Page 45 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
My chest aches. I want to scream at him.You don’t get to ask that like it’s nothing.Like it doesn’tmean everything.
“I’ve seen it,” I say, my voice small but steady. “Mates are real. And you…you took my chance of ever finding mine.”
Silence.
His expression shutters again, that fogged-glass mask I’m beginning to hate. He turns his wrist in my grip, his palm sliding against my skin—warmer than I expect—and rests his hand on my hip.
The heat of it sears through the thin towel, all the way down to bone.
“A bite like that needs care,” he says, voice low. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“But youdid,” I say, trembling. “Why do you evencare?”
His answer is barely a whisper. “Because I can feel it.”
My heart stutters.
“I placed my mark on you,” he says, staring at me like the words cost him something. “I can feeleverythingyou feel now. And it hurts.”
I blink fast, unsure if the tears brimming are from pain or something else entirely. I want to shove him away. I want to pull him closer. I want to scream, to ask himwhy,to crawl into his lap and beg him to kiss me again, tonevertouch me again.
None of it makes sense.
I deflate. My hand falls away from his wrist, and something in my chest caves in.
Because even though I know he doesn’t want this—even though he’s made itcrystal clear—his nearness makes the pain in my neck fade. His scent is grounding, his presence like heat seeping into frostbitten skin.
He’s not kind.
But he’s not cruel either.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Slowly, I tilt my head to the side, exposing the bite, throat bared. I can’t look at him. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor.
“Fine,” I whisper. “Do whatever you want.”
For a moment, he doesn’t move.
Then I feel him step in closer—slow, deliberate. His body heat envelops me, warm and steady in the chill of the room. Rain pounds the roof like drumbeats, like a war outside our little fragile truce.
He exhales against the bite first, and I shiver.
His breath is warm. Soothing.
My knees nearly give out.
Then his lips touch my throat. Light. Careful. Reverent.
His hand rises to brush my wet hair back from my face, fingers surprisingly gentle. And when his tongue licks against the mark—soft, slow, lapping at the wound with the lightest pressure—I nearly sob from the pleasure of it.
A sigh escapes me, unbidden. My head falls to the side, my eyes flutter shut. It feels good.Toogood.
I bite my lip and whimper as he keeps going—small kisses, slow laps of his tongue, a heat building low in my belly that makes me tremble, my thighs clenching together.
I shouldn’t want this.
But I do.
