Page 10 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

The memory is fever-hot and raw—fire and pain, hunger and surrender twined so tight I can barely tell them apart.

I can still hear the sound I made—half growl, half sob—when he finally thrust into me, the way our bodies collided, desperate, wild, almost violent.

Nothing existed but the bed, the darkness, the two of us breaking and remaking each other with every breathless motion, every plea and promise burning between us.

When it ended, he clung to me, trembling, eyes bright with tears neither of us dared speak of.

I felt him shudder inside me, his whole body pressed to mine, like he could keep the world at bay just by holding me tight enough.

His mouth found my ear, whispering my name over and over—sometimes fierce, sometimes so soft I wondered if he was begging forgiveness or asking for more time.

Each repetition sank deeper than any vow until for a moment I believed this was more than a single night.

When I woke, the bed was cold, the imprint of his body already fading from the sheets.

For a long, breathless moment, I lay there, searching for his warmth, his scent, anything that might convince me the night before hadn’t just been a fever dream.

But there was only emptiness—him gone, my body aching, the mark of his bite throbbing at my throat.

It felt like waking in the middle of wreckage—every nerve raw, the air thick with what we’d done, what we’d changed.

The silence rang in my ears, hollow and sharp, leaving me more exposed than I’d ever been.

My hand drifted to my belly, warmth blooming beneath my palm, some part of me aching with the sense that nothing would ever be the same.

I couldn’t have known—not then—what I was carrying, only that his mark lingered in my flesh and in something deeper, a pull that went bone deep and left me changed forever.

A shrill ring yanks me back to the present. I blink, drag a hand over my eyes, and answer the shop phone, half-expecting it to be Kate or another wrong number looking for the post office. Instead, it’s Mrs. Wallace, her voice crisp and full of mischief.

"Elena, darling, is my 'mystery package' in yet? I swear if my husband finds it before I do, I'll have to explain why I need to read three Delta James novels in a week."

I can’t help but smile. "It's here, Mrs. Wallace. Tucked behind the counter, just where you like it. No judgment from me."

She laughs, low and delighted. "Bless you, dear. You’re a treasure. You know, you ought to shelve them under 'Self-Improvement.' Some of us ladies could use the inspiration."

"Maybe I’ll create a whole new section just for you," I tease back, ignoring the ache in my voice. "Your order will be here whenever you’re ready to pick it up."

She thanks me, promises to swing by soon, and hangs up, no more questions asked.

Suddenly, I can’t stand being here another minute.

The Moss & Ink feels too tight, every surface packed with memories and loaded with questions I can’t answer.

I glance around—at the battered tables, the stacks of new arrivals, the cozy reading chair by the window where I once imagined myself safe.

Now it all feels claustrophobic, haunted by ghosts I can’t fight and reminders of a life that’s slipped out of my control.

My hands move on their own: I grab my bag, pull a scrap of paper from the register, and scribble a quick note— Back soon, call if you need me .

I tape it to the front door, making sure it won’t flutter loose in the mountain breeze.

My heart pounds as I step back, eyes scanning the quiet street for any sign of trouble or Luke’s return.

I hesitate, just for a second, hand on the light switch, and then force myself out, locking the door behind me.

The keys tremble in my grip as I step into the morning, lungs filling with crisp mountain air.

I keep my head high and walk straight for the diner at the end of Main, telling myself it’s just for lunch, just for a break, but knowing it’s really because I need to breathe somewhere that doesn’t smell like him.

The Rusty Fork hums with the same rhythm it always has—floors worn glossy, windows streaked with fingerprints, the air thick with potatoes, bacon, and strong coffee. I step inside and try to breathe like I belong.

A dozen conversations catch in their throats.

Chairs scrape, forks pause. I feel the weight of every stare, prickling along my arms and down my spine as heads turn, eyes narrowing, lips drawing close to whisper secrets behind cupped hands.

It’s like being skinned alive in slow motion—each glance a cut, each whisper a burn.

The gossip in Wild Hollow always moves quickly, but today it feels more pointed, sharper—my name, my life, my mistakes, all tangled in the buzz of the room.

I slide into a booth by the window, the cracked red vinyl seat squeaking under me as I settle in.

My back finds the familiar groove in the worn wood paneling, grounding me for a heartbeat, but my heart is still thumping wild and frantic, a trapped thing in my chest. The urge to bolt—to run for the door or bare my teeth and snarl at the whole town—tangles with the need to hold my head high, to pretend none of this touches me.

After all, it's none of their damn business.

Every muscle is pulled tight, knotted with tension, my wolf bristling just under the surface as I fight to look calm.

All around me, the air thickens with curiosity and judgment.

Glances dart over menus and behind mugs, speculation hanging as heavy as the humidity in August. I square my shoulders, force my chin up, and stare straight out the window, refusing to flinch, refusing to let them see the way their whispers crawl over my skin.

I try to keep my focus on the menu, but I can feel the weight of a dozen stares—curiosity, pity, speculation. I catch snatches of conversation:

"He’s back, you know…”

“Did you see the way she looked when she came in?”

“I heard the baby’s his…”

"No way Waylon McKinley is going to let her raise that baby by herself..."

The words stick to my skin, prickling and raw. I want to scream. Or maybe just disappear.

Kate appears a few minutes later, her hair pulled back in a messy knot and a Wild Hollow Mercantile badge pinned crookedly to her cardigan.

There’s a stubborn streak of ink smudged on her wrist, probably from pricing out school supplies or tallying up the morning’s receipts.

She smells faintly of cedar and penny candy, a reminder of the shelves she’s been stocking all morning.

Her eyes are soft with worry, watching me with that big sister-like intensity that always sees straight through my shields.

Without asking, she slides into the booth across from me.

A moment later, a basket of onion rings lands between us, hot and crisp, the sharp scent of salt mingling with steam.

It's followed by two Diet Cokes, one sliding my way, her thumb lingering for an extra second against the glass as if to steady us both.

“Rough morning?” she asks, voice gentle but wry.

I snort, shaking my head, but the laughter is brittle. “That obvious?”

She nudges the onion rings closer. “You want to talk, or do you want me to get you something sharp and pointy to throw at my brother?”

I shake my head, biting back a bitter smile. “I just want five minutes without everyone in this town thinking they know how I should live my life.”

Kate sighs, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “Good luck with that. They don’t matter, Elena. You do. And you’re not alone, even when it feels like it. If you want, you can stay with us at the Rawlings' compound. Luke isn't there. We can ride back and forth to work...”

"I love you for saying that," I say as I look down at our joined hands, knowing she speaks the truth and knowing that people would be less likely to talk about me if they knew I had the Rawlings at my back.

I stare out the window. The spot where Luke disappeared. The street settling back into sleepy normal. But I can’t follow it. I’m still tangled in the wreckage he left behind.

My voice comes out small, rough with defeat.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Kate. Some days I feel like I’m finally getting stronger, like I might actually be okay, but then he walks in and it’s like everything I’ve fought for just slips away.

All that progress—gone. I end up right back at the start, picking up the same old broken pieces. ”

Kate’s eyes soften, fierce and proud. “He’s not your beginning, and he damn sure isn’t your end. You’re the bravest person I know, Elena. You just have to remember it.”

The tears come fast, hot and embarrassing, but I don’t hide from them.

Kate squeezes my hand tighter. “Let them talk. Let him rage. You’ve got me. You've got Hudson, and you’ve got this baby. That’s more than enough.”

The bell above the diner door jingles, and for a split second, my heart stutters, expecting Luke’s shadow to fill the room. But it’s only Mrs. Wallace, bustling in with a conspiratorial smile, clutching her oversized purse.

She makes a beeline for our booth, leans in, and murmurs, "I'll be by later to pick up my package.

You sit here with Kate and have a nice lunch.

" She leans closer. "Don't let this town get under your skin.

" She winks at me, sly as ever, and I can’t help but let myself smile—just for a second, a little bit lighter for having someone in my corner.

But as I sit there, hand in Kate’s, surrounded by the hum of voices and the comfort of someone who’s never let me down, I realize the pressure is building, not easing.

Luke’s return has thrown everything off balance, and with that strange car on Main, with the baby coming, I can feel something gathering—an unease I don’t know how to weather, but one I know I’ll have to face.

I look up, meeting Kate’s steady gaze. My voice comes out softer, edged with a fear I can’t quite swallow.

“Promise me you’ll tell me the truth about everything—the pack, Luke, the baby.

Even if it hurts. I don’t want to be the last to know if things get bad.

I can’t stand the thought of finding out something important after everyone else. ”

Kate nods, her grip firm, her loyalty as solid as the surrounding mountains.

“Always. But you have to promise you won’t shut me out, not even when you want to.

You’re my best friend, and you don’t get to carry all of this alone.

I want to be there, even for the ugly parts—especially for the ugly parts. ”

I nod, the knot in my chest loosening just a little. The diner is noisy and too bright, but Kate’s hand in mine is a lifeline, grounding me in the moment. The future feels uncertain, wild, and dangerous—but for the first time in a long time, I’m not running.

I can feel something fierce flickering to life inside me, a quiet determination, the sense that I really could face whatever’s coming next. I’m ready to fight for myself, for this baby, for the pieces of my life no one else gets to claim.

Let them come. Trouble, judgment, ghosts from the past—I’ll face them all. I have something worth fighting for now. And I won’t run.