Page 26

KATE

M orning in the Hollow doesn't feel the same anymore. The air smells colder and sharper—as if something old has awakened. Even the birds seem quieter, their calls cautious, uncertain. There's a tension beneath the frost, coiled and waiting.

I wake up warm, tangled in limbs and flannel and the scent of Hudson.

For a moment, I stay still. Letting myself breathe him in, anchor to the quiet hum of his heart against my back.

His arm is slung over my waist, heavy and protective, the bite mark on my shoulder warm where his lips pressed against it hours earlier.

The sensation sends a pulse through me—part comfort, part claim.

It’s a reminder of the way he touched me, the way he sees me.

A mark that says I’m his, not out of possession, but protection.

And damn if it doesn’t make me feel steady when the world is anything but.

The quiet doesn’t hold... because too much has changed.

The stillness hums with tension now, like a thread pulled too tight.

I can feel it in the way Hudson's breathing deepens behind me, in the restless flicker of my heartbeat. That brief illusion of peace—of safety—is already dissolving at the edges. The morning light has turned brittle, too sharp against the frost-touched windowpane. Somewhere outside, a branch snaps—not loudly, but wrong somehow, off-tempo. My senses twitch. Even the silence feels unnatural, as if the world is bracing for something just out of sight. Last night we were tangled together. This morning, we’re wrapped in something heavier: purpose, urgency, the weight of what comes next.

There’s no going back—not for me. Not for him.

Not for the Hollow. We’ve uncovered too many truths, crossed too many lines, and tested too many loyalties.

Whatever innocence the Hollow once held is gone, burned away by secrets, blood, and the fire we lit last night when we chose each other—fully, finally, without fear.

The only direction now is forward, teeth bared, head high.

When I sit up, Hudson stirs behind me. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I murmur. "Just thinking."

He props himself up on one elbow, eyes still hazy with sleep but focused on me like I’m the only thing that exists. “That’s dangerous this early.”

I smirk. "Only if you’re not smart enough to keep up."

He grabs my wrist and pulls me back down into the sheets. “Try me."

We’re kissing again before I remember we have a damn war to prepare for.

For a second, I lose myself in it—the heat, the press of his chest, the way he groans low in his throat like he needs this more than air.

The kiss feels different now—sharper, more urgent.

Like we're trying to memorize each other before everything changes again.

But before it can go deeper, there’s a knock at the door—sharp, deliberate. We both freeze. Hudson pulls back first, brows already furrowed.

"Yeah?" he calls, voice rough.

A voice muffled through the wood: "It’s Eddie. We’ve got the information you wanted before you talked to the pack."

Hudson glances at me, the connection still electric between us, but I nod.

Duty doesn’t wait. Not anymore.

Hudson calls the pack together in the great hall.

They fill the place wall-to-wall, every inch of space charged with bristling energy.

Murmurs ripple across the room, low and restless.

Feet shuffle. Breathing is tight and uneven.

It’s the kind of charged silence that crackles right before a storm.

The heavy scent of tension hangs in the air—sweat, pine, and raw nerves.

Some wolves stand with arms crossed, jaws tight, suspicion etched into every line of their bodies.

Some squirm restlessly, as if bracing for the sky to fall, while others display something akin to relief—perhaps grateful the truth has finally been revealed.

There are whispers, low and uncertain, threading through the pack like smoke—thin and insistent.

When familiar names are mentioned, a few growls erupt, and each nod and murmured comment increases the tension.

A name he recognizes causes a young wolf to my left to flinch, and a sharp, electric ripple moves through the crowd.

The unspoken question hangs between us all like a blade: what happens next? And who will survive it?

Hudson takes center stage, shoulders squared, eyes burning like he’s already dared the enemy to try him. His voice carries, steady and fierce, threading through the crowd like a current. Heads turn. Conversations still. Even the skeptics shut up long enough to listen.

“There’s a threat to our land,” he says. “To our people. It’s not just about territory—it’s about control. About outsiders deciding what happens here. That ends today.”

He lays it out clean—Sable Rock’s play, the corrupted land claims, and what’s coming next.

He shows them documents, maps, names—evidence that the syndicate isn’t just circling, they’ve already sunk claws in.

Properties flipped through shell companies.

Families manipulated into debt they didn’t owe.

And worse—rumors that certain wolves may have taken bribes to look the other way.

Gasps ripple through the room. A low snarl rises from the back.

It’s not just about land anymore—it’s about betrayal from within.

“And while we’re locking things down, no one walks alone. Pairs only. Extra guards on the borders. We protect each other. No exceptions.”

A few grumble under their breath, the indistinct murmur of dissent threading through the back of the hall.

One or two older wolves exchange pointed looks, their expressions caught between doubt and deference.

But no one steps forward. No one dares challenge him.

Not with Hudson like this—shoulders squared, every word lined with command.

He doesn’t just wear the title of Alpha.

He is Alpha, in every line of his body, every beat of silence that follows him.

I stand off to the side, arms crossed, heart racing.

The energy rolling off Hudson hits me like heat from a forge—focused, searing, unshakable.

I don’t just see the power in him—I feel it vibrating in my bones, anchoring me even as it stokes something fierce in my chest. A spark of defiance.

Of purpose. I may not carry the Rawlings’ name, but this fight is mine, too. And I know exactly what I need to do.

I slip out the front door before the meeting ends, pulling out my phone and beginning to pace the length of the front porch.

My fingers flex once at my sides before I start dialing, steadying my breath.

Every call I make from here matters. Every name I reach out to could change the odds in our favor.

There are people in this town who aren’t Rawlings, who aren’t McKinley—but who owe both families more than they’ll ever admit.

People who remember the way it was before the bloodlines started drawing lines in the dirt.

I start calling them—neutral shifters who’ve lived in the Hollow for years without ever swearing to a single Alpha.

Independents who run farms on the outskirts, who trade with both packs but belong to neither.

A few humans, old-timers with long memories and longer grudges, who remember when the McKinleys and Rawlings stood side by side instead of across a line in the dirt.

Most don’t ask questions. They just listen. And when I tell them what’s coming, what we’re up against, they say the same thing: just tell us when.

I get Elena involved, and she doesn’t hesitate.

“You want a rebellion?” she asks. “Because I’m here for it.”

“I want a coalition,” I say. “Something smarter than brute force. If they’re coming after our land with laws and money, we need more than just fangs and claws. We need records. Witnesses. Public eyes.”

“I’ll make calls,” she says. “And Kate? You’re doing good. Don’t forget that.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the screen for a beat, heart thudding like a warning drum in my chest. That lump in my throat doesn’t go away—it thickens, sharp with memory and weight.

I blink hard, then press the next number with fingers that don’t shake, not anymore.

I keep dialing, voice steady, determination settling in my bones like steel.

By mid-day, we have a network forming. People willing to stand up. Speak out. Dig up the kind of dirt that sticks—filthy truths that cling to reputations and rot legacies from the inside out.

Elena starts sorting through old civic records, while one of the McKinley cousins with a photographic memory recalls names that haven’t come up in years.

They retrieve zoning maps from the library’s basement archives—maps annotated before the county lines were redrawn.

Every call brings another piece of the puzzle.

Every conversation cracks open another secret.

It’s messy. It’s risky. And it’s working.

When Hudson finally joins me on the porch, his boots hit the floorboards with slow, deliberate steps.

He looks to the tree line like he expects it to blink first, like he's daring the forest to give him a target. His jaw is tight, shoulders wound with tension, the barely leashed kind that makes my wolf sit up and take notice. There’s a quiet fury in him, the kind that simmers just beneath the surface.

But when his eyes land on me—just me—something in him changes.

The fire doesn’t go out, but it banks, contained. For now.

“How many?” he asks.

“Enough to make noise,” I say. “Enough to make them look twice.”

His jaw ticks. “You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

I step close, slide my hands under his shirt, fingers grazing the firm lines of his stomach, the steady thump of his heartbeat.

His skin is warm, grounding. I flatten my palms against him, needing the contact, the solidity.

The world might change around us, but this—this connection—is real.

His breath hitches, and mine catches in response, like our bodies recognize what we’re about to face and have already chosen their anchor.

“I’m not alone. But I’m not standing behind you, either. You need to get used to that.”

His smile is slow and sharp. “Wasn’t planning to put you behind me. I’m not stupid.”

“I mean it, Hudson. If I’m going to be your mate and mistress of this pack, I'm going to be fighting at your side. I will not be the person people nod at because I sleep in your bed.”

“You are so much more than that,” he growls low. “Probably not the best time, but you should know—I love you, Kate.”

The words land like a warm hand around my spine—steadying, anchoring. My breath hitches, throat tightening just a little, and I feel that old ache in my chest—Hudson sees me. Not as a duty, not as a title. As me. And something in me exhales for the first time in days.

"Maybe not, but I love you too."

“Don't worry sweetheart, if anyone forgets, I'll put them on their ass.”

He pulls me in and kisses me slow, fierce.

His lips take their time, like he’s memorizing every curve, every breath.

There’s no rush—just possession, promise, and heat curling low in my belly.

His hand slides up my spine, anchoring me closer, as if he’s sealing the vow we just made.

My fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging him deeper.

Because if the world’s going to burn, I want to feel this fire first.

And when we break apart, the look in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.

There's no hesitation, no shadow of doubt—just raw certainty and unwavering resolve. His gaze locks onto mine like a vow, fierce and unflinching, and I feel it settle deep in my bones. Whatever comes next, we’re already bound to meet it—shoulder to shoulder, teeth bared, hearts aligned.

The fight is coming. And we'll be ready.