Hunter Toh Novels & Stories

Two weeks later It’s early in the morning when my cell rings, and I race over to the table to answer it. “Hello?” “Hi Athena, It’s Derek Williams.” “Yes, hi. Have you found anything?” I ask. “I think I’m finally on to something concrete,” he says, and Enyo rolls her eyes. “There’s a hunter named Bill Stokes who lives on a ranch about an hour of town.” At the mention of a hunter, Enyo’s hackles are raised, and I have to hold back a growl. “You want me to speak to a hunter?” I ask.

I gasped and I fell to my knees in the vision, holding my own chest. I felt the pain. The man finally took off his hoodie and he smiled. Mischievously. It was him. The Hunter.

He had been for a run — it was seven AM and he had been running for an hour because he ran every morning, rain or cold or general indifference on the world's part, and came back with damp hair and clear eyes and the specific energy of someone who had thoroughly used their body and was now ready to be present for whatever the day had. He looked at the two of us at the table. "Cell collapsed," I said. "I heard." He went for coffee, came back, stood at the counter. "All seventeen confirmed?" "Yes." He nodded once. Processing, filing. "What happens to the apprentice Hunter." "Oversight rehabilitation program," I said. "She was twenty-five. Recruited out of a training track that didn't know about

Delilah smiled immediately she saw him, but then she looked at Sylvester and smiled again. "But I guess Sylvester is s*xier" she muttered, kissing him in her head. "Toyota took over the trainees this morning, so I'm briefing y'all about tommorow's mission, Alberto Gunner" Lambo replied, swiping out his picture on the table. "F**king cool, my fingers are dying to swipe that" Zenith smiled. "He's one of the top four Hunters of Godzilla, and he's the first target. He has a wife in Los Angeles, and an hidden kid" Lambo continued.

he commented. What if Hunter has been killed by Malia and Alpha Callum?

Without the noise of his devotion, I could see the exact angle of the Stalker’s rifle through the cedar logs. BOOM. The door didn't just break; it disintegrated. A high-frequency charge turned the wood into a rain of splinters. Through the smoke, the first silver-masked Hunter stepped over the threshold, his infrared lens glowing. I didn't scream. I lunged. I used the leaden weight of my stone arm as a club. I slammed the quartz wrist into the Hunter’s throat before his optics could track my 0.3-second lag. Crack. The sound of his windpipe collapsing was a dry, satisfying thud.

Say something you idiot! "Hi my name's Hunter" I hold out my hand wanting to touch her even though I know she's human. Her fingertip touches mine and I jolt from the rush of sparks from the tiniest touch. "Mate" my wolf says as he pushes forward and speaks through me.

All modesty’s just flown off the window. His name is Hunter and it takes a snap of his beautiful fingers for my vagina to weep. And nothing—not even this cotton barrier underneath—will stop the arousal from trickling down my thighs.

Meanwhile, inside the private room at Mystic Club. Wendell Hunt was having a toast with a East Asian man. This man was over hundred 90 cm tall and wore a wolf's fangs as a pendant. He had tanned skin and tone muscles. At first glance, he look like a farmer who work on the fields by the countryside. But the man was, in fact, a powerful figure. He was a mercenary leader who carried out activities in several countries of Asia all year long, his group was known as Wolf Hunter, and his name was Rocky.

Ciao Adios, Hunter. You’re dead to me.