Page 38 of Alpha Unbound

Someone knocked cans off the dry goods shelf. Paper goods crumpled. Drawers partially opened, then closed again like someone rifled through with a plan. It appears nothing is missing, but someone has handled the items. Prodded. Like someone wanted me to know they’d been here without taking a thing. The cash drawer’s untouched. The register still hums, casting a low, familiar mechanical purr into the too-quiet room.The curtain to the back room is askew, twisted as if someone pulled and dropped it.

I step forward cautiously. "Hello?"

No answer.

I move through the space slowly, tracking it with more than my eyes. My wolf paces just beneath the surface, ears pricked, hackles half-lifted. There’s a wrongness in the air, sharp and stale like old breath held too long. Every instinct tells me this wasn’t just some aimless trespasser. Whoever did this knew what they were looking for. They moved with purpose. They weren’t here to steal. They were here to uncover.

I follow the trail of subtle disruption to the storeroom and office tucked behind the counter. My desk is a mess. Not chaotic—purposeful. Like someone was on a clock, rifling through my notes, my ledgers, even my receipts with clinical precision. Then they tried to tidy it up just enough to leave doubt. But I know my patterns. The way I color-code, stack, and label. I know the sound each drawer makes when it’s opened to the right depth—and one of them is off. Too far out. Too careful, like they thought I wouldn’t notice. I always notice.

And something’s off... like a single thread pulled wrong in a tapestry I know by heart. There, nestled between a vendor invoice and the old inventory ledger Luke updated by hand—dog-eared, smudged with ink, and etched in his familiar chaos—is a slip of folded paper. Not yellowed by age, not random. Placed. Hidden, but not deep. Like he wanted me to find it, but only if I was paying attention. I stare at it like it might bite me—or vanish if I blink.

Then I reach. The paper is thin. Crisp. Inked in my brother’s handwriting.

You’re close. Keep going. Don’t trust what bleeds easy.

My chest tightens. Not fear—focus. Cold, clear focus that slices through the static in my head like a knife. I’d known in my gut that Luke was alive, but now it’s carved in ink—tangible, undeniable. My breath catches, sharp and shallow, and my hands tremble around the paper before I force them still. For a moment, the entire store blurs around the edges, like the weight of that truth has cracked something open in me I didn’t know I’d been holding shut. He knew someone would come looking. ThatIwould. Not Hudson. Not the pack. Me. Because he trusted I’d be the one to see it through, even when everyone else stopped looking.

I tuck the note into my jeans pocket and smooth the surrounding pages like nothing happened. No cameras in here—at least none I’ve ever installed. But someone else might’ve.

That’s when I hear it. The sharp crunch of boots on gravel just outside, heavy and deliberate, it’s not like a customer—more like a warning. My body stills. A heartbeat later, the door swings open with force, slamming back on its hinges. The bell above it doesn't just chime—it shrieks, jangling with all the subtlety of a gunshot. Whatever calm I had left snaps clean in two.

Waylon fills the doorway like a bad memory that forgot how to die—meaner with age and twice as hard to scrape off. For a split second, I flash to the last time I saw him on this threshold, storming in with the same heat in his eyes, furious that I'd refused to back his bid for alpha after Luke went missing. Luke was next in line. He hadn't forgiven me then. Judging by the set of his jaw now, he still hasn’t.

Broad shoulders strain against a threadbare plaid shirt, his narrowed eyes scanning the mess like he’s taking inventory of my failures. Hard lines and old grudges form his carved granite scowl. He says nothing at first—just lets the silence stretch, lets me feel the weight of his presence like a storm creeping over the treetops. Then he sneers, slow and deliberate, like he’s beensavoring this moment. It hits like a slap, sharp and personal, and my stomach flips with the familiar mix of fury and disgust only Waylon can draw out of me.

"Well, well. Looks like somebody pissed off the wrong people," he says.

"What do you want, Waylon?" I don’t bother hiding the edge in my voice.

He steps further inside, slow and deliberate, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards with performative weight. His gaze drags over the shelves, not taking in inventory—taking the measure of me. "Just checking in," he says, voice oily and too casual. "Figured maybe you'd need a hand. Someone who actually understands how pack business should be handled. Someone with backbone."

His implication hangs in the air like sour smoke, thick and poisonous, daring me to rise to the bait. It curls between us, bitter with condescension and old pack politics, daring me to bare my teeth or bow my head. I do neither.

"You mean someone who only shows up to puff his chest? Hard pass."

His jaw ticks. "You’ve been playing house with Hudson Rawlings long enough to forget who your blood is."

"Funny. He hasn’t once tried to sell me out or silence me. That’s more than I can say for you."

He crosses his arms. "You think just because you’re wearing Hudson’s mark, you get to dig into things that should stay buried? Luke was trouble. Still is."

My temper flares. "Luke was smart. And loyal. Which makes him the opposite of you."

He moves in close—too close—but I hold my ground. "This isn’t a game, Katie. If you keep poking, someone’s going to push back. Hard."

"Let them. I don’t scare easy. And I don’t roll over for bullies in flannel."

He leans in, voice low and laced with warning. "You should know, not everyone in this town wants a red wolf bitch stirring up ghosts."

"Then they better get used to disappointment... besides which even you should be smart enough to know I am no longer a red wolf, I am a gray wolf."

We stare each other down. The heat between us isn’t attraction—it’s fury, old and festering. He’s waiting for me to flinch, to shrink, to prove him right about everything he thinks I am. But I never do. My spine stays straight, my chin lifted. I meet his glare with something colder. Sharper. The kind of look that says: you might’ve known me once, but you don’t know me now.

Finally, he scoffs and turns. "Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

The door slams behind him with the finality of a gavel. The bell chimes once—sharp and metallic—then silence crashes down like a lid snapping shut on a coffin. The room feels smaller in his wake, the air heavier, like his anger left behind a residue that clings to the walls and settles into the floorboards. I exhale, slow and deliberate, forcing my fingers to unclench. But the stillness doesn’t soothe—it seethes, electric with everything unspoken.

The bell chimes again. The sound cuts through the heavy quiet like a blade, and the air changes—just enough to make my wolf twitch. It’s subtle, but sudden, the kind of alert that prickles the back of your neck before your brain catches up.

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