Page 1 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
Chapter 1
Talia
My old Chevy’s engine coughed as I crested Bear Ridge, and I held my breath until it settled back into its usual wheeze. Breaking down on a mountain road wasn’t exactly how I wanted to announce my return to Hollow Haven, especially when half my worldly possessions were stuffed into the backseat and the other half were rattling around in the tiny U-Haul trailer I was attempting to tow behind me.
The valley spread out below me like something from my childhood memories, but sharper now, more detailed than the soft edged recollections I’d been carrying for fifteen years. Pine forests rolled down the mountainsides in waves of green, broken by the silver thread of Hollow Creek and the neat grid of streets that made up the only town I’d ever called home.
The thought surged into the front of my mind, but I didn’t push it away. Three months ago, I’d been Executive Chef Talia Quinn of Aurelius, commanding a kitchen worth more than most people’s houses and earning reviews from food criticsclaiming my food was “transcendent.” Now I was unemployed, blacklisted, and driving a dying Chevy toward the one place that might remember me as something other than a scandal.
The cottage sat at the end of Birch Lane, exactly where the property management company had promised it would be. Small, yellow with white trim, and surrounded by a garden that had clearly been loved once but was now growing wild around the edges. The front porch sagged slightly on one side, giving the whole place a lopsided, welcoming smile.
I sat in the car for a long moment after killing the engine, just breathing. The silence felt enormous after months of Chicago traffic and restaurant chaos. No horns, no shouting, no constant hum of industrial refrigeration. Just wind in the pine trees and a bird I couldn’t identify calling from somewhere nearby.
The cottage keys were exactly where promised, tucked under the ceramic toad beside the front steps. My hands shook only a little as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Hardwood floors throughout, a living room with a stone fireplace that looked like it had been built by someone who actually knew how to lay stones instead of just making them look pretty. The kitchen was small but well designed, with enough counter space for serious cooking and a gas range that gleamed and had hopefully been recently serviced.
Most importantly, it was quiet. No neighbors shouting through thin walls, no delivery trucks at dawn, no customers demanding modifications to dishes they’d ordered specifically because they were perfect as written.
I could breathe here.
The U-Haul held everything that mattered to me now. Two suitcases of clothes, a box of books, and three carefully packed boxes of kitchen equipment. It barely took any time to unload it. My knife roll went on the counter first, then the digital scale that had cost me a week’s salary when I was a line cook but hadearned its keep a thousand times over. My grandmother’s cast iron skillet came out next, still seasoned to a perfect black shine after forty years of use.
Each piece of equipment had its place, its purpose, its story. The immersion circulator I’d saved for six months to buy, the mandoline that had taken the tip of my ring finger the first week I owned it, the pasta machine that had belonged to my first mentor at culinary school. I arranged them with the same careful precision I’d used setting up stations in every professional kitchen I’d ever worked, muscle memory guiding my hands even when my mind wanted to spiral into panic.
By the time I finished unpacking, the cottage felt less like a rental and more like possibility.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I’d been living on gas station coffee and protein bars for the better part of two days. The refrigerator held the basics I’d requested, eggs, butter, milk, and a loaf of bread that looked homemade. There was also a mason jar of what looked like fresh strawberry preserves with a handwritten note stuck to the lid.
“Welcome home, dear. These are from my garden. Mrs. Anderson next door”
The kindness of it made my throat tight. In Chicago, I’d lived in the same apartment building for three years without learning half my neighbors’ names. Here, someone I’d never met had left me preserves made from berries she’d grown herself.
I cracked three eggs into a bowl and whisked them until they were pale yellow and smooth. The butter hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle, and I adjusted the heat by sound as much as sight, waiting for that perfect moment when the foam subsided but before it started to brown. Eggs were simple, but simple didn’t mean easy. Perfect eggs required attention, patience, and the kind of intuitive understanding of heat and timing that separated real cooks from people who just followed recipes.
The first bite transported me. Not to any restaurant where I’d worked, not to culinary school but to my grandmother’s kitchen where this had all begun. And now I was here, in this moment, this choice, this new beginning. The eggs were exactly as they should be, creamy, rich, tasting like eggs instead of whatever I could do to make them impressive. Food for the sake of nourishment and pleasure instead of critics and profit margins.
I was halfway through my impromptu meal when footsteps on the gravel drive made me freeze. The rental company hadn’t mentioned anyone else having reason to come by, and Mrs. Anderson’s note suggested she lived next door, not here.
I moved to the window and peered through the curtains, expecting to see a delivery truck or maybe a solicitor. Instead, a man in what looked like a park service uniform was walking up the drive, clipboard in hand. He was tall, broad shouldered, and moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from spending most of his time outdoors.
Something about the way he carried himself tugged at a memory I couldn’t quite place.
He climbed the porch steps and knocked with the kind of authoritative rap that suggested official business. I set down my fork and smoothed my travel wrinkled shirt, wishing I’d thought to change clothes before settling in to eat.
“Hello there.” His voice carried easily through the door, warm and faintly amused. “I can smell something amazing coming from in there, so I know someone’s home. I’m Jace Maddox with the park service. Wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and go over some fire safety protocols.”
Jace Maddox. The name hit me like cold water, bringing with it a flood of summer memories I’d thought I’d buried. Jace with the scraped knees and endless questions, who’d followed me around one memorable summer when he was eight and Iwas eleven. He’d cried when his family’s vacation ended, and I’d promised to write letters I never sent.
I opened the door with the chain still latched, needing to see his face to be sure.
Twenty years had been kind to Jace Maddox. The skinny kid with freckles and perpetual grass stains had grown into a man who looked like he belonged on outdoor magazine covers. Sun streaked brown hair, eyes the color of winter pine trees, and a smile that crinkled at the corners from years of squinting at distant horizons.
“Ms. Quinn, right?” He held up his clipboard, then paused, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t suppose you remember me. Jace Maddox? I used to spend summers here when we were kids. You taught me how to identify deer tracks by the creek one year.”
The memory surfaced complete and perfect. A younger Jace crouched beside the muddy bank, his face serious with concentration as I showed him the difference between whitetail and mule deer prints. He’d been fascinated by everything in those woods, collecting pine cones and smooth stones and asking questions faster than I could answer them.
“Jace.” I fumbled with the chain latch, suddenly aware that I was blocking the door like I expected him to force his way inside. “My God. Look at you.”
