Page 19 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

LUKE

T he night air is sharp and bitter as I make my way up the old game trail toward the standing stones.

The full moon has begun its cold ascent above the black line of the ridge.

All of my senses are on edge—the sharp, earthy scent of moss and pine needles, the faint bite of cold ashes in the distance, and the restless chill that cuts straight through my skin.

This is McKinley land, the bones of my bloodline sunk deep in these hills, and the air vibrates with something old and wild.

Every step forward feels like walking into a graveyard of expectations—my father's, the pack’s, the man I swore I wouldn’t become.

But Elena’s face, the curve of her belly, the future I almost lost—they burn in the back of my mind like a promise I refuse to break.

I’m not alone. Tonight, the entire pack is watching and waiting.

The moonlight is bright enough to paint the stones in silver, throwing jagged shadows across the field where the grass grows wild and trampled from hundreds of years of pack gatherings.

As I reach the edge of the clearing, the silence presses in.

My heart beats a little harder as I look out over the sea of faces, knowing that every one of them remembers every victory, every mistake, every time I chose to leave.

Word traveled fast after Waylon called for a blood challenge.

No one needed to post a notice; every McKinley within a fifty-mile radius felt the tension crackling through the trees.

I heard it in their voices when I crossed the yard outside the main house, saw it in the hard set of old Aunt Rose’s jaw and the way the younger men hung back in the shadows.

I don’t look for Elena’s face at the edge of the crowd—I know she’s not here.

Kate would never let her anywhere near this kind of danger, not tonight.

Here, on this ground, only blood and teeth matter.

As I step deeper into the clearing, every conversation dies away, the air tightening with anticipation.

Every cousin, aunt, and elder who once watched me as a boy now stares like they’re seeing a ghost come home for judgment.

Behind the crowd, I spot one of Waylon’s sons—his face is pinched, eyes glittering with something close to hate.

It’s not just a challenge for alpha tonight; it’s every old rivalry, every whispered slight, every score tallied and owed.

I see the way they lean in toward each other, murmurs threading through the crowd like the wind in the trees.

There’s no trust here, not yet, not after the way I left or all the years I stayed gone.

Some want me to win because they want a new era, some because I am the hereditary heir, some are tired of Waylon’s rule.

Others want me to lose because I’m the one who left and then turned a human.

I roll my shoulders, forcing myself to relax.

I remember the way my father used to stand in this ring—never afraid, never uncertain, even when blood slicked the grass.

He would have said, Let the mountain witness.

Let the stones remember. Tonight, all I can do is hope the old ghosts are listening. .. and are on my side.

Waylon stands in the center of the ring, already stripped to the waist, chest gleaming with sweat despite the chill.

We're about the same size. He might have an inch or so on me in height, but I've got more muscle. But he is not a man or wolf to be taken lightly. He’s a wall of scarred muscle—every mark a warning, every line a story of someone else who lost. Power clings to him like smoke, thick with the stench of violence and arrogance.

His eyes meet mine, cold and flat as river stones, and he smiles—a thin, mean twist—cold and unreadable.

A hush settles over the clearing as I step into the circle, boots crunching on frosted grass. One of the pack's elders, a man who was my father’s oldest friend, moves to the center. He raises his voice, ancient and clear:

“Blood calls to blood. The strongest will lead the pack. Fight until one submits or breathes no more. The victor will decide." He steps back. "You both know the rules.”

Waylon’s eyes never leave mine. “Let’s get on with it, boy. Or are you planning to tuck tail and run again?”

A ripple of laughter from the crowd. I tune it out. My world narrows to the man in front of me. I strip off my own shirt and boots, tossing them aside. The cold bites at my skin, but adrenaline has me burning.

I can feel the wolf inside me—furious, impatient, hungry for the fight.

For a second I let it come closer, not to lose myself but to remind myself what’s at stake.

This isn’t about dominance or territory anymore.

This is about Elena, about the baby, about the future I want to build instead of the one I inherited.

I keep my focus locked on Waylon, not letting my gaze wander.

Kate would never be here—she’d keep her distance, or more likely, keep Elena safe at the Rawlings compound.

My gaze flicks to the stones themselves, their lichen-covered faces ageless and impassive.

How many fights have they witnessed? How many McKinley sons bled into this earth before me?

The elder raises his hand and drops it dramatically.

Waylon surges forward, fast for a man his size, and I barely twist aside in time.

His fist whistles past my head. He follows with a backhand that catches my shoulder and spins me half around.

Pain blooms, sharp and bright. I stagger, catch my balance, and counter with a low hook to his ribs—driven more by instinct than skill, the pain in my body sharpening my focus like a blade to the throat.

He grunts, barely feeling it. His arms snap out and he grabs me, lifts, and throws me to the ground so hard the breath whooshes out of me.

I roll, dirt in my mouth, spit blood. Waylon is already on me, trying to pin my arms, but I buck my hips and manage to break his grip, scrambling to my feet. He lunges again, but this time I’m ready—I duck under his reach and drive my shoulder into his gut, knocking him back.

We circle each other, panting, every eye in the clearing locked on us.

The pack is silent. Only the sound of our bodies crashing together, the crack of bone on flesh, the snarl in Waylon’s throat.

He tries to get inside my guard, swinging heavy, wild.

I block one, take another on the jaw that sends stars spinning through my vision. I taste blood, hot and metallic.

Waylon grins. “You don’t have it in you, boy. You never did.”

I let his words roll off, focusing on the now—the weight of my own fists, the way the ground feels under my bare feet, the moon overhead.

I jab, quick and sharp, then dart back. He charges, tackling me, and we go down in a tangle of limbs.

He’s on top, forearm braced against my throat.

I can barely breathe. The wolf in me howls, not in fear but in fury, and I let it push me, not take me.

My vision tunnels, all color and darkness, and I dig my nails into his side, twist, and wrench myself free.

We stagger apart, both bleeding, both shaking.

The crowd murmurs now, tension mounting.

My body is battered, bruised, but I’m still on my feet.

I meet Waylon’s eyes and bare my teeth—not a smile, something deeper, older.

He knows he has to finish this soon. He can’t outlast me, not with the anger burning through my veins.

He feints left, then crashes a knee into my thigh.

White-hot pain slices up my leg. I almost go down, but rage carries me.

I drive my fist into his gut, over and over, feeling muscle and bone give.

He gasps, spittle flecking his lips, but swings at me again, connecting hard.

I stagger back, nearly slipping on the blood and frost-slick grass.

Suddenly, he drops to all fours. The pack holds its breath as Waylon crouches, the change already rippling under his skin.

The air shivers, and the first wisps of mist swirl up from the ground, flashing with color, rolling with a sound like distant thunder.

His form dissolves in the fog, the change fast and violent as the mist boils and clears.

Where the man was, a huge wolf stands, fur bristling, teeth bared.

The pack surges back, making room. I don’t hesitate—I let my own wolf come, feel the wild power of it, the easy transformation as the mist wraps me, lightning flickering through the fog.

When the mist fades, I’m on four paws, my vision keener, my body burning with primal energy.

The scents in the clearing become vivid and fierce—fear, sweat, blood, and the loamy damp of churned earth. I see every detail in the moonlight, every eye locked on us. We circle each other—two alphas, both with everything to lose.

Waylon lunges first, teeth snapping. I dodge, feeling the wind of his jaws brush my shoulder.

He’s stronger, but I’m faster. He goes for my throat; I dart aside, then counter, slamming my body into his and rolling us both into the grass.

We bite, we snap, we claw—each of us fighting for dominance, for legacy, for the right to decide what happens next.

Waylon scores a line down my flank, fresh blood matting my fur. I retaliate, sinking my teeth into his shoulder, feeling muscle give beneath my jaws. He yelps, twists, and snaps at my leg, missing by inches. We break apart, both heaving for breath, the taste of iron in the air.