Page 11 of Alpha Unbound

I didn’t always understand him. But I trusted him.

And then he was gone.

He used to fix things. Radios. Trucks. People. Said it was all about understanding the pieces and how they fit. Said the pack didn’t need more rules—it needed more repair. I still remember him crouched over an old CB radio in the store's back room, grease on his hands, saying, “Kate, if you fix the little things, the big ones won’t fall apart.”

I didn’t know then that he was already falling apart himself. That the fire in his voice when he talked about change was covering for the cracks beneath. That every late-night drive, every unanswered question, every time he stared out at the mountains for too long was a sign he was unraveling. He smiled less. Argued more. Started showing up late to family dinners, smelling like anxiety and whiskey. And I—I was too busy trying to keep the store afloat to notice he was slipping through our fingers like water. By the time I did, he was already gone.

My brother had a restless edge, a fire that didn’t want to burn crooked like the rest of us. He talked about getting out, about going legit. Said the pack could be more than just whispers in the shadows and old grudges wrapped in fur.

The Hollow needed better, he said—needed people willing to stop pretending the old ways worked just because they were old.

He had ideas. Plans. Kept notebooks full of diagrams and half-formed strategies. Used to show them to me late at night when the store was quiet, and the moon was high. Sometimes he’d pace, too keyed up to sit, muttering about how we needed structure, balance, a future that didn’t look like the past in wolf’s clothing.

But then he disappeared.

One day he was arguing with Waylon in the back lot; the next, he was gone.

They all said he left. Got tired of Wild Hollow and finally took off, but I never believed that. Not for a second.

“Stop digging, Kate,” Waylon snaps, slamming a case of canned beans on the counter hard enough to make Hank honk and flutter up onto the register.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not digging. I’m remembering.”

“Same damn thing,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his beard. “Luke’s gone. You keep stirring that pot, you’re gonna get someone burned.”

“Maybe it’s time some things caught fire.” I shoot back, low and steady. It lands heavy between us, thick with defiance. “You two had it out the day before he vanished. What was that fight about, Waylon?”

He flinches, just a tick—barely enough to catch if you didn’t know him. But I do. I’ve seen that look before—on faces trying not to lie. The way his jaw locks, the way his eyes dart just a little too quick to the left. It’s a tell, sharp and fleeting. A crack in the armor I’ve spent my whole life learning to read.

It tells me there’s something he doesn’t want me digging into. Something dangerous. Something about Luke.

“Let it go,” he says. “Luke made his choice.”

“You mean the choice to disappear without a trace? Without saying goodbye to me? Not even a damn note. He left me staringat an empty chair at breakfast, pretending he was just late. I waited hours before I let myself call it what it was. And even then, I didn’t believe it. I still don’t.”

Waylon leans in, voice low. “You think the new sheriff’s gonna save you if you go poking into things best left buried?”

I blink and feel my pulse rise. Not fear—fury. The kind that starts low and burns hot, the kind that doesn’t back down. “This is about Hudson now?”

“You think we don’t remember the way you used to look at him? The way folks around town still say you do?”

Heat flares in my cheeks. “I look at everyone like they’re trouble.”

But even as I say it, the question burns in the back of my mind: how many people are watching me, really? And why? Is it just the McKinley name? My inability to rein in my smart mouth? Or is it something else—something tied to Luke, to the things he knew and the questions I keep asking?

What secrets was he close to? Who did he threaten without realizing it? Because the way Waylon said it, the way his eyes flicked just a little too knowingly—it wasn’t just about Hudson. It was aboutthem. Whoevertheyare. And whatever they want, I’m starting to think it’s got nothing to do with me—and everything to do with what Luke left behind.

“Yeah, but you’re smiling when you talk about him.”

I scoff, turning away. “You’re full of shit, Waylon.”

He doesn’t argue. Just slams the door on his way out, rattling the bell like it owes him money. The sound echoes too long in the silence he leaves behind, and I hate how it makes my skin itch. Hank honks once in disdain and settles back onto the counter, glaring at the door like he expects someone else to walk in behind Waylon.

I stare at the door a second longer, pulse skittering. How many people are watching me, really? And how long have theybeen doing it? Is it just the old guard, trying to keep the McKinleys in their box? Or are there more eyes in the dark now—curious ones, suspicious ones, waiting for me to step wrong? Whatever Waylon isn’t saying... it’s painting a target I can’t quite see.

The McKinleys had always seen themselves as sovereign from the Rawlings pack. They hadn’t answered to the Rawlings pack in years—not officially. Which really meant we played by our own rules and answered to no one.

“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “He’s being cagey as hell.”

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