Page 13 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter (Moonbound Mates #3)

He turns around and, for a split second, his face changes. He drinks me in with those green eyes, his gaze sliding over my body like the touch of a lover.

It feels…

I don’t know.

I blush bright pink, covering myself as best I can.

“The towel?” I ask, gesturing at it with a nod of my head.

It’s like he catches himself in the moment—and remembers he hates me. He schools his expression and looks past me again, then picks up the towel and tosses it my way.

“Thank you,” I squeak.

I wrap myself up in it, trying to hide my body, my shame, and even the stubborn desire that won’t seem to go away.

“Fuck,” he curses. “You’re still bleeding.”

I reach up to touch the bite, fingertips brushing lightly over broken skin—and immediately hiss, sucking in a sharp breath as pain flares through me. It’s not just tender. It’s raw. Still bleeding. Still angry.

It should have healed by now.

I close my eyes, fighting the wave of nausea and heat that rolls through me, trying to blink back tears. But when I open them again, Javi is right in front of me.

Close.

Closer than I expected.

His brows are drawn, his jaw tight, and for once, he doesn’t look distant or unreadable. He looks…concerned. His gaze flicks from my face to the wound at my throat. His mouth opens—like he wants to say something—but then he shuts it again, jaw flexing.

“We should get a medic,” he says roughly.

“No!” My voice is sharp, panicked. I reach for him without thinking, my fingers curling around his wrist. “No one here will help me. They’ll hurt me worse. We can’t trust anyone here.”

His brows furrow. “It needs to be treated,” he insists. “I don’t know why it isn’t healing.”

“Because you’re not my mate,” I blurt.

The words hang between us, brittle and bright.

His face changes. Just a flicker—his eyes going dark, mouth thinning, a sharp inhale. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t meet my gaze either.

“You believe that stuff?” he mutters.

My chest aches. I want to scream at him. You don’t get to ask that like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean 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 you did, ” I say, trembling. “Why do you even care ?”

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 feel everything you 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 him why, to crawl into his lap and beg him to kiss me again, to never touch 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 it crystal 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. Too good.

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.

God help me, I do.

He keeps going until the pain is gone, replaced by a molten ache and a deep, pulsing awareness of where his mouth just was. Of where it could be next.

Another sound escapes me—a soft, desperate little mewl—and my whole body shudders.

Then he pulls away.

“Better?” he asks, voice rough.

I open my eyes. And I remember. He didn’t want this. He doesn’t want me.

He only did it because he had to. Because it hurt him too.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Better.”

He nods, backing away.

“We should get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll stay up. Keep watch.”

I glance around the room, realizing for the first time that there’s nothing for me to wear. Not even a blanket.

“They didn’t even bring me clothes,” I whisper.

Javi’s eyes flick over me—just once—and something flares in his expression, sharp and hot and gone in an instant.

He turns away.

“Don’t worry,” he says flatly. “I won’t touch you.”

And that should make me feel safe.

But it doesn’t.

It feels like another rejection. Another reminder that I’m claimed but not wanted.

I gather the towel tighter around myself and curl into the corner of the bed, the cold sinking into my bones again.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Goodnight.”