Hunter's Alpha (gxg) ✓

16. Mine

As far as murderous stares get, I think this one might be winning.

After sneaking out―just for hot chocolate, relax―and making my way to a 24-hour café I saw earlier today, my eye caught on something. And then, out of nowhere, I stumbled right into a slender body.

Émilie. Glaring at me. Her electric blue eyes, lined in black liner, narrowed as I apologize.

And, if you're wondering, sorry is unfortunately a part of my vocabulary. And I do know how to use it when I'm in the wrong―like not paying attention to what's in front of me.

"Sorry about that," I mumble. I'm already looking past her, trying to see the coffee shop. An indie little bar with bead curtains and disco lights and crystal balls.

But she doesn't move. She doesn't even blink.

"Jude Barrow," she says coldly.

What―is she mad I won the poker game?

"Move, please," I say politely. Or, really, as polite as I can muster with my teeth gritted and my eyes fixed on hot chocolate.

It must be close to four in the morning. After Tommy and I finished watching Legally Blonde and White Chicks―compromise, okay?―he left. Hunter disappeared at the part in Legally Blonde where Warren introduces her to his new fiancée. I know―it was just getting good.

But because Tommy left a few hours ago, and I haven't been able to sleep since, and the fact that Hunter still isn't back, I decided I wanted hot chocolate. Sue me.

Émilie is still staring at me. Murderously, if I haven't mentioned it.

"What?" I finally snap.

She takes a step closer. The girl I saw only the other day, with her confident and easy grin, her mischievous eyes, is gone. Now that we're alone . . .

Well, I can really only describe it one way. She's furious.

I'm starting to think this runs a little deeper than poker.

"Derek has two broken ribs, a concussion, and a bullet wound," she says.

Derek. Shit. Is it bad that I forgot about him?

After knocking him out and dragging him into the ladies bathroom . . . well, I'm sure that would be an embarrassment on the part of any male chauvinist.

There's no one around us. Whoever is working at the coffee shop or any of the little booths around here is miraculously gone. Probably avoiding the conflict.

Damn. I'm a little late, if everyone else saw Émilie coming from a mile away.

"Congratulations," I say. "It's too bad I'm a little short on gold medals."

Émilie's glare becomes more dangerous. If that's possible. I see her fingers tighten on the gun at her waistband, and maybe I wasn't awake two seconds ago, but I can and will take her down in a fight.

Try me, I think. But she doesn't get the chance.

The girl who must work at the coffee shop suddenly comes into view, and her eyes widen in surprise. Her mocha-brown skin, scarlet lipstick and matching bandana, are startlingly familiar.