Page 12 of Alpha Unbound

Hank lets out a quiet coo and flaps his wings, the sound low and almost sympathetic. He waddles a step closer on the counter, puffing up like he’s ready to defend me from ghosts or gossip, whichever comes first. I scratch behind his head absently, grateful for the soft weight of his presence. He’s not just a goose. He’s family. One of the few I trust without question.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Me too.”

I grab my coat and a basket of preserves and canned peaches for the widow Ridley. She’s been alone since last spring, and the least I can do is help keep her shelves stocked. The trail there cuts near one of the old boundary lines—the kind etched more in memory and blood than on maps. The kind that used to mean something, back when there were rules about where humans, shifters, and secrets belonged—and when those who broke them knew what it cost. I used to wonder if those lines were about safety or power. Lately, I’m not so sure they weren’t both.

The mist is heavier today. It clings low to the ground, thick enough to muffle footsteps and memory.

I adjust the weight of the basket in my arms, fingers tightening around the handle as I keep my eyes ahead. The trees look the same—bare branches reaching like ribs into the sky—but they feel different. Weighted. Expectant. The kind of quiet that isn’t stillness but waiting. A hush too full to be empty.

Like the forest is listening.

I’ve walked this trail since I was a kid—chased fireflies along it, kissed boys I shouldn’t have behind the old shed off the bend. Every rock, every root should feel like part of my spine.

But today, it feels like the forest doesn’t know me. Or worse, it remembers me differently—remembers my blood, my family, our missteps. Like it’s watching to see what kind of McKinley I really am.

Something rustles in the underbrush—small, quick. I pause, listen. Hank isn’t with me, but I can feel that same tension humming in my skin. Like I’m not alone. The woods don’t look wrong. They just feel wrong.

Which is probably why I don’t see the marker until I’m already a few steps past it—halfway through a thought, eyes on the fog, not the ground. By the time I catch the difference in terrain, the subtle shape of carved stone buried in moss, my boot has already brushed the edge. The air changes, heavier, charged like a storm waiting to break. And I know before I turn around that I’ve crossed a line I shouldn’t have.

It's almost as if the forest is watching—at least that’s what it feels like—a kind of waiting, calculating, curious.

I pause at the boundary line. Not over it this time. Not today. I remember too well the way it felt—the change in the air, the quiet that wasn't really quiet, the way every hair on my arms stood at attention like they'd been saluting something older and meaner than me.

But I don’t turn back. Not yet. I kneel near the stone, not touching it, just... observing. The cold seeps through the worn knees of my jeans, grounding me in the dirt and dead leaves. I stir some of them absently, brushing away frost-laced moss to get a better look. The gouges are still fresh. Hudson wasn’twrong—whoever marked it did so with intent. Someone’s testing the line, pressing at old boundaries.

And maybe I am too.

The scent is faint, but there. Someone who doesn’t belong. Not Hudson—his scent is clean, electric, edged with pine and authority. Not family either. This one is muskier, tinged with oil and rust. Male. Not old enough to be one of the elders, not bold enough to be Waylon. A stranger. I try to place it, catalog the pieces—what they wore, how they moved, why they were here. And I come up blank. That’s the part that bothers me most.

I breathe it in and hold it.

Then I rise, square my shoulders, and start back toward the ridge. The forest doesn’t stop me, but it’s still listening.

CHAPTER 5

HUDSON

The air still smells like her.

She hadn’t been gone long when I shifted back—mist curling away from my fur like it knew better than to linger. I waited until the scent of her steps faded down the ridge, until the tension in my muscles quit screaming for a fight or a kiss. Then I ran.

The mountains have always cleared my head. But not this time. Not with the scent of her still in my lungs, the echo of her stare like fire behind my ribs. Kate McKinley’s not just in my head—she’s wired into my reflexes. Bold, reckless, stubborn. The kind of complication I came back to avoid, and exactly the kind I can’t seem to stop chasing.

Even with the trail cold, I can pick out her scent in the forest—bright citrus and something sweet and warm underneath. It cuts through pine and damp earth like a beacon, subtle but sharp, stirring things I haven’t let myself feel in years. Kate McKinley smells like a dare, and my wolf—hell, even the man—likes that scent more than he should. It’s grounding and dangerous all at once. Like the old porch back home after a storm—familiar, steady, but just one step from collapse if you trust it too much.

I run until my legs burn and the storm in my head eases off. Trees blur past, their shadows long and lean, the ground hard beneath my paws, but even the cold mountain air can’t wash her from me. I want it to—want the speed, the cold, the forest to strip her from my thoughts. But it doesn’t work.

The wind bites deep, chilling my skin, but it’s not enough to quiet the part of me that still feels her—Kate McKinley, burned into my senses like wildfire, branded into the part of me that’s supposed to stay cold and controlled. She’s in my head, tangled up in every thought, regardless of whether or not I want to admit it, she’s under my damn protection now.

I push harder, trying to outrun the thrum coursing through my veins, the tension in my gut that has nothing to do with the chase and everything to do with the way she looked at me. Like she saw past every wall I’ve spent years building, straight into the parts I keep locked down. Like shefeltit too—this pull, this fire, this damn inconvenient bond clawing its way to the surface. And worse, like maybe she didn’t want it either. Or maybe she did and hated that she did. Just like me.

The cold seeps into every fiber of my being, numbing what I don’t want to feel, but it doesn’t last. My wolf stirs and circles; my instincts scream for me to go back and find her. When I shift back behind a stand of pine, breath ragged and heart pounding, the mist clings for a moment before clearing.

I’m alone. Raw. And the heat she lit in me is still burning. Lower. Deeper. It coils in my gut, a slow, smoldering ache that refuses to settle. Not just want—need. A bone-deep thrum that’s more than lust, more than instinct. It's the edge of something older, something primal, clawing to the surface. My wolf paces just beneath my skin, restless and sharp, and I know exactly who he's circling for. The bond is awakening—unwelcome, undeniable—and no matter how much I try to shove it back down, it’s there. Burning. Claiming. Her.

More dangerous.

That’s the part that scares me most. Not just how badly I want her, but how fast it’s turning into something deeper. Wilder. Something I can’t control. The bond doesn’t just stir lust—it demands. It roots down and rewires everything I thought I knew about instinct and discipline. And Kate? She’s the kind of wildfire that doesn’t care what it burns through.

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