Page 37 of Alpha Unbound

When I’m finally spent, I settle against her and kiss her slow and reverent. "You okay?" I whisper.

She laughs, breathless. "You should’ve just led with the knot. Way more effective than biting my neck."

I bark out a laugh, chest still heaving with the aftershocks of what we just shared. There’s fire in her tone, but affection too—her sass never lets up. It grounds me. And damn if I don’t love her for it.

I have food brought up to our quarters—something warm, earthy, and grounding. I’m not ready to share Kate yet. Not with the pack, not with the world. Tonight, the only world I want is the one we build between these four walls.

We eat curled together on the couch, still half-naked and tangled in the aftermath of something that feels as old as the earth. Between bites and quiet touches, we talk. We laugh. We tease. We lose track of time and then find it again wrapped in each other’s arms.

We make love until the sheets are a mess, and our bodies are heavy with satisfaction. Then we sleep—fitful, deep, and wrapped around each other like we’re afraid the dream might dissolve if we let go. Even so, I can’t seem to get enough of her.

In the darkest hours before dawn, her voice finds me. Soft. Tentative. "I don’t think Luke is dead. Not anymore."

I don’t need to ask why. I feel it in my bones too.

"Neither do I," I say quietly. And that truth binds us even tighter.

As dawn rolls over the Eastern horizon, we rise and revel in each other before showering and dressing. She grabs my wrist before I open the door.

I may have claimed my mate, but someone’s already planning how to steal her from me.

And I will burn down everything—this house, this hollow, even the pack itself—before I let that happen.

Kate’s warmth is at my side, her trust pressed into my chest—but in the distance, something colder lingers. It’s not just doubt or dissent. It’s strategy. I can feel it—the slow coil of a plan taking root in the dark. Not a challenge for dominance. Something quieter. Sharper. Sabotage. Deceit. Someone isn’t going to come at me head-on. They’re going to aim where it hurts most—her.

CHAPTER 14

KATE

I’ve never hated silence so much.

It follows me all the way from the Rawlings compound—my new home, whether or not the rest of the pack likes it. Hudson had kissed me goodbye with a promise in his eyes and tension in his shoulders, and I’d slipped away before dawn cracked the horizon wide open.

Now, the truck hums beneath me as I steer toward the heart of Wild Hollow, but it’s not engine noise that keeps my thoughts from spiraling—it’s the memory of Hudson’s hands on my skin, his breath against my neck, the way his voice went hoarse when he said my name like a vow.

That should’ve anchored me.

Instead, all I feel is the unease clawing up the back of my throat. Because something’s coming. And whether it’s Luke’s ghost or someone else’s shadow, it’s following me just as surely as day follows night.

The drive down the mountain is too quiet—unnaturally so, like the entire world is waiting for something to snap. The truck hums beneath me, the old engine comforting in its reliability. Pines blur past the window, and the mist curls low around thetires, refusing to burn off. My thoughts whirl faster than the wheels beneath me.

The closer I get to town, the tighter the knot in my gut pulls. There’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there yesterday—heavy and charged, like the pause before a storm breaks. Even the trees seem quieter, holding their breath. Something’s wrong. I feel it in my skin, the way the hair on the back of my neck lifts, the unnatural stillness where birdsong should be. The roads don’t just feel empty. They feel watched. Like something is lurking just past the edge of sight, waiting to see how close I’ll come to the truth.

By the time I roll to a stop in front of the general store, the silence has teeth. The street is too still. The windows dark and shuttered. The usual comfort of Wild Hollow’s sleepy charm has curdled into something tense and watchful.

I cut the engine and sit for a moment, hand still on the keys. I see my face, slightly distorted by morning mist and my breath, reflected in the windshield. I reach for the door handle but hesitate, scanning the storefront. Nothing looks broken. No signs of forced entry. But I feel it—that pull in the gut, low and crawling. Something’s waiting for me inside, and it’s not a warm welcome.

I exhale slowly, shove the door open, and step out. The cold air hits me first, crisp and sharp, like it’s trying to slap me awake. Gravel crunches underfoot, exaggerated in the unnatural stillness, each step sounding like a warning shot. Even the breeze feels wrong—too still, too intentional. Every creak of the sign above the porch, every whisper of pine needles changing in the wind, buzzes against my skin like static.

The whole street is frozen in stillness, like even the wind is afraid to move—and I’m the one who dares to disturb it. The kind of silence that doesn’t just wait—it judges. Watches. Daresyou to step wrong. And I do, anyway, because whatever's waiting in there? I’m done letting it come to me. I’m coming for it now.

I square my shoulders and head to the entrance. The porch boards groan under my boots, that familiar sound usually like a hug from home—but today it lands hollow. There's no comfort in it. Just an eerie echo of what used to be safe, now stretched thin with unease. Each step feels heavier than the last, like I’m not just crossing a threshold—I’m stepping into whatever storm my brother left behind.

Whatever’s waiting inside—it already knows I’m coming.

The door to the mercantile swings open with a soft chime, cheerful and oblivious to the tension coiled in my spine. I retreat to the truck and grab the shotgun in the rack. Ensuring it’s loaded and ready to fire, I step inside, the familiar scent of wood polish and paper ink failing to calm me like it usually does. I pause in the entryway, hand still gripping the knob like a lifeline, and scan the space with narrowed eyes. My store—my sanctuary—remains intact. But someone has been here and disturbed it.

A place where Luke and I used to run barefoot between crates, laughing, our voices echoing off the shelves. I remember helping him restock the shelves late at night, the warm glow of the overhead lights making the world outside feel far away. This place was ours—safe, rooted, unshakable. Now? It feels hollow. Like someone pried open a door that was never meant to be breached. Like someone moved through the air itself and left fingerprints behind. It’s not destroyed. But it’s not right either.

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