Page 21 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

ELENA

N ight has fully settled over the Rawlings compound, the glass walls reflecting the moonlight as I finally make my way toward the dining hall.

My chest feels like a coiled spring, every nerve pulled taut after the news.

Luke could be bleeding out under the moon right now—and I’m here, trying to smile through garland.

I half expect the place to be silent, the world hushed in anticipation, but as I step through the wide doors, I’m met by a sea of golden light and color.

Garlands ripple overhead, blue and green bows strung along the rafters, and the room is full of smiling faces.

I pause in the shadowed threshold, blinking at the sudden brightness.

For a moment, I think I’ve walked into someone else’s celebration—someone whose life is softer, easier, untouched by blood or threat.

My heart stutters, torn between gratitude and disbelief.

Then Kate catches my eye from across the room—her grin wild, wicked, and proud as she waves me in, making me feel for one heartbeat like I belong to all of them, and not only to the aftermath of last night.

“Elena!” she calls. “Get in here before the gifts get cold.”

Someone laughs—one of the Rawlings women—Nellie, always too loud, but so warm and welcoming.

People start clapping, warm voices rising all around me in an outpouring of welcome.

There’s nothing awkward about it—just pure, unfiltered small-town joy that sweeps me up and makes me feel like I truly belong, if only for this night.

My throat tightens. For a moment, I expect to feel overwhelmed, but instead, I feel a bubble of warmth press against my chest. I hesitate, but gratitude wins out.

Surprise prickles down my spine, but what I feel most is a powerful sense of belonging—a welcome I never realized I needed.

I step forward into the glow and let the joy of it all sweep me up, holding my head high, grateful for the open arms waiting for me.

The tables are crowded with women from the Rawlings pack and a few friendly faces from town.

Even Mrs. Wallace is here, sitting prim as ever with a mug of coffee and a neat little notepad open beside her.

Knowing her, she’s probably jotting down a list of titles for me to special order—something she does whenever she thinks I’m not looking.

There’s enough food to feed the entire Hollow—platters of cold roast beef, sliced turkey, and ham, towers of small sandwiches on fresh rolls, bowls of crisp apples and pears from local orchards, and trays of homemade cookies and golden pastries that gleam under the lights.

Pitchers of fruit punch and sweet tea sparkle on the buffet tables, the cut glass catching the lamplight as women gather to fill glasses and laugh over stories.

The scent of fresh-baked goods and ripe fruit mingles in the air, grounding me in a kind of home I never had growing up.

A handful of the younger children dart between tables, weaving under tablecloths, giggling as they sneak extra cookies or duck away from the grownups trying to wrangle them into party games.

Their laughter is bright, bubbling up and spilling through the room, and I find myself smiling at the joyful chaos.

For a moment, it feels like the world outside these walls—the fights, the threats, the impossible decisions—is miles away.

Kate meets me halfway, arms wide, and pulls me into a tight hug. “Did we surprise you?” she whispers, her breath warm in my ear.

“Yes; I can’t believe you did all this,” I manage, blinking back the sting of happy tears.

If I’d let myself picture this at all, I might have imagined a handful of friends, maybe a small, quiet gathering, not this full-blown, golden-lit celebration after dark.

But as I stand there, letting the laughter and chatter wash over me, something inside me loosens.

I scan the tables—old friends from the shop, women I’ve only nodded to at town events, faces from both the Rawlings pack and the fringes of Wild Hollow.

They’re all here, their eyes bright, voices mingling, and I realize for the first time how badly I wanted to feel this kind of acceptance.

My chest feels lighter, the ache of old loneliness slowly melting away, as if—for the first time in ages—things might finally be tilting toward hope.

Maybe even after everything, there’s room for better times ahead.

She grins. “You deserve it. Now go make the rounds before someone makes me play nice with the name committee again.”

There’s a round of hugs, a chorus of congratulations. Someone hands me a sparkling water, and I let myself laugh, the tension sliding off my shoulders. For a while, I let myself be swept up in it: the smiles, the stories, the way even the older women fuss over me as though I’ve always belonged.

A few times I catch someone staring—pack loyalty runs deep, and I’m still the outsider who was turned without consent, now carrying the baby of the McKinley pack’s alpha.

That alone makes me the subject of endless whispers and silent judgments, a living question mark at the heart of two rival families.

But today, most people keep their questions to themselves, their curiosity hidden behind polite smiles and warm congratulations.

Kate gives a little speech, eyes bright. “Elena’s not just my best friend—she’s family. And I don’t care who says otherwise.” There’s a round of whoops, a burst of clapping, and for a minute, I really do feel like I’m home.

The gifts are piled high—tiny onesies, handmade blankets, books, soft plush animals. I open each one slowly, trying not to let the emotion show, but Kate elbows me with a smirk. “Don’t you dare cry. We’ll never hear the end of it from the old guard.”

Nellie snorts. “She’s allowed. She’s the one who has to deal with Luke.”

A ripple of laughter. I want to join in, but all at once I ache for my mother, for the woman who should be here.

A baby shower. For my baby. I never imagined I’d ever attend one—they really aren’t my thing—let alone be the guest of honor.

I trace the edge of a quilt, blinking hard.

My hand settles over my stomach, feeling the slow, reassuring flutter of the baby within.

For a moment, the sound of the room fades, and all I can think about is how desperately I want to give this child a better start than I had—how terrified I am of failing.

A hand lands on my shoulder. Kate leans close. “You’re doing better than you think.”

I swallow, forcing a smile. “Thanks. For this. For everything.”

When the last of the gifts is opened and the leftover cake is packed away, people start to drift out.

Someone tries to rope me into one more party game—guess the baby food flavor—but I duck out with an excuse and a half-hearted laugh.

I snag Kate’s hand, squeezing it, and whisper, “I’ll be upstairs. If you need me.”

“Rest and take it easy. I’ll keep the wolves at bay.”

The halls above the dining room are quiet, moonlight filtering through the old glass, throwing dappled light across the wood floors.

My room—Kate’s old guest room is still barely touched by my presence, a small pile of my clothes stacked in the corner and the handful of baby things I’ve unpacked—feels strangely still when I slip inside.

I’ve only been here a few days—long enough for some of the old wariness to soften at the edges, but not nearly enough to call these walls home.

I close the door quietly behind me, the click of the latch unnaturally loud, and just stand there with my back pressed to the wood.

The sounds of the party below drift up through the floorboards—echoes of laughter and the gentle clink of glasses, distant now, but lingering.

My chest aches with a strange mix of gratitude and loss, both sharper tonight than I expect.

I wrap my arms around myself, still caught somewhere between belonging and not, the tension humming through every muscle.

The room smells of baby powder and wood polish—clean and unfamiliar.

From the balcony, the wind rustles the leaves, carrying the faintest scent of grass and the distant hush of night birds.

I stand that way for several minutes, hugging myself, letting the silence and all the emotions of the evening settle in.

When I finally push away from the door, I feel lighter and heavier all at once—aware that this room, tonight, holds both every piece of my uncertain future and every ghost of my past.

I walk to the dresser and pick up a tiny hat someone knitted—blue yarn, soft as a dream.

My hand trembles. I set it down, turn to the window, and stare out over the woods.

My chest is tight with longing. I want to call my mother.

Ask her how to survive this—how to raise a child in a world that feels like it might eat us alive.

A familiar ache starts deep in my belly, sharper now. The baby turns, restless, as if it can sense my turmoil. “It’s okay,” I whisper, pressing my hand to my stomach. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

A soft knock at the balcony doors pulls me from my thoughts. My heart jumps. For a second, I think I’ve imagined it. But then it comes again, insistent. I cross the room and peel back the curtain.

Luke stands outside, backlit by moonlight, hands braced on the railing.

He looks wild and wrecked, the raw hunger in his eyes making my whole body go still.

For a moment, I can’t move. I want to run; I want to throw myself into his arms; I want to lock the door and tell him to go.

Instead, I open the door and step back, pulse stuttering.