Page 10

HUDSON

T he Rawlings compound hasn't changed.

Built into the curve of the ridge like it grew there, the main house rises in layers—tiered log terraces stepping upward from the earth.

Each step in the earth is a reminder of old strength carved straight from the mountain.

The house is all heavy timbers and dark stone, its steep-gabled roof pitched high against the sky, flanked by arched balconies and a wraparound porch that groans under its own history.

Surrounded by various outbuildings and thick pines looming around it like sentinels, casting long shadows across the face of the building, their branches brushing the shingled eaves like whispers no one dares voice.

It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need to explain itself.

Rooted too deep into the bones of the mountain, built on bloodline and legacy, it’s more monument than home.

I grew up here learning to be quiet, to be sharp, to listen more than I speak.

And to lead when I’d rather disappear. The walls still echo with old voices, mine included, and sometimes I think the ghosts judge more than the elders ever did.

Technically, I hadn’t accepted the title.

I hadn’t said the words, taken the formal vow, or claimed the role in the old way.

But the elders still watched me as if they knew the mantle of leadership was mine and mine alone.

Maybe because they knew—deep down—I was the only one who could lead the Rawlings pack.

After what happened in the woods—and what I saw in Kate’s scent trail—my instincts hadn’t stopped pacing.

I’d doubled back twice on the ride here just to shake the edge off.

But it wasn’t working. I wasn’t just riding adrenaline.

I was riding the sharp burn of something territorial, something protective, after seeing where her tracks stopped and theirs began.

Two wolves. Heavier. Older. Their scent was all over the clearing, closing in on her from behind the trees, then retreating fast. Not driven off—forced.

I saw where their paws had skidded in the dirt, where her position held steady before they turned tail and backed off. That kind of imprint doesn’t lie.

And the worst part? They were ours... mine.

My wolves. My pack. Rawlings blood. I recognized their scent immediately—one laced with old tobacco and arrogance, the other always a bit too sharp, too close to rot.

They've never liked the McKinleys, but I never gave them permission to act on it. From the way the tracks pulled back, dragging through the dirt as they backed away, I knew they hadn’t just harassed her—they’d expected her to run.

Instead, she'd held, and they'd had no choice but to retreat.

I saw it in the half-moon gouges her claws left in the frozen dirt, the bark torn from a nearby sapling like she'd braced herself for impact. Something forced them to retreat—they didn’t simply back down; the wild refused to accept the falsehood they attempted to create.

They think I’ve got to choose—Alpha or storm.

But they’ve forgotten the old truth: a real Alpha is both. The one who keeps the order and brings the reckoning. And today, they’re about to get a reminder.

Maybe I’m both. Because being Alpha isn’t just about order—it’s about consequence. About drawing the line between control and chaos and making damn sure no one mistakes silence for weakness.

I can’t afford to let this slide. Not when the pack’s already looking for cracks. If they see hesitation, they’ll fill it with their own rules. But if they see fire? If they feel it in their bones that I won’t blink when it counts? That’s how you lead. That’s how you survive.

So yeah, maybe I’m both.

And maybe that’s exactly what they need.

I shouldn’t care this much. About her. About what it looked like.

But the moment I caught the end of her trail near Ridley's cabin, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

The clearing had smelled wrong—too much fear laced into the pine, the kind of scent you only catch after a confrontation.

Her paw prints had been shallow but fast, like she'd left in a hurry.

Now those responsible will have to answer for it. Because no one touches what's mine. Not even my pack.

I pull my truck into the clearing, gravel crunching under tires, and kill the engine. The main house stands ahead, all weathered stone and heavy wood, stoic as ever. No one's outside, but I know they’ve been watching since I crested the last hill.

I’ve come and gone since taking up the sheriff’s badge—doing the job, answering the calls—but I haven’t really been here.

Not with the pack. Not where it counts.

Not in the way that matters. I kept the distance I thought we all needed—space from their expectations, their scrutiny. But after today, I know that silence bred more than suspicion.

It bred something bolder. It gave wolves like those two the space to act without fear of consequence. They mistook my absence for indifference—and that’s a mistake I won’t let stand again. It bred entitlement.

And that’s on me. Time to stop pretending I can stand outside and still expect to be followed.

I step out of the truck. The air smells of pine, ash, and lingering tension.

There’s a snap of cold in the wind that cuts through my shirt and whispers old warnings down my spine.

Every step toward that front door feels like walking into a courtroom with no verdict and too many witnesses.

I roll my shoulders back and move with purpose, even though I know the weight waiting inside will try to drag me down.

The scent of wolves is heavy here, layered with memory and dominance.

When I push open the main doors, the scent of old whiskey and polished wood hits first, rich and thick with years of smoke, sweat, and power.

The foyer stretches wide and open, floors worn smooth by generations of boots and claws.

High beams crisscross overhead, dark with age and low enough to make you feel watched.

The fire crackling in the hearth at the far end does little to warm the chill that lives in these walls.

And under it all—pack. The scent is everywhere. Familiar. Expectant. Heavy.

It pulls a memory out of me, sharp and sudden.

I was seventeen the last time I sat in this room before I left for the military—before I’d earned my place as anything more than the Rawlings heir.

I remember standing in front of the elders, fists clenched at my sides, refusing to bow.

My father watched from the shadows, silent as always.

He didn’t stop them when they called me soft.

Didn’t stop them when they said a real Alpha wouldn’t run off to serve a human chain of command.

He just watched. And when I walked out that door, I swore I’d never come back unless I had something worth saying.

Now I’m back. And the silence still carries weight. But this time, it’s mine to break.

Three of the elders are already waiting—Alaric, Bram, and Eddard. All gray wolves, all older than me, and none of them good at hiding their disapproval.

"You’re late," Alaric says without looking up from the hearth.

I ignore that and walk to the bar instead. Pour a shot of smooth single malt. Down it. Then I turn.

"You called this meeting. You can wait until I’ve had a damn drink.”

Alaric’s jaw tightens, a twitch of annoyance barely hidden beneath his usual stoicism.

Bram squirms in his seat like he’s weighing whether it’s worth the trouble to comment.

Eddard’s eyebrow lifts higher, a slow, deliberate expression that says he’s amused—but only just. They’re not used to being challenged. Not like this.

Eddard raises an eyebrow, but Bram just grunts.

"The McKinley girl’s making trouble," Bram says. "Again."

"She delivered preserves and didn’t flinch," I say. "That’s not trouble. That’s someone knowing her worth and refusing to bow."

"She trespassed," Alaric snaps. "And two of ours gave her what she deserved. A red—especially one with McKinley blood—doesn’t get to strut through Rawlings land like she’s earned the right. They did what needed doing. We should be rewarding them, not questioning their loyalty."

I set the glass down hard enough that it cracks.

"No, what makes us look weak is two wolves intimidating a woman on a delivery run like they're pack enforcers and not glorified bullies."

The silence that follows is thick.

"You planning to do something about it?" Eddard asks. "Because if you don’t..."

"I do." I cut him off. "I will."

They expect me to make a show. Blood. Humiliation.

My hands flex at my sides, fists clenching and releasing. I pace once—sharp, deliberate—then plant my boots and stare them down. Their eyes are on me even when they pretend not to be. Waiting. Wanting proof, I’ll play the same tired game.

But I didn’t come back to echo the old way.

I came to rewrite it. And the first rule is this—no one mistakes restraint for weakness. Not anymore. I didn’t come back here to flex muscle. I came back to lead. And sometimes leadership means knowing when not to bare your teeth.

I have another idea.

I leave without another word and head out behind the house, past the line of pine trees where light doesn’t quite reach, and the air turns colder.

The shed sits at the edge of the wild, leaning with age and memory.

More claw marks than structure. It’s where we’ve all changed for the run since we were old enough to stop crawling.

I remember shifting here for the first time with my father watching.

He didn’t say a word then, either. He simply nodded once, as if I had done what was expected.

The run will start here. It always does.

I strip down, fold my clothes with automatic precision, and place them in the bin just inside the door. My boots hit the floor last.

Then I step out into the clearing and let it rise.