Page 9 of Coveted By the Alpha Pack

“It’s the pack bond,” Agnes murmurs, her voice a soothing melody in the tumult of emotions swirling inside me. She presses a kiss on each of my cheeks before passing me to Nicolai’s mom, who does the same. “As past Lunas, we can help far more than the guys can.”

Their words resonate within me, a reminder of the strength that lies in our shared connection. And as they hold me close, their arms a shield against the world, I know that together, we can weather any storm that comes our way.

My daughters come bounding towards me as I step into the familiar embrace of our pack house, their playful energy a stark contrast to the heaviness weighing on my heart. They lay at my feet, their puppies wide-eyed and eager, their little tails wagging slowly. Despite their innocence, they seem to sense the somber mood lingering among us.

“They don’t understand human grief,” Agnes murmurs softly, her voice a comforting presence amidst the turmoil. “Wolves celebrate life. We celebrate the life they lived. We also celebrate what they left behind, their legacy in the people they leave behind.”

I feel her fingers run through my long hair, a soothing gesture that offers a moment of respite from the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me. Around us, my men move with purpose, navigating the interior of the pack house with a quiet determination. They greet our friends and neighbors, accepting condolences on my behalf, their presence a reassuring presence in the face of tragedy.

The scent of freshly prepared food fills the air as several women from the kitchen staff bring in trays of food and drinks, setting them out on the table with practiced efficiency. Each dish is a testament to the love and care poured into its creation, a reminder of the bonds that bind us together as a pack.

As my mates help guide our pack mates to the tables, encouraging them to take their fill. I stand in silence, enveloped in the arms of my mates’ mothers. Barrett’s mom stands off to the side, her gaze watchful yet distant, a silent observer.

I accept hugs from every single pack member, feeling the warmth of their embrace enveloping me like a protective cocoon. Each person in line presses a cheek to mine, their breath mingling with mine. I hear the rumble of their wolves, a deep, comforting sound that resonates within me. With each hug, the connection with my pack strengthens, grounding me in the shared bond we all hold dear.

As the elders in the pack share stories of my grandmother, the air fills with the soft cadence of their voices, weaving a tapestry of memories and anecdotes. I listen intently, finding solace in the tales that paint a vivid picture of her life. Some stories elicit laughter, like the time my grandmother pranked the pack by dying sheep a color that wolves can’t see. She exploited their colorblindness to play a mischievous trick. The memory of the Easter hunt that year, with its challenges and laughter, brings a smile to my lips even amidst the somber occasion.

Hearing these stories from my grandmother’s youth soothes the pain of her loss, easing the ache in my heart with each shared memory. In that moment, surrounded by my pack, it becomes clear to me that my grandmother’s spirit lives on not only in me but also in my children and in the cherished recollections of her antics. As the stories continue to flow, I find comfort knowing that her legacy endures, woven into the very fabric of our pack’s history.

Chapter 6

Nicolai

-White Horse–Chris Stapleton-

It’s been three weeks since we put Grace’s grandmother in the ground. As much as I expected Grace to bond quickly with Lorcan, it hasn’t happened yet. She’s not reluctant to bond with him. She simply understands that he has affairs to handle back in Ireland before he can fully integrate with us. Last week, when we took Lorcan and his brother Shamus to the airport, Grace surprised me by being fine with him leaving. But I wouldn’t allow my potential mate out of my line of sight for long.

Now, my mate sits in the field, bathed in the warm sunlight, watching our daughters as they playfully hunt mice in the tall grass. It’s their first hunting ground, a place to test their muscles and hone their skills. Suddenly, Grace shifts and joins in the romp with the pups, her barks floating through the air like music. Then, out of nowhere, a fawn comes bolting out of the field.

Grace moves with lightning speed, biting at the hind legs of the fawn and severing a tendon. Our daughters, Nina, and Ashina, rush out of the grass, eager to join in the hunt. Nina bites the hobbled hind leg, while Ashina goes for the throat, her jaws closing around it with precision. Together, they subdue the fawn, ending its life quickly and efficiently.

A swell of immense pride floods through me as I watch our children instinctively following their nature. Grace shifts back and gets dressed, her laughter fading into a contented smile. “They did good,” she breathes, her eyes shining with pride.

“Good call on snapping the one tendon,” I reply, unable to contain my pride as I look at her.

Grace shrugs her shoulders, her attention still focused on the pups feeding. “They need to learn to kill effectively. Next time, I won’t sever it completely,” she says, arching an eyebrow at me.

“Sounds good,” I agree, noting with satisfaction how Grace is seamlessly tapping into the Luna lessons that have been passed down to her. Together, we’re shaping the future of our packs, one lesson at a time.

“Any word when Lorcan will return?” I change the subject, hoping to gauge where Grace is in processing her feelings.

“He’s applying for the proper visas as well as the path to citizenship,” she responds, her voice distant as her gaze drifts upwards, studying the shifting patterns of the clouds.

Suddenly, Barrett emerges, seemingly out of nowhere, the pups trailing behind him obediently. He shoots me a playful wink before disappearing into the underbrush.

Noticing that Grace is still lost in thought, I move up behind her, drawn to her like a magnet. Leaning in, I press a tender kiss to her shoulder, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my lips. My senses heighten as I inhale her scent, the familiar fragrance of wildflowers and pine mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest.

As my lips trail along her neck, I feel a deep rumble building in my chest, my wolf stirring within me. Grace melts into my embrace, her body yielding to my touch. With a gentle nip at her shoulder, just above my mating mark, I elicit a soft whine from her lips. She arches her back, pressing herself against me. I feel a surge of desire coursing through me as she grinds against my groin. The sensation sending shivers down my spine.

My hands instinctively reach down, sliding over her hips and under her shirt, eager to feel the warmth of her skin against mine. As my fingers make contact, I’m enveloped in a sensation of heat, her flesh as hot and smooth as silk beneath my touch. It’s a rare moment for us to be alone like this, without the intrusion of her other mates. Every time we try to steal a moment together, it feels like someone inevitably crashes the party, disrupting our intimacy.

With one hand cupping her breast, I revel in the softness and the weight of it in my palm. Meanwhile, my other hand ventures downward, slipping under the elastic of her leggings. As my fingertips dance over the top of her mound, I’m met with a rush of desire, my senses heightening with each caress.

Pressing myself against her, I grind my shaft between her ass cheeks. The friction sending shivers down my spine. I can feel my cock leaking with anticipation, my balls beginning to pull up in a primal urge for release. But it’s not just physical desire driving me; it’s a deep, visceral need for her. She’s more than just my mate; she’s the air that I breathe, the very essence of my existence. Grace is my everything, the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins, and in this moment, she’s all I can think about.

Grace pulls away suddenly, her movements urgent and determined, and turns to face me. The air crackles with anticipation as she makes short work of my pants and shirt, the sound of fabric rustling filling the room. I can hear the distinct thud as my pants hit the ground, followed by the quick rip of her shirt over her head, the fabric sliding off her skin effortlessly. Her bra soon joins the pile, discarded in a rush of desire.

As she works on removing her leggings, the air feels charged with electricity, every movement heightened by the anticipation of what’s to come. I watch, feeling my pulse quicken, a primal rhythm echoing in my veins. With each passing second, the tension builds, tangible and electric.

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