Page 43 of Alpha Unbound

Still, he doesn’t shake the collar off.

We head towards the Rawlings’ compound in the late afternoon, the truck rattling down the gravel lane with a low, familiar hum. The shadows stretch long across the dashboard as the sun slips behind the ridgeline in molten streaks of orange and gold. I roll the window halfway down, letting in the crisp air and the scent of pine and earth.

Hank snoozes in the passenger seat, beak tucked beneath his wing, his round body bobbing gently with every bump in the road. His soft, rhythmic honks are more like sleepy sighs now, barely audible under the low rumble of the engine. Every so often, he moves and adjusts his wings, rustling softly like leaves in the wind.

It should be peaceful. The kind of quiet that comes at the end of a long day. But it isn’t. The silence presses too heavy against the windows, like the woods themselves are holding their breath.

When I hit the old fire road, the change in my surroundings is almost instant. The shadows stretch longer, deeper. The trees crowd closer to the road like they’re trying to hide something—or trap me in. My pulse spikes, sharp and instinctive.

The hairs on my arms rise. Not from cold. From danger.

Something’s wrong. Deep wrong. The kind that crawls up your spine and whispers run.

The air is too still—dead still. No wind to rustle the pines. No birdsong. Not even the scrape of branches against the truck. Just silence, thick and unnatural, like the woods are waiting for something awful to happen.

Even Hank stirs, feathers puffing as he lifts his head, uneasy. His tail twitches once, twice.

I glance in the rearview mirror.

At first—nothing.

Then—there. A flicker. Movement.

A dark vehicle, hugging the curve of the road several car lengths back. Low profile. No lights. Windows blacked out like eyes that don’t blink.

A predator’s silhouette.

My grip tightens on the wheel until my knuckles ache. My pulse jumps, fast and shallow, like prey scent on the air.

“Wake up,” I whisper.

Hank lifts his head, feathers ruffling as he blinks groggily and lets out a low, confused honk. His eyes flick toward the windshield, head tilting in quick, sharp jerks like he’s trying to lock onto something I can’t see yet.

“We’re being followed.”

The fire road narrows. Trees crowd close. No place to turn off.

Unless...

I slam the brakes so hard the tires scream, gravel spraying like shrapnel as the truck fishtails sideways. The wheel jerks under my grip, fighting me, but I don’t let go. I wrench it hard, forcing the vehicle into a jarring skid toward the tree line. My heart hammers. Adrenaline screams in my veins.

Before the truck fully stops, I’m already moving. I throw the door open so hard it slams against its hinges, then hit the ground running, boots pounding dirt and instinct snapping into place like teeth around a throat.

“Fly, Hank!”

He launches skyward without a word.

I sprint toward the trees, heart in my throat and blood roaring in my ears. The shift comes not with pain, but with power—an eruption of sensation as the world explodes in a kaleidoscope of color. Shards of lightning crack through the air, a roll of thunder echoing low and deep in my chest.

Mist rises around me, curling over my skin like smoke with weight. My breath catches, not from fear, but from the rush of becoming wolf. One step I’m flesh and frantic energy—the next, I’m fur and focus, instinct honed to a razor's edge.

And then I’m the wolf.

But not the red wolf I grew up knowing—this is different. More muscle coils under my fur, power radiating through limbs built for crashing through brush and outrunning danger. Grayfur, streaked with the tawny marks that mark my lineage now, ripples with every stride.

I feel heavier. Stronger. Feral in a way the red never was.

When I used to run, it was for escape. Now, I run with teeth bared and shoulders braced for the fight. This body was made for war.

---