Page 16 of Alpha Unbound

“Lines get blurry when no one has the nerve to redraw them.”

He blinks, just once, like I caught him off-script. “We don’t need to redraw. We just enforce.”

“Then maybe enforce something useful.”

I cock my head, letting a slow smirk curl my lips.

“Like a decent sense of direction. Or manners.”

He doesn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of his mouth. Just stares, head tilted slightly, like he’s weighing whether sarcasm qualifies as disrespect or if I’m just another red wolf with a big mouth. Big surprise—humor’s wasted on a man who treats rank like religion and thinks dominance is a personality trait.

“What do you want?” I ask, sharper now.

“To remind you what side of the Hollow you’re on.”

“Thanks,” I say sweetly. “Consider me reminded. Now move.”

He doesn’t budge. The pacing wolf pauses mid-step, ears flicking toward his pack mate, then toward me. Their stillness is deliberate, calculated. A tactic. They’re holding the line—not with brute force, but with the tension of unspoken threat. It's the kind of silence that makes a girl wonder how fast she’d have to move to survive the first lunge. And how many teeth she could leave bloodied if it came to that.

I move the basket to my left hand, the edge biting into my palm. My right hand stays loose at my side, fingers flexing once, twice—ready. Just in case I need to drop the basket and fight. Because these aren’t just pack wolves posturing. They’re waiting for an excuse. And I’m not about to give them the first move.

“I hear you and the alpha are getting close,” he says, his tone oily. "Few in our pack are going to take kindly to that." He spits on the ground and mutters something that sounds like "McKinley trash."

My jaw tightens, but not from anger—more from surprise. I didn’t think anyone had noticed, not when I can’t even say how I feel about it myself. “Is that your business?”

“It’s pack business. Rawlings land, Rawlings rules.”

“Funny, I didn’t see you at the general store when the roof caved in. Or at the last supply run. I got more help from humans and a few off-pack shifters than I ever did from the Rawlings. So don’t pretend it’s pack business now, since someone saw Hudson near me.”

“You’re a McKinley,” he spits. “You don’t belong here.”

“Neither does your attitude, and yet, here we are.”

He steps forward, slow and sure, like he expects me to shrink back. Like he’s done this before and it always works.

I don’t move. I won’t. Not just because of pride—though there’s plenty of that—but because giving ground now would be more than retreat. It’d be surrender. And I’ve spent my whole damn life proving I don’t kneel to anyone.

His eyes narrow, then slide over me like I’m a thing to be evaluated. Possessed. He’s not just looking—he’s cataloging, like he’s already decided what I’m worth and what it’d take to break me. My pulse spikes. My fingers twitch. I calculate pressure points, leverage, timing—how fast I could move, how much damage I could do before the second wolf lunges.

And just when the air feels like it might snap under the tension, a low hiss echoes from the trees.

They hear it, too. Their posturing flickers.

I smile, slow and sharp, letting the corners of my mouth curl with satisfaction. I tilt my head just slightly, eyes locked on the wolves like I’m daring them to deny it. “You hear that?” I ask, voice low and threaded with iron. “That’s the forest, remembering who really built these trails.”

He opens his mouth to retort, lips curling into what I’m sure would’ve been something smug and stupid—but I’m done playing nice. The basket hits the ground with a thud, contents spilling, and I let the rage and instinct crack open inside me. I call forward my she-wolf without hesitation.

The mist explodes around me, thick and fast, laced with lightning and sound, a whirlwind pulled from the belly of the Hollow. It rises like breath from the earth, wrapping around me, cloaking me in color and power. It doesn’t hurt—it never has—but it burns in its own way, a wild unmaking that feels like truth.

And I revel in it.

The shift is freedom in its purest form—bone-deep and soul-sharp, like stepping back into something truer than skin. Every cell vibrates, every sense snaps into focus. I feel the dirt grind beneath my pads, the press of roots like veins beneath thesurface. I taste the sharp bite of moss on the wind, hear the wings of a crow before it breaks from a branch. There’s no fear here. No hesitation. Just power—feral and right.

When the mist clears, I'm crouched low on four feet, claws biting into the dirt, fur bristling with heat and defiance. Muscles coiled, instincts sharp, I’m not just ready—I’m daring them to try me. I’m red. I’m wolf. I’m done pretending to be anything less.

The pacing wolf stops pacing. The man beside him turns his head, gives a subtle nod, and the mist swells around his bare feet. It coils upward, bright and sudden, swirling with that charged crackle only shifters know. His form collapses inward, bends, warps, and then he’s gone—replaced by a wolf, silver-gray and broad-shouldered, with the same sneer now etched into fur.

He rejoins the first wolf at his side. Shoulder to shoulder. Silent. A show of unity. They don’t need to speak—the message is clear: pack above all. And right now, I’m the trespasser.

---