Page 26 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

LUKE

W aylon’s return changes everything. The moment Hudson says his name, I know the fragile calm we've built is about to be torn apart. The Hollow has been waiting for a reckoning, and now it has a name, a face, and a fight behind it. We don’t have the luxury of pretending things can stay the same.

Not with Waylon stirring up old blood and Sable Rock moving in the shadows and pulling strings.

After the chaos of the night before, with the scent of Elena still fresh in the back of my mind and the adrenaline of seeing her stand strong echoing through my blood, I know what I have to do.

The Hollow will not fix itself. Not with Waylon circling and old loyalties splitting the mountain in half.

After Hudson drops the news about Waylon, the table scatters fast. Kate’s already checking on their patrols, and Hudson’s barking orders as he strides from the room toward his office. Elena gives me one look—steady, strong, defiant—and I know I have to move.

We’re still at the Rawlings compound, the scent of coffee and maple lingering in the air from breakfast with Hudson and the rest of the pack.

The early morning light slants through the windows, catching on stone and steel, quiet after all that happened last night.

I push back from the table, the last of my bacon cold on the plate, and stand.

I don’t wait for the sun to climb higher or for another warning to come knocking.

I turn, following Hudson to his office before the day can shift beneath our feet.

It’s time to do what I should’ve done years ago—take back the pack and everything that comes with it.

I’ve taken the first step by defeating Waylon's blood challenge.

Hudson doesn’t say a word as I step into his office and close the door behind me. He doesn’t have to—he just turns, arms crossed over his chest and waits.

"I’m done running," I say, voice low but steady. "Waylon thinks he can still claim leadership. He thinks he can twist the McKinleys into something darker, something that serves him and whatever deal he’s made with Sable Rock. But he’s wrong. As of today, I am Alpha of the McKinley pack."

Hudson raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt. I step closer.

"I won’t rule the way my father did. I won’t let fear and blood ties bind us to old sins. This mountain deserves better, and the Hollow won’t survive another war between packs. I’ll bring the McKinleys under control. I’ll give them a new way of being—one rooted in loyalty, not fear."

Hudson exhales slowly and nods. "About damn time."

I crack a grin. "Took you long enough to say it."

"I’m just wondering if you’re ready for the fallout. You’re going to make enemies, Luke. Some of them share your blood."

"I know. But I’m not alone."

He studies me a beat longer, then reaches for the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a black leather-wrapped dagger—an old Rawlings ritual blade.

"This isn’t just a weapon. It’s a symbol of authority, legacy.

A Rawlings blade handed to a McKinley says more than words ever could.

It tells your pack—and mine—that your claim isn’t just about strength.

It’s sanctioned. Recognized. Bound in blood and trust."

I take the blade and leave before doubt can sink its teeth into either of us.

By late morning, the McKinley compound is crawling with wolves. Human and furred, all of them tense, restless. Word spreads fast, and they’re already gathering. I spot uncles, cousins, aunts—some whose faces I haven’t seen in years—and some who look at me like I’m already dead.

Elena stands beside me, wearing jeans, boots, and a rust-colored sweater that clings in all the right places. Her scarf is gone, the mark I left on her throat bare and defiant. Her hair is wind-tangled and wild; her eyes sharp as ever.

She leans in and murmurs, "They're going to expect a show. Give them one."

"I plan to," I say, brushing my fingers over the small of her back. She shivers but doesn’t pull away.

When the crowd quiets, I step forward, blade in hand, Elena at my side.

"McKinleys," I begin, voice loud enough to carry over the murmurs. "For too long, we’ve lived under the shadow of men who ruled through fear and pride. Waylon wants to drag us back there. But I won’t let him. Not anymore. I am Alpha now. And under my leadership, things will change."

A ripple runs through the pack—shock, challenge, uncertainty.

"If you want blood feuds and backroom deals, follow Waylon. But if you want to rebuild this family with honor, with purpose, then follow me."

My voice drops, but the authority in it never wavers. "And understand this: I claim Elena as my mate. She is mine—not as property, not as a trophy, but as my mate. She carries my child. Our future. Any threat to her is a threat to me, and I will respond accordingly."

Elena steps forward, her voice clear. "I didn’t ask to be turned. But I don’t regret it. I am not weak. I am not afraid. And I will fight for this child—for this pack—for my mate, right alongside him."

The growls of dissent are few, but loud. I lift the blade.

"Anyone who supports Waylon, or who cannot accept me as Alpha, has until sundown to leave. If you stay, you stay loyal. If you leave, do not come back."

A heavy silence follows. Then, a few men turn and walk away, muttering. But most hold their ground. Watching. Waiting.

I turn to Elena, brushing my thumb along her jaw. She leans into my touch, her eyes fierce.

"You just burned every bridge you ever crossed," she whispers, not with judgment, but with something closer to awe. "There’s no going back now."

"Then I guess there’s only one way left to go," I murmur. "Forward. With you."

Behind us, the pack murmurs, the air thick with restless energy. Decisions are being made. Allegiances redrawn. But I don’t look back.

Not yet.

Because I know Waylon is out there, watching from the shadows.

And I want him to understand without question exactly what he’s up against.

We don’t waste time. Hudson and I spend the next hour bent over old county maps spread across his war table, tracing the moonshiner trails that run like spiderwebs through the hills above the McKinley homestead.

I know these tunnels by heart—my blood built them. But Hudson brings more than muscle and strategy. He has contacts, resources, communications tech, and tactical insight that no wolf in the Hollow can match. And I know how Waylon thinks. Together, we come up with a plan.

"They’ll come for the clearing by Widow’s Bluff," Hudson says, tapping the map. "They’ll think it’s defensible, but the back side’s nothing but deadfall and shale. We can trap them between the west ridge and the old tunnel exit."

I nod, dragging my finger along the edge of the map.

"And when they try to flank, we spring the trap from both sides. We use the tunnels to break their formation, wedge a line right through their center. We peel the Sable Rock mercs away from Waylon’s wolves, force them into unfamiliar ground where their tech won’t help them, and their firepower can’t follow.

Once they’re split, they’re vulnerable—easier to isolate, easier to break. "

"Divide and destroy," Hudson mutters, then looks up at me. "We’re going to have casualties. You ready for that?"

"I’m ready for it to end."

When night falls, the mountain comes alive—dark and electric, humming with the kind of promise only blood and vengeance can conjure.

Mist laces the trees like a second breath, curling low and thick as the moon fights to break through the clouds.

Every branch, every root, every old trail holds memory and meaning.

We don’t creep. We move with purpose—fluid, instinctive, a coordinated hush of limbs and breath slicing through the trees.

Shadows cling to us like second skins. The pack doesn’t need commands; they respond to the tension in the air, the shared rhythm of breath and footfall, the unspoken promise that tonight will demand everything.

We move like wolves who know our history and finally have the chance to rewrite it.

Even the air seems charged, weighted with something more than mist and anticipation. It presses against our skin with the quiet insistence of an unseen witness, ancient and alert. The mountain itself feels aware—not passive, but poised, like it’s waiting to see who will be left standing come dawn.

We flank the clearing from three sides, some of us weaving through the narrow tunnels, others circling up the slopes to cut off the high ground.

It isn’t smooth. Loose stone gives way underfoot.

One of our runners twists an ankle, muffling a yelp as two others help him hobble away.

One of Hudson’s men loses comms for a few crucial minutes—enough time for one of Waylon’s scouts to get too close.

We take him out, but not before he radios a garbled warning.

That’s our first slip.

The second comes with the wind. It shifts. Carries our scent straight to the ridge. We know it the second we hear the sudden bark of orders echoing through the trees, the scratchy panic of humans on radios, and the clatter of weapons being prepped. Surprise is gone.

But not the plan.

The trap still holds.

The first shots crack through the trees, sharp and sudden, echoing off the ridge like a warning bell that’s come too late.

Muzzle flashes spark in the dark, brief and brutal flares that light the bluff in jagged bursts.

The humans open fire—panicked, uncoordinated, already reacting instead of leading. And that’s all the opening we need.

We descend like a storm without warning, silent until we’re not. From the tunnels beneath their boots and the canopy above their heads, we strike with precision and fury.

We lose two in the first rush. One to a tripwire grenade, another clipped by a sniper tucked in a tree stand we hadn’t scouted. Blood hits the air, sharp and metallic, turning the mist crimson in places. It’s chaos—but controlled.

I launch forward, the mist rising around me in a whirlwind of color and thunder as fur overtakes skin. The shift rolls through me like fire—fast, final. My wolf explodes out, raw power and rage in motion.

I hit the ground running, muscles bunching, jaws wide. The first target doesn’t even have time to scream. I tear through Kevlar and bone like they're nothing. We don’t just attack. We dismantle.

Gunfire. Screams. Growls. Flashbangs go off too close, blinding bursts that send a few of ours staggering. Hudson is bellowing orders through the chaos, rallying them. Flanking teams drive hard from the west while the tunnel teams emerge like ghosts, tearing into the center line.

One merc tries to detonate a thermal charge—too slow. My cousin Alaric tackles him, teeth bared. They roll through the dirt until one of the Rawlings tears the man’s throat out.

I catch sight of Hudson holding the line, fangs bared, blood streaking his flank. A Sable Rock shooter lines him up from behind a broken stump. I move fast and low, slamming into the human and sending his weapon skittering down the slope. My jaws snap once, twice—until he doesn’t move again.

And that’s when Waylon steps into my path.

He doesn’t hesitate. Neither do I.

Waylon shifts mid-stride, the mist coiling around him like a beast summoned by rage.

His bones crack, limbs warp, fur bursts through skin as thunder echoes low through the trees.

He comes out massive—thicker, heavier, power in every line of his hulking form.

He lets out a snarl that shakes pine needles from the trees.

I don’t bother matching him for size. I’ll never win that way. He fights like a battering ram. I fight like a blade.

We collide in a thunderclap of fur and teeth. The force of it sends us both tumbling down the slope, a mess of snapping jaws, ripping claws, and grunts muffled by blood. He clamps down on my flank, and fire lances through my side. I twist, driving my hind legs into his belly, kicking free.

I’m up first, lunging, but he’s faster than I remember—he meets me midair, jaws locked with mine, muscles surging. We roll again. He slams me against a tree, and the crack of bark and bone rattles my skull.

He comes for my throat. I drop and spin beneath him, claws raking his underbelly, then leap, teeth sinking into his shoulder. His roar is deafening.

We break apart, panting, blood matting our fur.

Above us, the fight still rages. I catch flashes—wolves dragging mercs into the underbrush, snarls and shouts echoing across the slope. Smoke from a detonated grenade stings my eyes. Somewhere, someone screams, and then silence swallows it whole.

Waylon growls, circling me. One eye is nearly swollen shut, blood dripping from his muzzle. He lifts his head in defiance as though he believes he will win. He won’t. I made the mistake of letting him go once; I won’t make it again. This ends here and now. I lunge again.

This time I feint left, then pivot under his strike, using his bulk against him. My teeth lock on the tender line of his neck, just below the jaw, and I drive forward. He bucks hard, raking claws down my side, but I don’t let go.

I hold.

For Hudson. For Kate. For Elena. For our child.

With a guttural snarl, I rip sideways. Sinew tears. Blood sprays.

Waylon stumbles, gurgles, then falls hard to his side.

I don’t wait.

I go for the throat.

One final bite. Deep. Permanent.

His body jerks once—twice—and then goes still.

I stand over him, chest heaving, blood dripping from my muzzle, ears ringing from the silence that follows.

Around us, the fighting slows. The mercenaries have seen what happened. Some flee into the dark; others drop their weapons, raising their hands. Wolves herd them together, snarling low. The air hangs heavy with the stink of smoke, blood, and fear.

Hudson limps toward me, battered and bloodied but upright. He gives a sharp nod, then turns to the rest of the pack.

"It’s done," he says.

But it’s not peace.

Not yet.

I lift my head and howl—long, low, full of everything we’ve lost and everything we’ve reclaimed. A call to the Hollow. To the mountain. To whatever ancient thing still watches from the trees.

Waylon is dead.

The Hollow belongs to its people again.

And this time, it will not be taken easily.