Page 1 of Bound by Alphas 1: Bound (The Blood Moon Chronicle #3)

I ’d spent twenty-three years perfecting the art of escape.

Not the dramatic, movie-worthy kind with explosions and car chases—though today might finally change that.

My version was subtler: scholarships to art schools conveniently located three hours from home, apartments with multiple exits, and a carefully cultivated network of friends who had no idea werewolves existed, much less that I’d been raised by three of them.

“Earth to Finn,” Maya snapped, waving a hand in front of my face. “That’s the third time you’ve forgotten to add espresso to the milk. What’s with you today?”

I blinked, looking down at the sad, coffee-less latte I’d been about to serve. “Sorry. Just appreciating how the milk perfectly captures the Seattle summer haze—all dreamy and sun-dappled.”

“You mean you’re appreciating how that guy across the street has been standing there for twenty minutes?” She nodded toward the window.

My pulse spiked as I casually glanced outside.

The street was packed with the usual Friday afternoon crowd, tourists in shorts and locals in sunglasses enjoying Seattle’s perfect July weather.

No sign of broad shoulders or predatory posture or any of the other distinctly alpha characteristics that haunted both my nightmares and my more inappropriate dreams.

“Probably just waiting for someone,” I said, forcing my attention back to the espresso machine. “Or enjoying our excellent window display of locally sourced, ethically harvested coffee beans arranged in the shape of the Space Needle.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “That display is literally three bags of coffee with a postcard leaning against them.”

“It’s minimalist. Very avant-garde.” I pulled a perfect espresso shot and handed the now-completed latte to our waiting customer with my best customer service smile. “Enjoy your liquid motivation!”

The afternoon rush kept me busy enough to temporarily quiet my paranoia.

I moved through the motions—steaming milk, pulling shots, creating leaf designs when I could focus long enough.

My fingers itched for my brushes instead of the portafilter, but art supplies didn’t pay rent.

Neither did my art degree, as Cade had so helpfully pointed out during our last spectacular argument.

“Hey, that guy’s checking you out,” Maya whispered, nodding toward a businessman at the counter. “The one in the charcoal suit. He’s been staring for like ten minutes.”

My heart stuttered as I glanced up, relief flooding through me when I saw a complete stranger—dark-haired, slim-built, definitely not one of my brothers.

“Not my type,” I muttered, turning back to the espresso machine.

“Right, because tall, rich, and handsome is just terrible.” Maya said. “What exactly is your type? Besides ‘nonexistent’?”

“I’m holding out for a coffee bean farmer with a passion for abstract expressionism and a trust fund he’s too ethical to use,” I deadpanned. “Very niche dating pool.”

The real answer—tall, powerful werewolves with impossible shoulders and territorial issues—was better left unsaid. And deeply, deeply repressed.

“Your loss.” Maya shrugged, heading to the register. “He looks like he could afford actual groceries, unlike your ramen-based food pyramid.”

“Ramen is the foundation of artistic genius,” I called after her. “It’s basically creativity in noodle form.”

As the afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden shadows across the café floor, my phone buzzed with a text from Drew. Video call tonight? 8 pm?

My stomach twisted with equal parts longing and wariness. Drew was the only one of my brothers I still talked to—the only one who respected my decision to leave, even if he didn’t understand it. As the only other adoptee in the family, he got the outsider feeling better than the others.

I texted back. Sure. If I’m not buried under commissions.

Liar. You’re watching anime and eating ramen.

I smiled despite myself. It’s called the artist lifestyle. Look it up.

Miss you, idiot.

I stared at those three words, my chest tight. Miss you too.

The walk home always made me feel like prey, even in the long daylight.

Seattle in summer meant the sun wouldn’t set until after nine, painting the city in warm golden hues as I left work.

The streets bustled with life—full outdoor cafés, parks crowded with sunbathers, the distant waters of Puget Sound glittering like scattered diamonds.

Beautiful, in a bittersweet way—the kind of scene I’d normally be mentally composing on canvas.

Instead, I was hyperaware of every shadow, every alley entrance, every footstep that seemed to match my pace, then fade away when I turned to look. The weight of unseen eyes pressed between my shoulder blades.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered to myself, clutching my messenger bag tighter against my side. “Wolves don’t do cities. They hate concrete and crowds and traffic and?—”

A shadow moved wrong in the alley to my right.

I froze, heart hammering against my ribs. For a second, I could have sworn I saw silver eyes reflecting the sunlight. Then nothing—just empty darkness between buildings.

“Great job, Finn. Now you’re hallucinating.” I picked up my pace anyway, practically jogging the last three blocks to my apartment building.

The security door never felt secure enough.

I punched in my code with shaking fingers, slipping inside and taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.

My tiny studio apartment welcomed me with familiar chaos—canvases everywhere, drop cloths protecting the worn hardwood, the lingering scent of oils and turpentine.

Home, such as it was. Nothing like the sprawling Sinclair mansion with its ocean views and endless rooms, but it was mine. My space. My creation.

I threw the deadbolt and chain, then stood in the center of my apartment, breathing hard. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant sounds of city traffic and the hum of the ancient refrigerator.

“Wolves don’t do well in concrete jungles,” I reminded myself aloud. “They need their forests and mountains and oceans.”

The Sinclair territory stretched along miles of pristine Washington coastline—wild, beautiful, dangerous. I could still picture it perfectly: the way the fog rolled in from the sea each morning, how the sunlight filtered through ancient trees, the private beach where we’d swim as teenagers.

Unbidden, my mind conjured images of my brothers—not as the suited businessmen they presented to the world, but as they truly were.

Cade emerging from the ocean at sunset, water sluicing down his powerful body, hair darkened by salt water.

Logan running shirtless through the woods, muscles rippling with each powerful stride.

Keir stretched out on the deck, golden skin soaking up sunshine, those bright-blue eyes tracking my every movement.

“Stop it,” I growled, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “They’re your brothers.”

Adopted brothers , a treacherous voice whispered in my mind. Not blood. Never blood.

I shoved the thought away and headed for the shower, stripping off my coffee-scented clothes and stepping under the spray. The cool water couldn’t wash away the feeling of being watched, but it helped ease the summer heat clinging to my skin.

Clean and dressed in loose shorts and an oversized t-shirt, I surveyed my refrigerator’s sad contents—half a carton of eggs, condiments, and a questionable container of leftover Thai food. The instant ramen in my cupboard mocked Drew’s earlier prediction.

“Shut up,” I told the noodles, grabbing a packet anyway. “You’re delicious and cost-effective.”

While waiting for the water to boil, I checked my email—two commission requests for digital illustrations, a rejection from a gallery I’d applied to, and a reminder that my student loan payment was due in five days. My bank account balance laughed at the last one.

“Looks like it’s double shifts next week,” I muttered, stirring the noodles. “Sorry, liver. The starving artist thing isn’t just a cute aesthetic.”

I was halfway through my ramen when my phone lit up with Drew’s incoming video call. His familiar face appeared on screen, hazel eyes crinkling with a smile.

“Called it. Ramen and anime,” he said, looking annoyingly smug.

“It’s an artistic stereotype for a reason,” I shot back, angling the camera so he couldn’t see the canvases behind me.

The last thing I needed was Drew asking about my shadow-filled nightmares.

“Some of us are honoring traditions. Like the great masters before me, I too am slowly poisoning myself with chemicals and cheap food in pursuit of beauty.”

Drew snorted. “The great masters had patrons. You have student loans.”

“Details.” I waved dismissively. “How’s life in wolf paradise?”

A flicker of something crossed his face. “Same old. Cade’s running everyone ragged with the new marina project. Logan’s being Logan—scaring the junior security team for fun. Keir’s latest conservation initiative is getting national attention.”

“And you?” I asked, ignoring the pang in my chest at the mention of my other brothers.

Drew shrugged. “Keeping the peace. Running interference. The usual beta stuff.” He hesitated. “They ask about you, you know.”

I set my ramen aside, appetite gone. “I’m sure they do. ‘Has our wayward artist brother starved to death yet?’ ‘Is he finally ready to admit art isn’t a real career?’ ‘Should we send Logan to drag him home by his hair?’”

“It’s not like that,” Drew protested, but his eyes slid away from the camera. “They worry.”

“They want to control,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s not that simple and you know it.” Drew sighed. “Pack is?—”

“I’m not pack,” I said sharply. “I’m adopted, remember? Human. No furry alter ego.”

The lie tasted bitter. I wasn’t human—not entirely. But the Sinclairs, they had their perfect wolf pack. I was… something else. Something that didn’t belong.