Page 9 of Alpha Unchained (Wolves of Wild Hollow #2)

ELENA

T he Moss I want to pretend he never walked through that door.

My throat is tight, jaw aching from biting back every word I didn’t let myself say.

The frustration burns through me—hurt, anger, longing, a cocktail I can’t seem to shake.

My palms still tingle from where I braced myself against the counter, the muscles in my back stiff with tension I can’t stretch out.

He’s gone—but not far. Even the walls still hum with his dominance, like the shop itself hasn’t exhaled yet.

My body remembers every inch of him—his hands, the way his eyes darkened when he staked his claim.

No matter how much I want to hate him, the ache doesn’t fade.

It just changes, growing sharper, hungrier, finding fresh places to wound me.

The street outside is awash in pale Appalachian sunlight.

I busy myself with the register, pretending to inventory paperbacks, but my gaze keeps sliding toward the big window facing Main Street.

It’s maybe mid-morning, the town just starting to settle into its quiet rhythm, but a dark shape at the curb draws my attention—a sedan, sleek and silent, windows too dark to see through.

Next to it, Luke stands like a threat and a warning, broad shoulders squared, jaw set hard as granite.

He’s talking to someone inside the car. I can’t make out the face, just the glint of sunglasses and the impression of a smile that’s anything but friendly.

For a second, Luke’s body tenses—just a flicker—but I catch it, that telltale warning in the way his weight subtly adjusts, how his hand curls at his side.

Whoever’s in that car isn’t here for a friendly chat.

Not with Luke. Not with anyone in Wild Hollow.

An icy shiver works its way down my spine.

My hand presses to my belly, protective, and the sensation isn’t just maternal—it’s feral.

My wolf rises with a guttural snarl of warning in my chest, fierce and ready, itching to tear into whatever danger might be lurking outside.

It’s an instinct that demands movement, but I force myself to hold steady, fighting the wild urge to leap for the door and make sure nothing and no one threatens us.

My mind tangles itself in a snarl of doubt and dread, every sense heightened, every muscle tense with the need to do something, anything.

Every instinct screams at me to bolt the doors, to drag Luke back inside, to demand answers, to snarl and bare my teeth at the world.

Instead, I stay frozen, my wolf pacing just beneath the surface, restless and angry, forced to stand guard alone.

I watch, unblinking, as Luke takes something from the car.

A white envelope; a message or a warning.

Every sense I have is on edge, my wolf’s ears flattening, breath held as if I could change what happens next by sheer will alone.

He turns, scanning the street with a predator’s vigilance, shoulders tense, his whole body wound tight with suspicion.

Then his gaze finds mine through the glass—a collision, not just a glance.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to a pinpoint, every memory, every want, every regret sparking between us.

I feel the ache of all our unfinished business, the loss and longing and stubborn need. There’s so much raw history and hurt in that instant that I can barely breathe, my wolf and I both caught, bracing for whatever comes next.

Then he looks away. Just like that, the moment breaks, and he stalks off, vanishing around the corner as the sedan purrs away.

I close my eyes, willing the tension to slip from my shoulders, but it’s a losing battle.

My heart still pounds, a restless beat that echoes every argument, every touch, every hurtful word.

Even the air in here feels thick with him—his scent lingering in the old floorboards and battered shelves—or is it a memory that refuses to let go?

I try to inhale, to find some corner of myself untouched by him, but every breath I take still tastes like Luke—wood smoke, wild grass, something stormy and masculine that makes my human and wolf sides ache.

I wish I could forget. I wish I could move forward and not look back, but every time I start to feel steady, he barrels right back into my world and tears up the ground beneath me, leaving chaos in his wake and longing knotted deep inside me.

My thoughts spiral, yanking me back to that night—the night everything changed, the night he claimed me and turned me, the night I lost my old self and became something wild, something his.

Even now, I can feel the ghost of his hands on my skin, his mouth hot and demanding, the low rumble of his voice as he called me by name.

It started with a storm. The world outside had gone dark and electric, thunder shaking the glass.

I was upstairs, already restless, reading by candlelight when the first knock landed—soft, but insistent.

By the time I opened the door, he’s pushing past me and is then inside, wet and wild, eyes burning with the kind of hunger that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but fate.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to. Luke crossed the space between us in three strides, his hands finding my waist, his mouth crashing down on mine.

Every defense I’d built melted away. My fingers threaded through his hair, nails digging into his shoulders as he pressed me back against the door, his body a promise and a threat all at once.

Clothes vanished—shirts torn open, denim yanked away in the hurried, hungry scramble from stairs to bed.

I barely remember the sequence, only the heat of his breath at my ear, the teasing graze of his hands pushing up beneath my sweater, the sound of my laughter turning ragged as his mouth traced along my collarbone.

My heart pounded so hard it hurt, a thudding ache of fear and longing tangled together.

He tasted me everywhere—palms splayed across my hips, mouth seeking every soft place, teeth scraping lightly as if to test what I’d surrender.

The ache of wanting him made me dizzy, my legs unsteady, my need spilling out in breathless pleas I barely recognized as my own.

Luke’s hands and mouth explored every inch of me, slow and rough, possessive, memorizing the arch of my back, the swell of my breasts, the shudder of my breath as he bit lightly at the spot just below my ear.

He handled me like a secret he’d waited too long to uncover, like he wanted to burn me into his memory—brand me from the inside out.

He made me wild—no; he made me real. The world shrank to the hot press of his body, the burn of skin against skin, the rough scrape of his stubble against my neck, the deep, dark pull of his eyes locking onto mine.

There was no hesitation, no doubt—only heat, hunger, and the slow, relentless surrender of every boundary I’d ever built.

I wanted him to own me, to wreck me, and I let him—greedy for every touch, every demand, every desperate, breathless second between us.

When his teeth found my throat, I shattered.

My body bowed into him, breath caught between agony and surrender.

His bite was fire—burning away everything I thought I was.

The ache was almost too much—his mouth hot and possessive, his hands bracing my hips, holding me open as if I was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

The bite itself was sharp and sudden, a flash of pain that made me gasp, but I was already tumbling over the edge, pleasure cresting and breaking as his fangs broke my skin. The pain fused with the pleasure so intensely that for a second I couldn't tell one from the other.

The mating bond—although I didn't know it then—snapped into place, hot and wild and undeniable, tying me to him with a force that rocked me to my core.

My vision went white. My whole body shuddered, every muscle tightening around him as he claimed me—not just my body, but something deeper, older, more feral.

His bite was a promise, a mark and a challenge, and I answered it with my whole body, meeting his hunger with my own, giving him every secret, every shudder, every raw and hungry part of myself I’d ever tried to hide.