Page 9 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
A heavy hand clamps around my shoulder, shoving me down against the deck. I snarl, thrashing, but my wrists are still tied, my body too slow from the last dose of wolfsbane.
Another growl rips through the air—not mine.
Javi.
His grip tightens just for a second, his fingers pressing against my overheated skin. Not bruising. Not hurting. Just stopping me. Holding me down.
Like he knows exactly what I was about to do.
“Stay still,” he mutters, voice low and firm, rolling through me like a second tide.
And against everything, my body obeys.
Radio static flickers to life on the comm unit, and I hear Boyd pick up. A voice speaks, then—a voice I recognize and that makes me want to throw up. It’s Abel, one of the young alphas my father was training as a lieutenant when I left the Rig.
I’m so screwed.
“State your purposes, Sea Witch.”
Sea Witch?
“We’re bounty hunters, just picked up a contract from your Prime a few months ago,” Boyd says. “Happy to report that we’ve fulfilled the contract—and we’ve got a certain Esther Vinton onboard.”
Abel doesn’t respond right away. We drift, the boat slowing down.
Boyd hails the Rig again. “I need some assurances that you have fuel and payment for us when we dock,” he says. “We want to make sure your bounty arrives safe and sound…and we gotta make sure we get paid.”
Static buzzes.
“What are your names?” Abel asks.
Boyd and Javi are quiet for a moment. I groan in protest, but they ignore me.
“Jeremy Boyd and Javier Ortega,” Boyd says. “You may have heard of us.”
Abel chuckles. “Sure have. Gulf boys from out east finally paying a visit to the Rig, huh?”
“And thrilled to arrive with a prize,” Boyd says. “Have the Prime meet us at the dock with our pay—and Esther here is all yours.”
My hopes are dashed in an instant, knowing Gulf Pack loyalists will never help me. Even if Javi seemed to show a little sympathy, these are people who have thrived on the subjection of omegas for decades—and they might be from a different platform, but at their heart, they’re all the same. I slump against the wall, trying to control my breathing as tears fill the corners of my eyes.
I have to believe my pack will come and save me.
I have to believe that somebody—Reyes, Tilda, Magnolia, Colt, Arden…that somebody will take the risk and ride the waves to bring me home.
It’s the only way I’m going to survive.
“We’ll see you at the dock, boys,” Abel says. “Welcome to the Rig.”
3
PEACHES
Ican tell there’s no wolfsbane on the Rig… because I can sense the alphas all over this place.
The air is thick with it—heavy, oppressive, stifling. The moment I wake, the scent of unrestrained dominance slams into me like a wave, thick with salt and musk and something worse—something that sets my nerves on edge and makes my stomach turn.
I smell leather and engine oil from the docks, the same scent that used to cling to my father’s men when they came back from patrols. Blood and saltwater, faint but ever-present, tangled with the acrid scent of wet metal—rusting chains, oil-slicked machinery, seawater soaking into iron.
