Page 5 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter (Moonbound Mates #3)

JAVI

I ’ve never considered myself a sentimental man.

I was born on the coast, and those of us from around here live and die by the law of the sea. I’ve lived in coastal cities, on islands, on ships, boats, and barges of all shapes and sizes. The Rig is no different from those places—harsh and unforgiving for the weak among us.

I’ve always been strong, so it never mattered.

Survival is simple when you don’t let yourself break.

I learned that young—too young—in the fighting pits of Miami.

There was no pack structure there, no rigid hierarchy of dominance and submission—just men with money placing bets on who would last longest in a cage soaked with blood. No one cared about designation. No one cared about bonds.

Only who could fight. And who could keep fighting, even after they lost.

I was just a kid when I got thrown into that pit, barely old enough to understand what they wanted from me. But I learned fast.

Learned how to kill before I ever learned how to kiss.

Learned how to win before I ever learned how to want.

And I learned—real fucking quick—that the world isn’t kind to those who flinch.

So I don’t.

I don’t flinch at the Rig’s stink of salt and rusted iron. I don’t flinch at the way the men here watch me, calculating, testing my worth. I don’t flinch at the caged women, at the way their eyes go dull and unfocused when they look at me, same as they do when they look at any man.

I don’t flinch at the omega I dragged here, even when she trembles in my grip like something fragile.

But something about her does bother me—she doesn’t strike me as someone with a bounty on her head.

Omegas are supposed to be weak, docile, and well-behaved. When they aren’t, they don’t make it long in our world. That’s just the way things have been ever since the Convergence. And as far as I can tell, Esther Vinton—or Peaches, if that’s really her name—is exactly as an omega should be.

Submissive. Docile. Manners like a lamb.

So why was she on the run?

And why is she being treated like a criminal?

The whole situation doesn’t sit right with me as I leave the building they call the citadel, my hands in my pockets.

I feel itchy—like my skin is crawling. The wolfsbane must be wearing off as the full moon comes out, making me want to touch something soft and pretty.

My wolf has half a mind to run back up those stairs and have my way with the princess in her tower, but I know I’d be in deep shit with Boyd and all these angry rednecks if I so much as stepped foot back in that place.

I have to leave her behind.

Best to put her out of my mind.

The mess hall is packed when I step inside—low-lit and loud, the air thick with sweat, cheap booze, and the unmistakable scent of bodies rutting in the open.

Beta females weave through the crowd, some balancing trays of drinks, others perched in laps, their hands trailing along thick arms, bare chests.

One is bouncing on an alpha’s cock right there in the corner, riding him like she’s done this a thousand times before, eyes unfocused, mouth slack.

Boyd’s already drinking himself stupid, hunched over the bar with half a dozen of the locals, a grin splitting his flushed face.

The guy’s been my partner for just over three years, but I can’t say I particularly like him.

He paid off a chunk of my fighting pit debt back in Miami, not out of kindness, but so he could own me for a while.

I worked it off, paid him back in full, but by then, we were already tangled up in business together.

Now we’re partners more out of convenience than anything else.

"Mr. Ortega!" he bellows, slamming his empty glass down with a too-loud thunk. He waves me over, laughing. "Come and join me for a round on these fine gentlemen."

I don’t think these gentlemen seem fine at all.

They’re alphas, most of them, though none bigger than me. They size me up the second I approach, their shoulders squaring, their postures instinctively shifting. Even here, in a room full of dominant men, I’m the one that takes up the most space—and I like it that way.

I keep my glower sharp as I walk over, my square shoulders and easy, predatory pace reminding them I won’t be fucking around tonight.

I don’t bother to greet them. Especially not Abel.

The asshole is leaning against the bar, a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s still pissed I pulled my omega out of his reach earlier.

Wait—not mine.

The prisoner.

"Our new friends were just telling me how grateful they are for bringing their sweet princess home," Boyd drawls, tapping his empty glass against the counter. "Isn’t that right, Abel?"

Abel doesn’t answer at first; he just watches me. His head tips slightly, studying me, eyes too sharp, too knowing—like he’s already laid claim to something I don’t realize I’ve given him.

"Next round’s on me if you want it," he says at last, voice too casual.

I glance at the bartender, a skittish beta female with fresh bruises blooming under her collarbone, the mark of a hand still lingering in yellowing purple.

She won’t look at Abel, not at me…not even at Boyd, even though Boyd’s a beta like him.

I slide a few bills across the counter. Old human currency.

Nearly useless these days, except in Miami, where we can use it to buy new gear.

"Water," I mutter, not taking Abel up on his offer to buy.

Abel’s lip curls in a snarl.

Boyd doesn’t notice the shift in tension, but I do.

"You staying for the festivities tomorrow?" Abel asks.

Boyd, drunk and oblivious, jumps in before I can speak. "I think we’ll be here a couple days. Storm rolling in. Need to restock anyway. Ain’t that right, Javi?"

Abel cocks his head and smirks.

"Good," he says, his gaze lingering on me, and there’s something about it that makes me want to snarl, makes my fingers curl into a fist before I force them loose.

"Tomorrow night," he continues, tipping his glass toward me like a toast, "we’ve got a hunt planned. Should be fun."

Boyd just grins, taking another long drink. "You fuckers and your traditions," he chuckles. "What’re you hunting all the way out here? Sharks? Seagulls?"

Abel chuckles.

"Something sweet," he says.

Omegas.

I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, forcing my body to stay calm, unreadable. Don’t let them see when they’ve pissed you off. If they see you’re angry, you can’t take them by surprise later.

I don’t want Abel to see me coming when I tear his throat open.

A door slams somewhere behind us. The room shifts, the sound of low conversations, dice rolling against a table, boots scuffing against metal. A radio plays in the background—some ancient song, warped and grainy, barely recognizable beneath the hum of voices.

Abel takes his drink, tosses it back in one long gulp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at Boyd.

"I’ll see ya around," he says. Then, to me, his voice harder, colder—"Make sure to let me know before you two take off."

He doesn’t say why, but I know—because he doesn’t like that I took his moment back on the docks.

He wants me gone before he claims his prize.

I say nothing, just watch as he steps away from the bar.

He lingers for a second—just a second—his body angled slightly toward me, like he’s waiting to see if I’ll react.

I don’t; I just stare, long enough that he finally scoffs under his breath and stalks toward the door, disappearing into the darkened hallway beyond.

There’s a beat of quiet after he’s gone.

Boyd lets out a whistle, turning back toward me.

"Well, you didn’t have to be an asshole," he mutters. He rolls his eyes, turning back to his drink. "These fellas just gave us a lot of money, Javi—all for black-bagging some dumb little omega in Texas and bringing her here.”

His words rile me up, though I can’t pinpoint exactly why. He’s right in almost every regard—and I’ve never questioned a job like this—but…

“I don’t even know what she did,” I say, fingers curling around my glass of water.

Boyd snorts. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I’m not just muscle, Boyd,” I grumble.

“Or is it because you want to fuck her?” he says.

I meet his eyes and I instantly know he’s onto me. I groan and roll my neck. “Fuck off.”

Boyd lets out a loud laugh, shaking his head. “Called it. Knew you’d grown a boner and not a conscience.”

“It’s the damn full moon,” I mutter.

“Where’s your wolfsbane?”

My shoulders slump. “Ran out on the trip over.”

“For real?” Boyd glances around. “Well, lucky for you there’s no shortage of gorgeous girls around here—and we’ve been invited to use any and all of the facilities here on the Rig.”

I follow his gaze, looking around at the betas in the room.

Sure, they’re pretty—some are downright stunning.

But I know, deep down, that none of them would compare to the heat I felt radiating off Peaches—Esther.

Even now, my mouth waters at the memory of her fruity scent, juicy, sweet…

to be buried in her would blow my fucking mind.

“Wouldn’t be the same,” I say.

“One touch and you’re an addict,” Boyd says. “You alphas—I don’t get it.”

“Have you got your eye on someone?” I ask, leaning back against the bar.

There’s a pretty brunette making eyes at Boyd.

She could honestly do worse, especially since we’ve taken more than one beta female away from a hellhole like this.

Boyd might be an asshole, but he gets off on ‘liberating’ people like that—even people like me. “How about that one?”

“Take it easy, bud,” Boyd says. “I’m still getting drunk. In fact, I was going to?—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. A frightened shriek pierces the noise of the mess and we both snap our heads toward it, fixating on the scene at the end of the bar.

Some alpha dickhead has grabbed the bartender by her hair and is in the process of dragging her toward a table, the girl letting out a scream.

He shoves her against it and goes for her clothes, his hands all over her.

She bats him away, but the others round on her like hungry dogs waiting for their next meal.

I exchange a glance with Boyd.

“Don’t,” he warns.

But I’m already moving, my water forgotten, my claws out and thirsty for blood. I lunge across the room in the blink of an eye, grabbing the alpha by the back of the shirt and flinging him across the room. He bowls through a few other men, snarls erupting around me.

I square my shoulders and bare my teeth, letting him see my partial transformation.

I’m bigger than him.

He knows it.

“Leave her alone,” I growl. “She’s not interested.”

“She doesn’t have a choice,” the guy cackles. He’s drunk—too stupid not to provoke me.

I take a step forward. “She’s. Not. Interested.”

He gets to his feet and makes to walk toward her again, but I lunge and take hold of his shirt, pulling him face to face with me. I can smell the stench of his fear, see the realization that he’s bitten off more than he can chew.

“Okay, man—okay,” the alpha says. “You can calm down.”

I lower my voice. “You clean your act up or next time, I don’t leave it at words. You understand me?”

The alpha nods and stutters. “Yeah. Yeah, just—just let me go. Please.”

I toss the bastard to the floor, making sure he lands on his ass, his breath leaving him in a pained wheeze.

The room goes still.

Not silent, not completely—there’s still the clatter of dice, the scrape of glasses, the low hum of conversation—but there’s a shift. A moment where the air feels thicker, where the alphas around me are watching, deciding.

If they want to challenge me.

If they think it’s worth it.

They don’t.

I turn back toward the girl without another word, rolling my shoulders, pushing down the instinct to keep my fangs bared. My blood is still running too hot, my body still tight with the need to rip something apart. But I already know that feeling won’t go away—not here.

Not in this place.

The bartender is shaking, Boyd’s jacket hanging too big around her shoulders, her eyes darting between me and the man still groaning on the floor. She won’t look at anyone else. She won’t move—like she knows that the second I’m gone, the second I turn my back, it’ll happen again.

And I hate the thought that it will happen again…and not just to her.

To the girl in the tower.

The one with the wide brown eyes, soft and pleading, voice hoarse when she whispered, Please help me.

I grit my teeth.

"Let’s get out of here," I mutter to Boyd. "She’s coming with us."

The bartender startles. "I—I can’t," she stammers. "I have to— I can’t leave the bar."

"As far as anyone else is concerned," I say, voice low, measured, "my friend here took you to our room for a good time. Someone else can tend bar.”

I glance back at the room, making sure everyone hears me.

No one argues.

Boyd doesn’t press me. Just guides the girl toward the door, keeping his arm around her shoulders, and I take up the rear, making sure no one follows. The bartender’s footsteps are too soft, unsteady as she walks, and I know—I know—that tomorrow night, someone else will be in her place.

Not just someone.

Her.

Because when Abel talked about the hunt…he was talking about Peaches. He said it that way to me because he knows it pisses me off. Someone—some bastard like him—will grab her by the hair, shove her to the ground, and take what he thinks he’s owed.

I exhale through my nose, trying to push the thought away, but it’s too late.

The image is already there, burned into me—her body pinned to the rusted out deck of the Rig, her throat bared, her sobs muffled as she waits to be broken.

And Abel, standing over her, waiting for the moment she breaks.