Page 1 of Taken By the Pack

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ROWAN

The dream’s always the same. Her. Lena. The curve of her lips, the way her hair used to shine like sunlit copper. She’s under me, laughing softly, hands clutching my shoulders as I thrust into her. She whispers my name, the kind of whisper that stays in your blood.Rowan, stay with me…

Then the cold comes. It always does. The water rushes in, and she’s gone. Every damn time.

My eyes snap open. The clock on the nightstand reads 4 a.m. Of course it does. I sit up, the sheets tangled around my legs, damp from sweat. My chest is heaving.

“Shit,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

The lighthouse is silent except for the faint creak of the beams and the distant crash of waves outside. I rub the back of my neck, already dreading the day ahead. Another morning in Driftwood Cove. Another goddamn reminder of everything I want to forget.

I throw on a flannel and jeans, tugging on my boots, the same as I do everyday. Thorne Beacon has been in my family for generations, passed down from one stubborn, solitary bastard to the next. It’s not glamorous, but it keeps me out of town, away from the noise and the people.

Not that I’m some hermit incapable of basic civility. I just don’t like the way folks in Driftwood Cove talk.

They’ve got too many questions, too many opinions. And Alphas like me are a novelty to them. The Betas are always trying to get a rise out of me, and the Omegas? Forget it. Their flirting makes my skin itch.

The clock ticks louder in the silence.

“Better get on with it,” I tell myself as I grab my coat.

The cold morning air smacks me in the face, salty and sharp. The lighthouse looms behind me, its faded white paint and rusted railings proof it’s stood guarding this cove for a century and then some. Like me, it stands because it has to, not because it wants to.

The boat waits for me at the dock, bobbing gently in the water.TheHelene,itsname scrawled in chipped blue paint on the side, is named after my grandmother.

Another Thorne claimed by the sea, or so the stories go. The superstitious fools in town whisper that the boat carries the curse, but she’s never let me down.

“Morning, girl,” I say, running a hand along the weathered hull. “Ready for another day keeping us alive?”

The Helenedoesn’t answer, of course, but she’s steady under my hand. I check the lines, the nets, the engine. Everything’s where it should be.

Fishing’s not glamorous, but it’s quiet work and keeps the bills paid. I don’t need much. Just enough to keep the lighthouse running and a few supplies now and then.

The docks are empty this early, which suits me fine. No chatty vendors, no nosy villagers asking why I don’t come to the market myself.

That’s for Jake, the Alpha who runs the fish stall, to deal with. He’s one of the few people I can tolerate. Doesn’t talk much, just counts the crates and pays fair.

As I toss the last net onto the boat, a voice calls out from the end of the dock.

“Rowan! You out this early again?”

I glance up. Tom, one of the town’s fishermen, is standing in his usual spot, leaning on a mooring post. He’s an old guy, always chewing on a piece of grass like he’s in some goddamn folk tale.

“Yeah, Tom. Same as always.”

“You ever think about getting yourself some company? Ain’t right, a man your age all alone up in that lighthouse.”

“I’m not interested,” I say, keeping my tone flat.

Tom chuckles. “Suit yourself. But one of these days, that solitude’s gonna wear on you.”

I don’t bother answering. He doesn’t get it. No one does. Solitude doesn’t wear on me—it’s the only thing that makes sense. People just… complicate things.

I fire up the engine, the hum of the motor drowning out the conversation I didn’t want to have.The Heleneglides away from the dock, her bow cutting through the glassy water.

Out here, it’s just me, the sea, and the ghosts of every Thorne man who came before me.

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