Page 24 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

ELENA

T he morning light filters through the blinds, painting soft gold streaks across Luke’s bare chest. His arm lies heavy across my waist, anchoring me to the warm cocoon of blankets, scent and skin.

For one long, aching moment, I let myself pretend it’s just another morning.

A quiet, sun-drenched morning where nothing has fractured, nothing has been lost. Where he never left, and I never had to learn how to live without him.

The air between us hums with fragile peace, warm and still, like the world has decided to hold its breath.

I press my cheek into the pillow, my body curled close to his, and tell myself the lie I wish were true: that this is normal.

That we’re okay. That we aren’t teetering on the precipice of something that could splinter us all over again.

I don’t know how long this quiet will last. Peace always feels borrowed in the Hollow—like it’s something we hold with trembling hands, hoping it won’t shatter before sunrise.

The sheets are steeped in him; a scent that’s always, undeniably Luke.

It doesn’t just linger. It clings, wrapping around me like memory made flesh.

Late-night promises and firelight kisses no longer belong to some almost-life—we’re living them now, tangled in heat and ache and everything we were too afraid to claim.

The space between us hums with something unfinished, something still unfolding.

It’s overwhelming. It’s grounding. It’s home, even if I can’t bring myself to say it aloud. Not yet. Maybe never.

A part of me wants to stay exactly where we are, suspended in this fragile, honey-hued stillness where nothing outside the walls of this room can touch us.

No history. No threats. No pack politics.

Just the two of us, like maybe the world has been rewound to some other version of reality where we never lost each other.

Then he stirs beside me, muscles flexing, an indistinct sound in his throat like the kind of growl that used to make my knees weak. Still does, apparently. He buries his face in the curve of my neck and breathes deep. A possessive inhale, like he’s trying to memorize my scent all over again.

"You keep breathing on me like that, and I might start charging you rent," I murmur.

His chuckle is slow and sleepy, vibrating against my skin. “I could think of worse arrangements.”

I roll towards him carefully, wincing as I catch sight of the bruises blooming along his ribs, the angry cut near his collarbone.

The memory of him in the doorway from the balcony comes back with a jolt—the blood, the stubborn tilt of his jaw, the way he still looked at me like I was his and he was mine.

Even when everything inside me screamed not to believe it.

I touch the bruises with gentle fingers. "You look like you went ten rounds with a mountain lion."

"Nope. Just my Uncle Waylon—McKinleys' temper and fists like sledgehammers," he says, voice rough with sleep. He cracks one eye open and grins. "Not necessarily a fair fight, but I held my own... and more than that, I won."

I snort, pushing the blankets back, sliding out of bed and pulling on his shirt from last night. “Well, champ, don’t move. I’m going to grab the first-aid kit before you sustain further injuries.”

He watches me go, eyes on my bare legs as I cross to the small bathroom tucked off the side of the bedroom. I can feel the heat of his gaze and try not to let it get to me. But it does. Of course it does.

Inside the cabinet, I find the battered white box with its half-peeled red cross sticker.

The sight of it reminds me of patching up skinned knees and split lips when my mother was still alive.

I carry it back with a heaviness in my chest I don’t quite understand. A tenderness that catches me off guard.

When I return, he’s sitting up, the blanket pooled low around his hips, and I have to take a moment—just one—to appreciate the way the morning sun halos his shoulders, turning every scar and shadow into something mythic. Something feral and beautiful and mine.

And all the more terrifying because the more I let myself want this—want him—the more it will cost me if he walks away again.

I’ve survived losing him once. Barely. But if I let myself believe in this—believe in him—and he leaves again…

I don’t know if there’ll be anything left to patch together after that.

"You gonna stare at me all day, or are you going to patch me up?" he teases.

I narrow my eyes. "Don’t tempt me to poke the bruises just to wipe that grin off your face."

But my voice is soft, and he hears what I’m not saying.

Knows I’m not angry anymore—not in the way I was when he first came back.

The sharp, bitter edge of fury had melted away the night before, replaced by something quieter, more dangerous.

I saw him in the doorway—bloody, bruised, victorious and still choosing me first. Saw the truth in his eyes, unwavering and raw.

And in that breathless moment, something inside me gave way.

Not forgiveness exactly, not yet, but the loosening of a knot I’d carried too long.

A quiet, reluctant surrender. The kind that doesn’t need words to be real.

I sit beside him, tugging the kit open and wetting a cloth with antiseptic. He doesn’t flinch as I press it to the cut on his shoulder, but his breath hitches just a little when my fingers skim his skin.

“You don’t have to take care of me,” he says quietly.

“Yes, I do,” I reply, just as quietly. “You’re mine, remember? Claimed me and everything.”

The words feel too big for my mouth—and too true to take back. I don’t know when I started thinking of him that way again, but it’s there now, buried deep. The claim might’ve been physical, but this... this is choice.

His breath catches. He watches me for a long moment, and it’s not lust in his eyes now. It’s something deeper. Something scared.

“Do you believe that now? That you’re mine?”

I pause, fingers stilling against his chest. Then I meet his gaze. “I want to believe it. I want to believe you.”

His hand finds mine, warm and rough. “Elena… I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if I have to.”

“You might have to,” I whisper. “But you’re off to a decent start.”

He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. I let him. More than that—I melt into it. There’s no heat in the kiss, not this time. It’s soft, reverent. A promise.

I finish cleaning his wounds, bandaging the worst of them. When I’m done, he catches my wrist.

“Thank you.”

I shake my head. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t give me another reason to break out the gauze.”

He nods, but doesn’t let go. He’s quiet for a long beat, eyes tracking mine like he’s weighing what to say next. Then, almost cautiously, he says, “We should talk about the baby.”

I go still. My heart thuds once, loud and sharp in my ears.

“What about the baby?”

“About us,” he says. “About how I want to be there. Really be there. Not just in the shadows, not just when it’s convenient. I want to be a father. And I want to be with you. About all the things I should already have done.”

I stare at him, my throat thick. For a moment, I can’t speak.

He barrels on. “I know I left. I know I hurt you. But I won’t do it again. You and this baby—you’re my future, Elena.”

“I want that,” I blurt. “I do. For me. And for the baby. I want you.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for months.

I press a hand to my belly; the baby fluttering inside me like it knows it’s being talked about. “You’re going to be a good father. I can see it already.”

“And you,” he says, voice full of wonder, “You’re already the fiercest mother I’ve ever known. And that’s saying a lot. My mother gave new meaning to the word fierce. You're cut from the same cloth as she and Kate.”

We sit like that for a while, wrapped in morning light and shared breath, our future stretching out in front of us like the spine of a well-read novel—worn, familiar, and full of promise.

“What kind of life do you want?” I ask eventually, my voice barely above a whisper.

Luke glances out the window, where pale sunlight filters through frost-tipped leaves, their edges catching just enough gold to hint at the coming change.

"A quiet life," he says softly, "an honest one. I want mornings like this—with you beside me. “I want to build something real—with dirt under my nails and your voice in the next room. I want to be the man our kid looks up to, not the one who disappears when things get hard. I want to rebuild what’s been broken—the McKinley name, the damage Waylon left behind, the rift with the Rawlings. And maybe, in time, even your heart. I want to watch things mend, watch them thrive. I want to see you in your bookstore, fierce and radiant, fighting for every story like it matters. I want that life with you, Elena. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. "

It shouldn't make me tear up. But it does.

I lean into him, resting my forehead against his. "You might get that if you don’t screw it up."

He smiles faintly. "No pressure, huh?"

"Not a bit," I murmur, and then we just sit there for a while, not speaking, the quiet thick with things we don’t need to say.

Eventually, my stomach betrays me with a loud, indignant growl, breaking the hush that’s settled over us.

Luke startles, then laughs—a deep, rich sound that wraps around my ribs and loosens something tight inside me.

I can’t help but join him, my own laughter bubbling up, soft and surprised.

It vibrates in my chest like the echo of something long forgotten—joy, maybe.

Or hope. For a few seconds, the room feels lighter. So do I.

"Breakfast," I say, getting to my feet. "Come on. Kate promised bacon, and I’m not above using the baby as an excuse to steal the last piece."