Page 15 of Alpha Unbound

I let that sit. He’s not wrong, but he’s not right, either. “She’s fire, yeah. But fire makes light, and some of us forgot how to see in the dark.” I let that sink in and continue. “I need your eyes on this, Grant. I need to know what you see that I don’t.”

He doesn’t answer. He just pours two fingers of moonshine in a clean mason jar and pushes it my way.

He lifts his own jar. “To ghosts,” he says.

I raise mine. “To the ones who stay.”

The moonshine bites, but it’s familiar. Like the mountain’s answer to the ache I can’t drink away.

As the sun begins to set behind the ridge, I keep imagining her standing by that stone, wind in her hair, eyes sharp as cut glass. She didn’t flinch when I stepped out of the trees. Didn’t cower when I shifted. She just stood there—defiant, unshaken, and more wolf than most who wear the skin full-time. That kind of strength? It’s rare. Dangerous. And the part of me that should see it as a threat only sees something worth protecting. Worth claiming. Which makes her the biggest threat of all.

Because claiming her wouldn’t just change my life—it could cost me everything I’ve built trying to outrun my past. And maybe the worst part is, I’m not sure I’d stop it even if I could.

I can’t ignore the truth scratching at my bones: someone’s waking up the past. And I can't shake the feeling they’re not just using her—they’re counting on her. As bait. As leverage. Or worse, as a fuse.

A cold wind snakes through the trees, threading under my collar, and the hair on the back of my neck lifts. Somewhere in the distance, a branch snaps—too sharp, too clean. The forest holds its breath, and so do I.

CHAPTER 6

KATE

The woods don't just breathe. They judge.

I feel it in the way the wind changes, brushing the back of my neck like a whisper meant for someone else. The basket of preserves digs into my hip as I readjust my grip around the handle and keep walking. The path toward the Ridley cabin isn’t long, but it’s steep enough to remind me why I usually send deliveries with someone less inclined to talk back to pine trees.

But I needed the quiet. Or I thought I did. Silence out here stretches like skin over bone—thin and uneasy. I thought maybe the wind would carry some trace of Luke, some ghost of an answer the others are too afraid to speak. But the only thing the stillness does is turn up the volume on everything I’ve been trying not to hear. Instead of peace, I’ve found the echo of my doubt.

Now, I’m not so sure.

The farther I walk, the louder the silence gets—like it’s no longer absence but anticipation.

The kind of quiet that knows something’s coming. My skin prickles, every instinct sharpening, as if the trees themselves are bracing for what they already know is waiting ahead.

The air thickens with that uncanny weight again—the same sensation I felt near the carved marker. It’s not just the hush, it’s the pressure, like a hundred unseen eyes tracking every step. Like the trees aren’t just holding their breath—they’re waiting for judgment. Something ancient. Something older than pack law or blood feuds. Like the forest itself remembers what we’ve all tried to forget. And it’s about to remind me.

A low growl cuts through the mist—guttural and deliberate, not a warning, but a promise. It snakes between the trees like smoke, cold and unmistakably directed at me. My breath catches, spine straightening. That sound doesn’t come from a startled animal. It’s territorial. Intentional. A claim before a challenge.

I stop. Feet planted, breath shallow, every part of me strung tight like a bow. Not out of fear. Out of instinct. Out of memory. Because I’ve been in this position before—cornered, assessed, underestimated. But not like this.

They’re not trying to hide. That’s the first insult. They want me to see them. To know I’m being watched. Confronted. Measured. Like prey—or worse, like a trespasser daring to pretend she belongs on their land. It’s the kind of calculated show-of-force bullshit that comes with pack politics, sharpened by bias and soaked in tradition. And they expect me to fold.

Two wolves—both gray, bigger than me in human or wolf form—step out from the underbrush like they own the trail. Which, technically, their pack does. Blood and geography have always divided Wild Hollow, and this stretch has always belonged to the Rawlings.

I stiffen automatically, not with fear but with the kind of wariness that comes from experience. I know what it means to be outnumbered. I know what it means to be underestimated. There’s a hot knot of tension between my shoulder blades—not panic, but a kind of readiness, a challenge unspoken. I feel themsizing me up, as if I am something to dismiss or devour. And somewhere under the instinct to protect and defend, a sliver of anger rises. Not because they’re here. But because they expect me to be less just because I’m red. Because I’m McKinley.

One shifts. The fog boils around him, lightning crackling at the edges, and when it clears, a man stands there—naked, unbothered by the cold or the exposure. A sneer cuts deep across his face; he crosses his arms over his broad chest, daring me to flinch at his presence or pride.

“Well,” he says. “If it isn’t the red wolf herself.”

“Wow,” I reply. “A full sentence and only one slur—not very impressive. You should try to do better.”

The other remains in wolf form, pacing behind him—his massive paws silent on the damp earth, yellow eyes fixed on me like he’s waiting for a command. Muscles bunch beneath his gray coat, every step radiating tension. He’s a sentinel, a reminder that even in silence, I’m being hunted. And if things go sideways, he’ll be the first to lunge.

“You’re out of your territory,” the man says.

“I’m making a delivery,” I say, nudging the delivery basket into view. “Widow Ridley’s running low on pear preserves.”

“You passed the line half-a-mile back.”

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