Page 27 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

ELENA

S everal months have passed, but the adrenaline of that night still lingers beneath the surface, humming through the air like static.

The dust has settled, though not all the scars have faded.

The mountain has bled—but it has also endured.

Waylon is dead, the Sable Rock mercenaries scattered, and the McKinley pack has chosen a new alpha—a real one this time.

One who doesn’t lead through fear or blood, but through strength, loyalty, and the steady force of his will.

Luke.

Our home—his family’s homestead—once looked like something forgotten by time.

Cold stone, dark wood, shadows and silence.

Now, it echoes with new life. Not just from the gutted kitchen or the walls stripped to bare beams, but from the constant thrum of activity.

It starts with a few Rawlings showing up without being asked—arms full of tools, work gloves already on with Hudson and Kate in the lead.

Then the McKinleys begin to show up, hovering at the edge of the clearing with wary eyes and folded arms. But one by one, they step forward—picking up hammers, carrying boards, helping steady beams without a word spoken.

Curiosity shifts to quiet determination as they find themselves shoulder to shoulder with the Rawlings, each nail driven and wall lifted erasing a little more of the past. There are stumbles.

A snapped board here, a bitten-back snarl there.

Not everyone smiles, and not every wound heals on schedule.

But they keep showing up—and that matters.

No formal invitation. No orders. Just wolf-shifters, tired of old wounds and ready to build something stronger with their own hands.

They hammer and haul, rip out rot and replace it with fresh-cut timber.

Someone brings sandwiches; someone else brings hot coffee.

And in the middle of it all, laughter bubbles up—gritty, warm, genuine.

Rawlings and McKinleys work side by side, trading stories, good-natured jabs, and the occasional flirtation across sawhorses and scaffolding.

For the first time in centuries, the mountain isn’t divided. Old grudges have been buried beneath shared sweat and purpose, the sharp edge of distrust dulled by laughter and calloused hands working side by side. It’s healing—slowly, steadily, like new growth pushing through scorched earth.

In the early morning, before any of the others arrive, Luke steps through the half-built frame of what will be the front porch, carrying a bundle of folded laundry in one hand and a coffee mug in the other.

His hair is damp, curling at the nape of his neck, and he’s traded jeans for the low-slung sweatpants he only ever wears when we’re heading out for a run—or a shift.

“I packed clothes,” he says, holding up the bundle. “You’re not going to want to hike back through the woods barefoot and naked.”

I grin and take the mug from him, savoring the heat against my palms. “Speak for yourself. Maybe I like the breeze.”

He gives me that look—the one that always comes right before he does something deliciously bossy. “Clothes, Elena.”

I sip and shrug. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.”

The grin that tugs at his mouth makes my toes curl in my boots. “That’s not the word I’d use.”

“I’m pregnant, not fragile.” I tilt my head up at him, lifting a brow. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

His hand skims my side, thumb brushing the curve of my belly beneath my sweater. “No, I don’t. But I’m gonna enjoy every damn minute of taking care of what’s mine.”

My breath catches, and a rush of heat unfurls low, coiling deep like a spark catching dry tinder.

It isn’t just his touch—though the press of his hand against my belly is enough to make me sway—it’s the weight of his voice, the rough certainty of it.

Like every word is carved into stone, a promise etched onto my skin.

He doesn’t need to say I’m his. I feel it in the weight of his gaze, the surety of his hands, the way he holds me like a promise he means to keep.

Outside, a silver fog curls low and quiet along the ridge, cloaking the trees in a soft hush that makes the world feel suspended—untouched.

The early spring chill hangs in the air, sharp enough to raise goosebumps, but laced with the promise of thaw.

It’s the kind of morning that begs for bare feet and open skies, for muscle and breath and the wild rhythm of a run. And it’s perfect—our kind of perfect.

We strip behind what will become the barn and stash the bundle of clothes in an old cedar trunk that once belonged to my mother.

When it opens, I can still smell the faint aroma of the sachet she used to keep it fresh.

Luke is already barefoot, already watching me with that hungry gleam in his eyes that has nothing to do with the run.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low.

I nod. “Last one for a while. I want it to be with you.”

He says nothing else. Just closes the distance, his hands sliding over my hips with slow, deliberate heat that makes my breath hitch. His fingers splay possessively, pulling me into the hard line of his body as his mouth meets mine—hot, sure, and just rough enough to make my knees soften.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s a claiming, a slow-burning fire that teases at the edges of restraint and hints at everything we don’t have time to finish.

His mouth moves against mine like he knows every secret I’ve never said out loud, and for a heartbeat, I forget everything but the feel of him—strong, steady, and mine.

As we step apart, the mist curls around our ankles like an invitation, thickening with every breath until it swells up to swallow us whole.

It shimmers with threads of color and charged silence, a familiar prelude that makes my pulse slow and deepen.

Then the shift comes, smooth and seamless, the sensation like warm silk sliding over raw skin.

My muscles stretch, bones whisper into their new shape as the world reorients itself around me.

Skin gives way to fur, hands to paws, breath to instinct—and with it, the last of the tension melts away.

I welcome it. Every last heartbeat of it.

I’m not just turning into the wolf—I’m shedding the weight of what came before.

Every doubt, every fear, burns away in the breath between one shape and the next.

As the mist falls away, I stand on four paws, heart thudding, the mountain alive beneath my claws. Beside me, Luke shakes out his thick coat, dark and gleaming, and bumps his shoulder against mine. Our wolves touch noses, then take off in a blur of motion and sound.

We run.

Through dew-drenched grass and winding, narrow trails, we fly—silent shadows beneath a cathedral of pine and alder, the canopy above us cracked just enough to let the remaining stars whisper through.

Pine needles bite at our paws. The earth pulses beneath each stride, cool and damp and alive.

The rhythm of the run isn’t just motion—it’s music. Ancient. Elemental.

The wind sings in our fur, a wild, urgent harmony to the pounding of our hearts.

Every stride drives us deeper into the moment, shedding thought, shedding fear. He stays close—his flank brushing mine, always just a breath away—like the tether between us is too tight to stretch. And maybe it is.

We chase no prey but the ache of release, the wild freedom that only comes when the world drops away and all that remains is the ground beneath our paws and the beat of another soul beside our own.

The morning light holds us in its arms, fierce and gentle, until the pulse of tension fades into something quiet, something healing.

Eventually, the slope begins to ease, and the forest thins, giving way to open air and the wide stretch of sky beyond.

We crest a ridge beneath the full light of morning, the sun already high enough to cast bold streaks of gold across the valley, which stirs gently beneath its tender touch.

The horizon blushes with promise, sending amber ribbons across the trees and bathing the mountain in warmth.

Breath steams from our muzzles in steady puffs, and with the sun already risen, the shift comes—smooth, reverent, inevitable.

Color shimmers in the mist as it dissipates, revealing skin, warmth, breath. Luke retrieves the bundle of clothes, tossing them to me with an easy flick.

“Still fast,” he says, watching me from the corner of his eye as I pull on the oversized hoodie and leggings.

“Still bossy,” I tease, raking a hand through my hair.

His smile is lazy, but there’s heat behind it. “You like it.”

I step into him, brushing my mouth against his. “You’re not wrong.”

He cups my jaw, holding me there. “I love you, Elena. Always have; always will.”

I lean in until our foreheads touch. “I know. That’s why I’m still here. I love you, too.”

This time, the words don’t feel like surrender. They feel like a beginning. Not a fragile truce—but a vow we’ve both bled for.

The morning sun spills over the ridge, gilding the valley in quiet gold as we stand together, skin still humming from the shift.

For a long moment, we stay like that—wrapped in each other, in breath and heartbeat and the kind of stillness that only comes after walking through fire and coming out whole on the other side.

He kisses me then. Slow, deep, reverent. Not because he wants to claim me. Because he already has.

When we finally pull apart, I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together. “This is home now.”

Just below the ridge, the faint sound of voices drifts up through the trees—Rawlings and McKinleys arriving with tool belts slung low, arms full of lumber, and the easy cadence of people who know their way around a build.

We watch as they move in small clusters, laughing and calling out to one another, already picking up where they’ve left off.

No one waits for instructions. They just get to work, patching siding, installing new window frames, reinforcing beams.

The house isn’t finished. Not yet. But as more and more figures emerge from the woods, falling into a rhythm that is part labor, part shared hope, I know we aren’t building it alone.

Luke’s fingers tighten around mine, and this time, I don’t just feel his warmth.

I feel the future.

“Yeah.” He glances out over the hills, where smoke from morning cook fires already curls through the trees. “And it’s ours.”

I tip my head back and laugh—low and full, letting the sound spill out across the ridge like a vow made of sunlight and breath.

Luke’s voice joins mine a breath later.

It isn’t a warning. It’s a vow. A declaration of joy, of strength, of everything we’ve fought for and won.

And no one—no one—is ever taking it from us again. Not without a fight. Not while there’s breath in our bodies or the teeth in our wolves.