Page 13 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

ELENA

T he moment the door shuts behind Luke, the silence in my apartment hits like a slap.

I stand in the echo of him—body still trembling, lips swollen, the taste of him lingering in my mouth and on my skin.

My heartbeat is wild, furious, matching the ache blooming low in my belly.

I want to scream, or throw something, or chase after him and drag him back to my bed.

I want to undo every sharp word I said—except I don’t, not really, because I meant every single one. Didn’t I?

I just stand there, unable to move. The lamplight pools across the cluttered table, glinting off a half-drunk mug of tea and my grandmother's antique blue bowl filled with apples.

His scent lingers in the air. The room smells of him and me and what just happened—sex, sweat, and regret, all the things we did and didn't say.

There are no physical traces of him—no shirt left behind, no buttons on the floor, nothing to fold or touch.

But it’s like he scorched the air itself—my body still humming, my skin still tingling where his hands were.

I feel hollow and stretched thin, like every part of me is trying to remember what it means to be mine again.

He never undressed, just stripped me bare, took me apart with his mouth and hands while he stayed fully clothed, leaving my body trembling and my soul wrecked.

I should do something—tidy up, fold the blanket on the couch, clear the stack of books on the coffee table, anything to erase the proof of how completely he unraveled me right here against the wall.

But my hands won’t cooperate. I drift aimlessly, fingers brushing the spot where my shoulder hit the plaster, knees weak at the memory of how he held me up and took me apart.

I freeze, hands balled into fists at my sides, the sharp sting of want and shame lingering with every breath.

I turn away, pacing back toward the window.

My phone sits on the nightstand. I pick it up, thumb hovering over his number. I type out , Come back . Delete it. Type I didn’t mean it . Delete that too.

You’re an asshole, and I hate you . That one lingers longest. I meant the first part and wish I meant the last, but my greatest fear is, I don't. The message glows brightly, glaring at me and taunting me, before I erase it with a frustrated swipe. I try for something simple: The baby’s kicking.

But even that feels too raw, too dangerous.

In the end, I set the phone face down, the weight of all the words I’ll never send heavier than anything I could have said.

But the space he leaves behind is cavernous, and it’s not just mine. The baby stirs inside me, a restless flutter that feels too knowing for something so small and unborn.

I press my palm to my stomach and exhale shakily, feeling a pang of guilt that isn’t just mine.

It’s like my body’s torn in two—part of me wanting him gone, part of me screaming for him to stay.

Both my she-wolf and the baby seem to echo the chaos, a twisting, restless ache that rolls through me, sharper than before.

As if it’s already learned what it means to be abandoned.

I sink down onto the edge of the bed, rubbing slow circles on my belly, feeling the baby tumble and stretch beneath my hand.

They say babies know when you’re upset. If that’s true, mine must already think the world is a war zone.

I want to tell them I’ve got it under control, but I can’t lie to someone whose heart beats under mine.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, wishing my voice sounded steadier. “I know it’s not fair—being caught up in all of this. I wish I could promise you things will be easy, but I don’t even know how to promise that to myself.”

I blink back tears, thinking of my own mother, gone too soon. Did she ever feel like this—alone, uncertain, desperate to be strong for someone else? “I’ll keep you safe, little one. Even if I have to do it alone. Even if I mess it all up.”

A memory rises—my mother standing in the kitchen, flour streaking her knuckles, her voice bright and strong as she told me, 'We’re tougher than we look, Elena. We make our own place in the world.' I repeat her words now, barely louder than a breath, as if they might be enough to hold me together.

I wrap myself in a sweater and pace the room, arms tight around my body, my mind replaying everything.

The heat of his hands. The edge in his voice.

The look on his face—hurt, hungry, stubborn as ever.

The way I let him touch me, the way I lost myself to the feel of him, even as I tried to push him away.

There’s a shame that crawls up my spine and sinks into my skin—shame at how much I wanted him, how I still want him now, even as I tell myself I should know better.

My she-wolf is restless, pacing in circles just out of reach.

Every nerve feels raw, strung tight, hunger and fury colliding inside me.

It’s never been like this before, never so close to the surface, never so quick to lash out or run wild.

I want to break something. I want to run.

I want to scream at the world for making me choose between survival and surrender.

There’s a heaviness in my limbs, like I’m moving underwater, but adrenaline keeps me upright.

I glance around the apartment —the books stacked along the windowsill, the faded quilt at the foot of the bed, the battered lamp I scavenged from a yard sale last spring.

This is my safe place, my world carved out of everyone else’s. So why does it no longer feel that way?

I move like a ghost in my own life—haunted by who I was, hunted by who I’m becoming. Even the walls feel like they’re waiting for someone else to move in. Someone stronger. Someone less... wrecked.

I try to settle—turn on the old record player, put on the kettle, fuss with a stack of receipts I’ve been ignoring all week—but nothing soothes the agitation. My hands are shaking too badly to fold laundry, my thoughts spinning out in every direction.

I keep circling back to the baby, to Luke, to how nothing in Wild Hollow feels safe anymore.

There are two packs here—the Rawlings and the McKinleys—and even though I’ve lived in this town since I was a child, now I’m caught in the middle of something I never chose.

I didn’t ask for any of this. I never wanted to be turned, to carry the heir to the McKinley pack, to have every eye on me like I’m some threat or prize.

This place should feel like home, but now it feels like a battlefield, and I don’t know if I belong anywhere at all.

Everything about me is changing without permission—my body, my instincts, even the way I think.

There’s no map for this. There's no going back to before. I’m a stranger to myself, and there’s no safety in that.

A sharp kick inside, as if the baby is angry, too. Or maybe just confused. I whisper, "It’s all right, little one. We’ll be okay. I promise you that much." But I don’t believe it. Not tonight.

I realize I’m still just in the sweater I threw on after Luke left, bare-legged and feeling raw.

I force myself to move—yank a pair of jeans from the laundry basket, step into them, and zip up with shaking hands.

Only then do I grab my keys and pull on my boots, adding a scarf and jacket because suddenly the chill in the air feels like too much.

But I need out—out of this apartment, out of my own head.

The bookstore is already closed for the day, not set to reopen until tomorrow, so there’s no reason to worry about customers.

I head straight down the back stairs, avoiding the empty shop altogether, slipping out the private alley exit onto Main Street.

My breath fogs in the night air as I step into the shadows, hoping no one sees me go.

I get in my truck and start it up. I suppose I could shift and go for a run to see if that would help, but that feels even less safe, so I drive. I need the illusion of safety, the barrier between me and the part of myself that’s desperate to break free.

The road out to the Rawlings’ compound is rough and winding, headlights bouncing over potholes and ancient tree roots. The drive isn't that long, but it feels endless, my mind racing faster than the truck can carry me.

Every shadow on the road makes me jump. I keep glancing in the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see headlights following me, some McKinley or pack enforcer lurking out of sight.

Or maybe even Luke, unable to let go, chasing me through the dark.

But the road is empty, just the high whine of the engine and the whip of tree branches overhead.

As I pass the hollow where the creek curves under the old bridge, I remember the day I first came to Wild Hollow, my mother and I squeezed together in the cab of her ancient car, both of us too hopeful and too scared to look at each other.

I remember, years later, Luke teaching me to drive on this road—his hand steady on the wheel, his voice rough but gentle, telling me to trust the truck, trust myself.

The truck rattles past the old Miller barn, past the drive that leads up to the main house at the Rawlings compound, where the pack holds its meetings.

Then I pass the rise where, once, Luke and I stopped, far from the eyes of any pack—just the two of us in the dark, his hands curling around my waist as he lifted me onto the hood of his truck and kissed me under the stars, both of us pretending there were no rules, no packs, no consequences.

Every landmark is a punch to the gut—a reminder of all I’ve found here, and everything I might still lose.