him, him.
“Sleep,” he commands.
