Page 3 of Impregnated By the Alpha

“It could be more,” Jonah said, hesitantly. He didn’t want to tell Devon everything, not yet, not until he knew more about the situation himself. “Going through his house and all his things could take some time.”

“Right, right.” Devon leaned against Jonah with a sigh. "We’ll all miss Uncle Jonah, though.”

Jonah’s heart squeezed. He had been by Devon’s side for years, through the worst of times, and the thought of being without him was unnerving, but bringing Devon back to the Silversands wasn’t possible. The White Winter's reputation would work against him, and he couldn’t afford to be painted with their brush. But stepping out of Devon’s shadow meant stepping out of his protection as well.

“I’ll miss you all too,” Jonah replied, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“What the—-“ Devon leaped to his feet.

The blare of a fire alarm split the quiet evening, ringing out from the house. Shouts followed it, barely audible over the alarm’s repetitive tone, and Jonah jumped up.

“The cornbread!” He cried, darting past Devon on the path that led back to the house. “I told you to set a timer, Emma!”

Side by side, they raced up the stairs and into the house. The stink of something burning filled the air. Caleb was waving a towel beneath the fire alarm to silence it.

“Out of the way!” Emma yelled, coming out of the kitchen with a smoking pan in her oven mitts. “Move it!”

Jonah watched the charred remnants of his perfect, buttery cornbread get tossed into the yard. He was afraid to check on the chili, wondering what kind of damage she’d managed to inflict on it in his short absence. She came back in, hair frazzled, face shining with sweat.

“Never again, Jo,” she warned, brushing by him, poking him in the chest with her manicured finger. “Don’t you dare leave me with the cooking again.”

Devon turned a pleading look on Jonah. “Please don’t leave me.”

Jonah pushed his hair off his forehead, hoping the sting of smoke would be all the excuse he’d need for his red-rimmed eyes. He wasn’t ready to explain himself or his grief to the rest of the pack. “Trust me, I wish I didn’t have to.”

He made his way to his room and pulled out his backpack. His room was full of more books than he could ever carry, so he winnowed it down to a handful of favorites he liked to reread and a few new books he hadn’t gotten to yet. A week’s worth of clothes on top, his bathroom products, and he was done, zipping the bag with a sense of sealing his fate.

Alone in his room, he let the tears flow. He mourned his father, yes, but also the loose ends he’d never be able to tie up, the answers he’d never receive. It had always seemed like there would be more time. That one day, he’d go home, and his father would be changed, better, more understanding, and they’d patch over old wounds and find friendship. All of that had been ripped away.

He’d watched Devon create a pack out of nothing, banding together a group of misfits like Peter Pan and his lost boys, but Devon was everything that Jonah was not—strong, brave, determined. Devon never would have run from the problems Jonah had left behind. Jonah looked down at his hands; his usually light skin turned darker from the days of summer sun. Would they be able to wrest the Silversands from the state his father had left them in?

The room seemed empty with the half-filled shelves as if it had already moved on from him and readied itself for the next inhabitant. He wondered if the pack would forget him as easily. They didn’t need him, not really. Someone else would step in and cook the meals, rock Edwin when he couldn’t nap, support Devon as omega.

Jonah stripped and took a long, hot shower, wishing he could wash his history away in the scalding stream. But running from his past hadn’t erased it. It had only pushed it away for a moment. In the morning, he’d leave before dawn and make his way to the Silversand territory. He wanted to slink in with his tail between his legs, escaping the notice of everyone. How was he going to survive this?

Fake it till you make it. Jonah clung to the phrase like a lifeline. He’d just pretend to be someone who could do what he had to do. Toweling off, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw not his own reflection but his father’s looking back at him.

Chapter 2 - Moira

Moira licked a swirl of whipped cream off the top of her mocha before fixing the lid on her travel mug. Hot Shots Cafe was quiet that morning. Like most mornings, the barista knew just how she liked her coffee—extra sweet, chocolatey, and piping hot.

“What am I going to do without your mochas?” She moaned to Evelyn, the sleepy-eyed barista behind the counter. “No one makes them like you do.”

“Who knows,” Evelyn replied, wiping the counter down with a rag, “maybe the next barista will be even better. Doubt it, though. Anyway, I’ll be here in the evenings, so if things get dire, drop by after the bakery closes, and I’ll make sure you get your fix.”

Moira sighed. She didn’t like change, but she supposed she could forgive Evelyn for her decision to take college classes during the day, even if it robbed her of her favorite pre-work cup. “You’re going to crush it; I just know it. See you later, Eve.”

“Save a couple cookies for my late-night study snack,” Evelyn called as Moira left the shop, the bell chiming cheerfully over her head.

It always felt like they were the only two awake in the whole town at that hour. The sun was just beginning to lighten the night sky, with the promise of dawn. Frost clung to the sidewalk. Moira held her cup tightly, savoring the warmth that contrasted with the bitter autumn air.

She walked along the main street, noting how many dark, empty shopfronts there were in what should have been the busiest part of town. As a kid, she could remember the candy shops, ice cream parlors, and specialty stores with their doors flung open to let in the fresh air, people spilling in and out with smiles. The older she’d gotten, the more rundown the place had become until it felt like a husk of its former self.

Tiers of Joy sat at the end of the street, the sea on one side and the town on the other. Like the rest of town, its facade was shabby, peeling, faded paint and windows due for a refresh, but to Moira, it felt like home. She’d started working there at fifteen, when the owner, Mrs. Alden, had started needing extra help, and had taken on more and more of the duties until it had become a one-woman show.

Each morning, she walked from her apartment to Hot Shots for her coffee, then to Tiers of Joy to begin the morning baking, preparing the day’s loaves and doughnuts. She liked to watch the town wake up, the light sparkling on the water when the sun finally reached it, the cries of the gulls keeping her company. Pulling her keys from the depths of her jacket pocket, she let herself into the bake shop.

Breathing in the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and yeast, Moira turned on the ovens and pulled the dough from the fridge, settling into the morning’s rhythm. One day, she hoped, the shop would be hers. It felt like hers already, with Mrs. Alden’s visits becoming increasingly infrequent in her later years, but feeling like it belonged to her and having it belong to her were two very different things.

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