Page 28 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
And Peaches lifts her head.
Her wide, brown eyes lock onto mine.
I watch her breath catch, watch something flicker through her expression—hope, disbelief, fear, need?—
And that’s it.
That’s the moment I decide.
I stride forward, teeth bared, ready for war.
7
PEACHES
I’m more scared than I’ve ever been.
Once again, I’m hauled out of my room in the citadel, but we don’t go to the bathroom. Instead, we turn left—back toward the front door, where I can hear rain hammering on the metal shell of the house.
“Should we go outside—” I start, but Ephraim silences me with a glare.
“Omegas are not to speak,” he says.
I take a sharp breath, then swallow it as I shut my mouth.
Okay.
He hauls me out to the platform, rain immediately drenching my clothes and hair. I’m sick of being wet—but I forgot that’s what it’s like to live on the sea, constantly covered in saltwater. I can feel the skimpy dress cling to my curves, my nipples pebbling under the fabric, which is sheer enough that anyone could see.
I finally realize what the ceremony is.
They used to do this before I left…but it wasn’t quite like this. The number of applicants for an omega was limited, and it was always done during daylight at the new moon to limit the amount of brutality. Now, Gideon has all the unmatedalphas lined up to claim me, encircling me like I’m about to be devoured.
Maybe I am.
With this many alphas in rut…I could die tonight.
And I hate the thought, but it might be better that way.
Ephraim yanks me forward, dragging me into the center of the circle before shoving me to my knees. My hands scrape against the rough, cracked concrete, but I barely feel it over the roaring in my ears.
The alphas close in.
They’re circling like sharks, drawn by the scent of something weak and wounded.
And then—he appears.
My father.
Gideon Vinton moves through the crowd like he owns the air they breathe, boots heavy against the rusted platform, Bible clutched in one hand like a weapon. The leather is worn soft from use, the gold lettering faded, the pages dog-eared and fraying, but that doesn’t matter.
He doesn’t need the words inside.
He’s written his own.
The moment he steps into the firelight, the crowd falls silent, waiting, expectant. The heat licks at the edges of his broad frame, turning him into something monstrous, something almost holy.
He lifts the Bible high above his head, voice thick with fervor, conviction, power.
