Page 69 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter
His hand drags across his beard, thoughtful.
The gears are turning in his head, and I canseeit—the subtle shift in his shoulders, the way his stance changes. Javi plays the brute well, but there’s more to him. There’s always been more. The wolf in him is all instinct and danger, but the man…
The man is sharp.
He’s thinking this through.
And I realize, as I watch him work through it, that Iadmirehim.
Not just because he’s saved me, not just because he’s protected me. Not just because I’ve seen his scars and his anger and the way he trembles when I smile.
I admire the way he moves through a world that’s tried to destroy him.
I think I like him.
“It’ll hurt,” he finally says, voice low and rough.
“But it’ll work?” I ask, heart thudding.
He nods once. “Yeah. It’ll work. But you need to understand something.”
He steps closer. The air shifts. My lungs go tight.
“If I do this,” he says, “we won’t be able to sever the bond. Not ever. I’ll always know where you are…for the rest of your life.”
His eyes drop—to the center of my chest, like he can see right through the black t-shirt. Through skin, through bone. To the fluttering heartbeat trying to leap out of my ribs.
I should be scared of that. Iamscared of that.
But more than that, I feel…seen.
“If I had to choose someone to always know where I am,” I say, barely breathing, “why wouldn’t I choose the person who’s tried hardest to keep me safe?”
His jaw tenses.
His eyes snap shut like I’ve hit him. Like I said somethingwrong.Something dangerous.
And suddenly I want to take it back—not because I didn’t mean it, but because Idid.
I rush to fix it, my voice stumbling over itself. “Sorry,” I whisper. “I mean—sorry for…saying sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it?—”
His eyes open.
Green. Burning.
“Lie down,” he says.
I try to control my breathing as I follow his command, scooting back on the bed with my heart in my throat. The mattress dips beneath me. Every rustle of sheets feels too loud, too revealing.
Javi moves toward me in a slow, steady prowl.
He doesn’t hurry. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me with those sharp, stormy green eyes—reading every twitch of my hands, every uneven breath. My stomach tightens as he drops to his knees beside the bed, broad shoulders cutting a shadow in the dim light.
God, he’s beautiful. Rough and worn and real.
The thin fabric of his t-shirt does little to hide the way his body moves—the way muscle coils and flexes under the surface. The sleeves strain around his biceps, tight enough to leave an imprint. I don’t mean to stare, but I do. I can't help it.
His gaze drops to the bite on my neck—the first one. It’s healing now, mostly. Just a soft, pink scar with two tiny scabs that look almost dainty, considering the way it felt. His eyes linger there, then travel lower.
