Page 9 of Gunnar

Alexandria

Present time

Istare at the retreating vehicles in disbelief.

Those assholes promised to keep me safe, then they left me here.

Among men who are half beasts.

Who almost tore their men to shreds.

The cold hits now that the adrenaline is draining out of me, and I start to shiver. I tuck my hands under my arms and straighten, locking my knees before they can betray me.

I will not fall apart in front of three naked predators.

One of them stalks toward the edge of the clearing, scanning the tree line like he’s on patrol. Another drags a shredded pair of jeans from the porch and shakes dirt off before hauling them up over a pair of massive thighs.

The third one stays where he is.

Watching me.

He bends, retrieves his own ruined denim, and steps into it without breaking eye contact. Every movement is deliberate. Controlled. Like he’s holding something in place inside himself.

He buttons slowly.

Still watching.

I swallow.

I hate that I’m aware of him.

He stands there like this is normal. Like everything that just happened is no more than background noise.

“What’s your name?” he demands.

“Alexandria.”

He repeats it under his breath, as if he’s testing it. There’s a flare of light in his eyes.

“Alex?”

“Nope.”

“Lexy?”

I curl my lip. “Alexandria.”

He nods approvingly.

“Gunnar,” he says. It’s less like a name than the sound of rocks breaking.

He points to the other two.

“Torin.” The one who looks like everything is a joke.

“Orson.” The most feral-looking of the three.

“Brothers.”