Page 6 of Stolen By the Alpha Hunter (Moonbound Mates #3)

PEACHES

T he pressure is building again, low in my belly, an ache that pulses in time with my heartbeat. It’s always worst at the full moon—always at its sharpest edge the night the moon is highest in the sky.

And tomorrow night is the peak.

I can feel it in my bones, in my blood, in the way my body is softer, weaker, pliable to instincts I don’t want. The wolfsbane is nearly gone from my system, burned away by time and my own traitorous biology, leaving me open and vulnerable, my body primed for something I can’t have.

Something I shouldn’t want.

I turn over in the cot, grinding my wrists against the rope that still binds them, my breath coming too fast, too shallow.

My clothes are still damp, clinging too tight to my skin, every brush of fabric making me more aware of how sensitive I feel—how raw and exposed I am, even in the solitude of this room.

Wearing my favorite sweater from back home almost makes it worse, because it’s a reminder that just a few days ago, I was picking wildflowers at the Austin den.

And the walls…the walls are too thin.

The Rig is too alive tonight, filled with the sounds of alphas drunk on power, betas laughing at things that aren’t funny, the distant cries of women who don’t get to say no. I squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t want to hear it. But it doesn’t matter…because my body isn’t listening to fear anymore.

My body is listening to him.

To Javi.

To the way his hands felt on me, firm, steady, his fingers curling around my wrist, my bicep, my waist when he threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.

I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I can’t be.

But the memory is already there, already sinking into me, threading through the heat pooling between my thighs. I flip onto my stomach, pressing my face into the scratchy blanket, my hips shifting restlessly, searching for something—anything—to ease the ache.

My body doesn’t care that Javi is the one who dragged me here.

That he’s the one who delivered me to my worst nightmare.

That he is a bad, bad man.

My body only cares about the way it feels when he touches me.

A whimper catches in my throat.

I press my hips into the mattress, my thighs squeezing around nothing, frustration mounting, the ache in my core growing sharper, more demanding. I fumble blindly, still bound, until I manage to hook my leg a pillow, dragging it between my thighs, straddling it like it’s him.

The relief is instant—the pressure, the friction, the way my clit grinds against the seam of my shorts, not nearly enough, but better.

So much better.

I rock forward, sucking in a shaky breath, my pulse hammering, my body buzzing with a need so thick, so unrelenting, it makes me want to cry.

I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m already lost to it—lost to Javi’s hands, Javi’s mouth, Javi’s weight pressing me down.

I can picture him, feel him, that big body pinning me in place, claiming me, taking what I?—

I bite my lip, my body tensing, chasing, so close, so close?—

And then I break.

The pleasure rips through me like a fevered wave, heat spilling over my skin, leaving me breathless, trembling, wrecked. My body clenches around nothing, needing more, but there’s no one to fill the ache, no hands to pin me down, no hot breath against my throat, teeth poised to sink in.

No Javi.

But his name still slips out of me, a broken sound, a gasp that escapes before I can swallow it down.

"Javi—"

The moment it’s out, I freeze, my whole body going still, horror curling tight in my chest. I burrow my face into the blanket, heat washing over me all over again, but this time, it’s not from pleasure—it’s shame.

I just?—

I just came on a pillow, tied up like a prisoner, moaning the name of the man who stole me.

The one good thing about finally letting go is that sleep comes easy after that. I manage to pass out, only to start to dream…and in that dream, he’s there, taking me in hand, giving me exactly what I’m asking for.

This is a special kind of hell.

And I know for a fact that I’m never leaving.

Even if I was born here, the world I wake up in isn’t home.

There’s no hot breakfast waiting at the community center.

No laughter and soft voices.

No omega bathhouse where we’re safe and isolated.

No kind words, no tea with Charlotte, no visiting the clinic with Maggie for her checkup…

This place is cold, bare, broken.

I lie still on the cot, my arms aching, my whole body shaking. I’m not cut out for this. I’m not tough, I’m not strong, I’m not brave.

I was picking flowers in a field in Texas and now I’m here. Alone…afraid.

I sit up at the sound of someone coming up the metal stairs, my eyes trained on the door. There’s nowhere to run and hide even if I wanted to, sending my prey instincts into overdrive. I should be stronger than this, I should be hardened to it all?—

The door swings open and my father and brother appear at the door, Ephraim lurking behind Gideon like his little lackey.

Just like it always was before I left.

“Good,” Gideon says. “You’re awake.”

“What do you want?” I ask, my voice so weak I can barely hear it myself.

“To make sure you’re fed, clothed, cared for…” Gideon sneers. “It’s my duty as a father, after all.”

I don’t know how to respond. I’m too scared to speak, and I can’t tell him he’s a liar even though he is. I don’t have a voice here—not on the Rig.

“Please let me go,” I ask.

“Not just yet, Esther,” he says. “Ephraim—bring her here.”

Ephraim barges past Gideon and grabs me by the arm, hauling me to my feet. I’m filthy and still trembling, my body shaking so badly that I almost fall down when Ephraim grabs me. His freckled face glares down at me, and it makes it all the worse how much he looks like me.

I hate being here. I hate these people. I hate them, I hate them…

“Get her downstairs,” Gideon says. “We need to get her ready.”

“Ready for what?” I ask as I stumble past my father.

He doesn’t say anything. He just watches and laughs.

Ephraim practically carries me down the stairs, back toward the sitting room where I saw my father’s mates last night.

The fire still crackles in the hearth, the heat from the flames making my skin itch as we walk past it.

There’s another room off to the side here—an opulent bathroom that reminds me of the bathing pools at home in the Austin den.

Ephraim tosses me inside.

“Clean her,” he says. “Bathe her. Get her ready.”

A meek voice comes from my right, a woman I didn’t even see standing in the corner. She’s small with short dark hair, her pale blue eyes darting around like she’s afraid someone might leap out of the shadows. “Yes, my lord.”

What…? He never did this before I left.

Gideon never made his mates call his sons stuff like this.

What have I done?

“I’ll be waiting outside if she causes any trouble,” Ephraim grunts.

Then he closes the door behind him.

I look at the woman with wide eyes, waiting for her to tell me what to do.

She’s about my age, early twenties I think, her stomach slightly swollen.

She’s pregnant—pregnant with my sibling, I would have to think.

It makes my stomach roil to think of these women being trapped here when it’s my fault they’re treated so horribly.

I should never have left.

The punishment wasn’t worth it.

She comes around behind me and gets to work on the ropes at my wrist, untying them with deft hands. She barely makes a sound; if it weren’t for the fact that she was untying me, I wouldn’t even know she was there.

“Hi,” I whisper. “I’m Peaches. What’s your name?”

She pauses—but just for a second—before she proceeds with undoing the knots in the rope.

“You may call me Two,” she says.

It’s like a punch to the gut. They don’t even have names. He’s even taken that from these omegas.

“What’s your real name?” I ask.

No answer.

She comes around in front of me and runs a bath in a big clawfoot tub at the other side of the room, not once meeting my eyes.

Two stares right at the running water, her body wrapped in nothing more than what looks like a white sheet.

My guilt only deepens when I realize what she’s wearing around her neck.

At first, I thought it was a necklace, but now I see that it’s made of a thin band of leather, a silver loop around one side.

It’s a collar.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She still doesn’t respond.

I shimmy out of my jeans and my sweater, tossing them in a pile by the door as I bid my old life goodbye.

I don’t think I’ll see those clothes again—not even the pink sweater I scrounged up in an old department store, one of my favorite pieces.

I gaze at it for just a second and allow myself to think of Austin… then I step toward the bath.

At least for now, I need to forget about my pack.

Focus on surviving now.

Two helps me into the bath, which is blissfully warm, the heat sinking into my aching muscles, my raw wrists, the bruises that bloom beneath my skin. I slide lower, letting the water rise up to my nose, blowing out a slow breath, feeling the warmth surround me.

For a moment, I imagine disappearing into it completely.

But before I can sink any further, Two’s hands grab me.

She yanks me up slightly, her grip tight, her eyes wide with something that almost looks like fear.

"Don't inhale the water," she says, voice too sharp, too urgent. "We can't...it isn't safe..."

I blink at her, confused. "Two, it's okay. I'm just trying to get clean."

Her fingers twitch against my arm, her breathing uneven, like she’s still struggling to get enough air.

"We almost lost someone that way," she whispers.

I go still.

Something icy curls in my stomach.

Not lost in the water.

Lost to it.

I squeeze her hand, suddenly hyperaware of how she’s holding me, like she’s afraid I’ll slip right through her fingers.

"I'm okay," I tell her again, softer this time.

She doesn’t look convinced.

She just nods, once, but she doesn’t let go.

I dip my head back in the water and scrub myself clean, wishing I could scrub out my memories of the past two days—of doing this at all.

If I had just stayed closer to the den, kept myself more secure, none of this would be happening.

I would be back at home in the bathing pool with Charlotte and Maggie, sitting at the breakfast table with Mateo and Grant, taking stock with Will and listening to him talk about poetry…

I would be safe.

I bend my head and cry into the water, but just for a second. I don’t want Two to worry.

Two—the girl who isn’t even allowed to have a name.

Once I’m done, Two holds out a towel, waiting for me as I step out of the bath. I could dry myself, but she seems intent on taking care of everything—maybe because Ephraim told her to keep an eye on me.

It’s not like I have anywhere to go.

Not in this windowless room.

And I won’t hurt Two just to get away.

I take the towel from her and run it through my soaking curls, then wrap it around myself, waiting. Waiting for more instructions, more control, more of this horrible, suffocating ritual I don’t understand.

Two moves to the chair beside the tub and picks up something folded over the back.

She turns, holds it out to me.

"You’re to wear this," she says.

I take the fabric and frown, feeling the weight of it between my fingers.

White.

The cloth is soft, lighter than air, barely there at all. It’s a simple slip of a nightgown, the kind of thing a woman might wear on her wedding night—thin, delicate, almost lovely.

If I didn’t know better.

If I didn’t already feel like a sacrificial lamb, waiting for the knife.

I let the towel drop to the ground, my cheeks flushing scarlet, my stomach twisting.

Shame.

Futility.

I feel small, like a child again, like my mother is dressing me for Sunday service, for a family dinner, for something I don’t understand but know I won’t like.

Two lifts the gown over my shoulders and lets it fall.

The fabric is light as a whisper, brushing against my damp skin, clinging to every place I wish it wouldn’t.

It falls just past my knees, modest in theory, but the material is too thin, too sheer to be anything but humiliating.

I fold my arms over myself, shivering.

Two kneels and laces a ribbon at my waist, cinching it tight, then another at my collarbone, tying it in a delicate bow.

Like a present to be unwrapped.

Like a bride.

My stomach churns.

I grab for the towel again, but Two stops me, her fingers gentle, but firm.

"No use," she says. "You’re to wear this tonight—for the ceremony."

I stop breathing.

“The ceremony?” I ask. “Please—tell me what my father plans to do with me. I have to know.”

“Your father…”

Two trails off, chewing on her lip. She takes my hand a moment later, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I can’t,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

She pulls away quickly and strides toward the door, opening it to reveal Ephraim on the other side. He gives me an ugly glare when he sees how I’m dressed, looking away like he’s disgusted.

“Come here, Esther,” he says.

I walk forward like the meek, stupid girl I am.

“Back to your room,” he says. “You’ll wait there until it’s time for the ceremony—and don’t try anything.”

“What ceremony?” I ask, but Ephraim shoots me a scowl.

“You don’t get to talk anymore,” he says. “Not after what you did.”

So I shut my mouth.

I won’t say a word.

All I know is that tonight, in this pretty dress, something very ugly is going to happen to me.