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

LUKE

I never planned to come back.

Some nights, when the world shrank to a shotgun and a bottle of shine in a stranger’s barn, I’d lie awake and try to convince myself I’d burned that bridge so thoroughly, nothing but ashes remained.

But Wild Hollow isn’t the kind of place you can outrun—not when you carry its blood in your veins, not when every nightmare smells like mountain laurel and old secrets.

Not when the only woman you ever loved is the last thing you see before sleep, every goddamn night.

But it isn’t the memory of Elena that drags me back tonight—it’s something colder, sharper, worming through the static of my burner phone.

The past always finds a way to catch up, but this time, it finds me sitting in the blue glow of my dashboard, behind a boarded-up gas station thirty miles past the state line, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, restless energy building in my chest.

I pull out my burner, thumb hovering over the keypad.

The number’s always blocked, always hidden.

That’s how we do business. I punch in Joe’s digits from memory; the signal scratching out across county lines.

It rings twice—then that voice I haven’t heard since the days I ran shine for my father cuts through, rough as gravel and heavy with warning.

“Joe,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “It’s me.”

A pause. Then a rusty chuckle. “Well, hell. I thought I was hearing ghosts. I've never known you to call from a blocked number unless there’s trouble brewing, Luke. And if rumors are correct, there sure as hell is. I figured I might hear from you eventually.”

"What’s got the Hollow buzzing?"

Joe grunts. “McKinleys are sniffing around. Your kin are asking too many questions. Only this ain’t about shine, boy. It’s about a baby.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe. My knuckles go white around the phone, every muscle locked tight.

“You sure?” My voice comes out lower than I mean. Dangerous.

“Dead sure. Your sister’s got the entire pack jumpy."

"Kate's pregnant?"

The old man cackles. "Not that I've heard, but I suspect it ain't for lack of effort on the sheriff's part. But the word is, the baby’s got your blood.”

My blood. Elena.

He doesn’t have to say her name. I hear it in every beat of silence between us.

“Thanks, Joe,” I say.

He just grunts. “Don’t thank me yet. Trouble’s coming, McKinley.

You'd better run toward it this time. People in these parts are fond of Elena and they figure that baby's got to be yours so those who are gunning for you might see her as leverage and those that don't, will damn you to hell for knocking her up and walking out on her.”

The line goes dead, but his warning clings to me like the mountain’s damp—cold, hungry, impossible to shake.

I tighten my grip on the phone, restless energy sparking under my skin.

The old ache starts up behind my ribs, sharp and hot as ever.

I’ve been gone for a while, and the past still knows how to gut me clean.

I’ve spent years killing ghosts—hunting the Sable Rock syndicate, dodging ambushes, outfoxing mercs who never miss twice.

Their last message was a body dumped in the Monongahela River, its belly ripped open, eyes gone.

That was their way of saying they knew I had something to lose again.

I’d convinced myself that leaving Elena behind was some kind of mercy.

Now all my self-righteous excuses are circling back, fangs bared.

She’s carrying my baby. My mind snags on the words, rough and raw, carving their way through every defense I built.

The ache in my chest goes electric. Fear, need, guilt—fused so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

I close my eyes, her face painting itself behind my lids: wild hair, stubborn chin, eyes sharp enough to cut bone.

There’s no choice left. If the pack’s circling her, if my family’s putting her at risk… I’m done running.

I crank the truck and drive north, the old roads winding under my wheels like a blood trail I can’t ignore.

Wild Hollow is exactly how I left it—steeped in shadows and half-familiar ghosts. The mountain air tastes like memory, sharp and cold, laced with the tang of old moonshine stills and wood smoke. The last hint of night clings to the branches, thick as a curse.

I kill the headlights as I roll past the old county line.

Not a soul in sight. But I know better. The McKinleys don’t live in town —they rule the wooded outskirts, their territory marked by old fences and half-buried secrets.

Out here, it’s McKinley country—no one moves in these hills without someone from my birth pack, and specifically Waylon, knowing.

I park beneath a knot of old maples and step out, the chill biting through my jacket.

The forest is alive with small sounds: a possum snuffling through leaves, a distant owl, the wind threading secrets through the pines.

I crouch low, moving silently and carefully.

I know every break in this fence, every hollow where a wolf could hide.

My blood remembers even when my mind wants to forget.

A single misstep and it’s over. My father used to say the mountain sees everything. Tonight, I hope the ole girl is still on my side.

I keep my head down and let the trees swallow me.

My boots leave no sound, each stride calculated, heart drumming wild in my ears.

I follow the scent of rain-soaked earth, of moss and damp bark—until the air thickens, charged with something unseen.

Something sharp, animal, electric. Not just mountain air.

Wolves, specifically wolf-shifters. Close.

I freeze, every muscle pulled tight. Pack sentries—my own cousins, probably, making their late-night rounds.

If they catch my scent as a human, word will spread through the Hollow before dawn that I’m back.

But the scent of one of their own, a wolf-shifter, will not raise an alarm.

I crouch behind a downed log; the moonlight splintered through twisted branches.

My skin prickles, the wolf under my skin snarling to be free.

I glance around, making sure I’m alone, and strip down, stashing my clothes in a hollow beneath the roots of an old maple.

Shifting destroys anything you’re wearing—a hard lesson learned young.

Once I’m down to bare skin, I flex my fingers—one last tether to the man—and let go, surrendering to the pull in my blood.

Mist swells up from the ground, thick and charged, swirling around me in a living current.

It crawls up my legs, seeping into my bones, until the entire world contracts to the thud of my heartbeat and the wild urge straining under my skin.

The air snaps with color—shards of blue and gold, jagged and bright, flickering through the fog.

I don’t fight it. I open to it, every muscle loosening as the animal takes over.

There’s no pain—only a jolt, like lightning breaking through a storm.

Flesh and bone go weightless. For one suspended breath, I am nothing but hunger and instinct, senses flaring open.

Every sound is sharper. Every scent floods in: earth, leaf mold, the musk of distant deer, the sharper tang of my bloodline nearby.

As the mist thickens, my body changes—a surge of sensation under the skin, heat spilling down my spine.

In the space of a breath, shape blurs. My hands are gone, with paws in their place.

My jaw lengthens, lungs expand, the world expanding with me.

It’s over almost before it starts, the shift near-instantaneous as the mist wraps and then releases.

When it fades, I am wolf—huge, dark, every nerve alive and burning with life.

The world explodes into vivid detail: the tick of beetle legs in the moss, the wingbeat of an owl overhead, the distant thunder of hooves far off in the hollow.

But it’s the scent I care about—two wolves, close, upwind. I crouch lower, pressing myself into the damp moss. My heart pounds so loud I swear the ground vibrates with it.

But underneath the familiar scent of moss and pine, something else slithers through the air—gun oil, sweat, fear.

Not from my cousins. Uninvited outsiders don’t belong on these mountains.

The wolves pass, oblivious. I catch a snatch of their low voices, one laughing about the moonshine run, the other grumbling about the cold.

My cousin Jerry and some kid I don’t know.

They’re hunting for trouble and have no idea it’s about to find them.

I let the wolf in me bleed into the shadows, masking my scent, becoming nothing but mist and forest. I wait until their voices fade, then ease out of the hollow, keeping low.

Shifting back comes with a rush—skin, bone, breath, all tumbling into place.

I stagger upright behind the old fence, naked, adrenaline pulsing through every fiber of my being.

For a moment, I stand in the cold, sucking in sharp air, every nerve raw and exposed.

Then I kneel, digging out my clothes from under the roots and pulling them on.

The familiar fabric grounds me; the act of getting dressed is one of the only things that reminds me I’m still human enough to need it.

For a moment, I just breathe. The air is sharp and alive. I feel more animal than man.

It isn’t the Hollow alone that strips away every pretense—it’s Elena.

No one has ever made me feel so raw, so exposed, so hungry to be seen for what I am, good and bad.

She gets under my skin the way the Hollow does, only deeper, leaving me bare and wanting in ways I can’t hide from, no matter how hard I try.

I press forward, hugging the tree line. My mind spins: Elena.

The woman I claimed, the one who carries my mark at her throat, my wolf in her blood now—because of me.

My baby. My family. My sister Kate, always trying to fix what’s broken.

Waylon, grinning like the devil at a poker table, stirring up pack politics.

And in the middle of it all—Elena. Pregnant.

Changed. Alone. The knowledge is a blade, twisting deeper every time I breathe.

I reach the edge of town just as the sky shifts from bruised purple to gray. A thin veil of mist hugs the ground, streaked with gold, catching the first hint of sunrise. I lean into the familiar scent of earth and rain, memory and longing thick in my blood.

A memory claws its way forward: Elena’s voice—sweet and sharp—laughing as she tossed her keys onto the bookshop counter.

The way she melted beneath my hands, the heat of her mouth against my neck.

She was still asleep when I left—hair tangled, lips parted, her skin marked by me.

When she woke, all that remained was a note, my scent on the sheets, and the empty space I’d left behind.

I left her behind because I thought it was the only way to keep her safe. I told myself it was out of love, that staying would only drag her deeper into danger. But I’ve been running from the truth, and now it’s catching up fast.

I move along the alley behind Main, blending with the shadows. It feels like every light in town is pointed straight at my soul. A dog barks, sharp and sudden. I freeze. The sound fades, replaced by the low rumble of tires over cracked pavement.

I pull my hood up, bury my hands in my pockets, and keep moving. I’m not ready to face her. Not yet. I need answers. I need to know who’s circling, who’s talking. I need to know what my family wants with my child—and how far they’ll go to get it.

I wait behind the bakery. A flicker of movement catches my eye—a shape slipping through the back door of the mercantile, boots silent, face hidden under a battered cap. My sister, Kate. Always in the middle of it all.

I move to intercept, silent as a rumor.

“Luke,” she hisses, spinning on her heel as I step out of the shadows. She smells like fresh rain and trouble, hair wild, green eyes sharp as broken glass.

“Miss me, Red?” I keep my voice low, almost smiling.

She shoves me—hard. “You bastard. You’ve got some nerve, showing up now. After what you did—after what you left.”

I take the hit, let it burn. “You heard?”

“Everyone’s heard. You should’ve stayed gone, but you don’t know how to leave anything alone, do you?”

“I couldn’t. Not this time.”

Kate glares at me. “You want to talk about it? Or just make my life harder?”

“Both,” I say, straightening. “The pack’s watching for Elena. Why?”

She crosses her arms, eyes tight with worry. “Waylon’s stirring things up. Says that baby is the heir and belongs to the pack. He says Elena’s unfit—because she’s not one of us.”

I feel a snarl rising. “She’s more wolf than half the men in that compound.”

“You going to do something about it this time, Luke?” Her voice is a challenge, hard and sharp.

I step closer, lowering my voice. “I’m here to end this. No more hiding. No more running.”

Kate’s eyes search mine, softer now. “She’s not the same girl you left, Luke. She’s fierce. She’s hurting. And she isn’t going to forgive easily. Not anymore. Neither is anyone else.”

“She's not the only one who won't forgive..."

"You have nothing to forgive. You're the one who needs forgiveness, and I'm not sure you're going to find it this time."

"I did what I had to do..."

"So you tell yourself. You did what was easy, what was expedient. You're a selfish bastard, and I hope she kicks your balls up around your teeth.”

The pack had no named alpha, but Waylon tried to rule by blood and threats. I used to think I was different. But the wolf in me doesn’t ask—it takes. And if I’m going to lead, I need to remember I can’t force loyalty the way he did.

"Tell me how you really feel," I say, trying to keep it lighthearted, but feeling every blow my little sister inflicted.

She isn't wrong. The sting of her words settles in my gut—heavy, inescapable. But I can’t help questioning how right she is. I thought walking away would protect her. All I did was leave her wide open to bleed. Still, doubt or not, I’m not here to ask for forgiveness. I’m here to claim what’s mine.

A sudden crash shatters the quiet—glass breaking, voices rising in the distance.

Kate tenses. “That’s the bookstore."

She turns to run toward danger, not the other way. I stop her. "Go. Call Hudson. I’ll take care of Elena.”

Kate hesitates, then nods. "Don't fuck this up."

I grin—how typically my sister. I turn to run to the bookstore. I don’t waste any time. I’m already moving, the world narrowing to a single thought—Elena.

She’s here. She’s in danger. And this time, I’m not leaving her behind.