Page 65 of Alpha Hunt

I can’t believe I fell for that trap. I’d caught one whiff of Casey’s scent and gone rushing in like a man possessed. To save a sweater. How did they even get hold of it? And, more importantly, what was I thinking?

I was thinking of finding my mate, that’s what.

My mate.

I swallow hard at the thought of her. If there’s any consolation, it’s the fact that she wasn’t the one they were after. They were after me. And now here I am, locked up like an animal…again.

Too many memories.

I shut them out, focusing instead on what might await me. What do they want with me…with us? I look around yet again, my mind racing.

I don’t have long to dwell on the questions because the door to the room swings open, drawing my attention to the figure stepping inside.

“Well, well, look who’s up.” The face of my captor is immediately recognizable. He’s the biker from the Greased Nipple. As he sneers, the scar down his cheek shifts over his cheekbone. “Have a good nap, Sleeping Beauty?” He has the yellow sweater draped over his shoulder, a testament to my own stupidity. They must have picked it up that day we went there. Figured out what we were, somehow. Maybe they’ve worked with us so often that it was immediately obvious.

I don’t answer him. He stalks closer to the cage, ignoring the savage snarls of the other enclosed wolves. Four more men file in behind him. They seem unperturbed by the shifters. They’re familiar with this space. They feel safe in here. They shouldn’t. Especially not now that I’m here.

“Think you’d get away with skulking around on our turf, did you?” He stops in front of my cage and tilts his head.

I stand silently in front of him, expressionless. He runs an eye up and down me before stopping on my face. He smirks. “You’re a big one, alright. That wolf thing you turn into is a real fucking monster.” He peers at me. “Pity we don’t sell you things by the pound.”

“What do you want with me?” I look around at the other wolves. “With us?” I add. “Why are we here?”

He gives a snort. “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t know either?” I cock my head.

“Of course I know,” he snaps.

“Then tell me.” I wait. He doesn’t reply. I snort. “I’ll start taking things seriously when your boss arrives.”

The men behind him exchange glances. One stifles a smile.

“You gonna let him get away with this, Crag?” one of them says.

“Yeah, he is,” I answer for him. “He doesn’t have the authority to take this further.”

Crag’s eyes narrow. “Think you’re pretty smart, huh?” He walks up to the cage, his expression brazen. But something flickers in his eyes when I move forward to stand inches away from him. He’s not quite sure of these bars. Of whether he’s really safe. I hear the thoughts in his head as clear as day. He’s afraid. I’ll give him credit for hiding it, though. His men would never guess.

“If you are in charge,” I get in his face, my voice low, “then you are the one I’ll be killing when I get out of here. And Crag…” I pause for effect. “It’s not gonna be pretty.”

His eyes flicker again. He gives a derisive snort. “Let’s see how well you fare once the meds kick in. This will be a very different conversation then.” He looks over his shoulder. “Won’t it, boys?”

The meds?

There’s oily laughter from the men at his back. “That’s for sure. He won’t know what hit him.”

I run my eyes over the ragtag assortment of bikers, picking through their thoughts. There’s a mess of information that comes to me: they run things for someone here. They organize the truckloads. I get the impression of some sort of shady figure who calls the shots. And beyond that figure are others. This is more than just big. This is global.

“I think you’ll be the one who doesn’t know what hit you.” I look at the man who’d spoken, then back at Crag. “You’re going to be sorry.”

He snarls, his features darkening. “Listen, you—”

“You’re wasting your time, Crag.” The voice that interrupts us is smooth, cultured. Its owner walks in wearing a bespoke suit and gleaming Oxfords. “That beast is going to beat you at your own game.” The man’s smooth-shaven lip curls as he steps onto the slick white tiles. There’s an air of distaste in his expression despite the fact that the place is sterile enough to eat off the floor.

He doesn’t like being here. He thinks it’s beneath him.

I turn my full attention to him. Taking in the sharp gray eyes, the hundred-dollar haircut, the crisp cut of his jacket.

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