Page 14 of Alpha Unbound

“Elena.”

She raises an eyebrow at the board. “That’s a whole lot of string and not a lot of answers.”

“Welcome to my mornings.”

She tilts her head. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks, Elena. You look lovely.”

She ignores me and continues on. “The whole town is whispering about you and Kate. I take it you look like that because of her.”

I don’t ask who. She knows.

Elena steps closer. “She’s her mother’s daughter. Heart of fire and mouth full of knives. Don’t think for a second she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

I look away.

“She’s not the one I’m worried about,” I mutter.

“Then who is?”

That’s the question. One I don’t want to answer yet.

After Elena leaves, I drop the reports, grab my jacket, and hit the road. The tires crunch gravel as I head up the ridge. I haven’t seen Grant McKinley since my father’s funeral. Even then, we didn’t speak. He sat in the back like he was watching something die twice—once when he saw my father’s casket lowered into the ground, and then later when he spotted the badge on my chest that used to be on his brother’s.

Grant’s land sits nestled in the folds of the mountain. Not quite off the grid, but damn close. As I hike the last hundred yards, the trees get thicker, the silence deeper—so deep it presses on my ears. The scent of wood smoke curls faintly in the air, mixed with something sharp and metallic, like old iron or blood. Somewhere in the distance, a crow calls once and then falls quiet, like even the birds are holding their breath. Every step forward crunches dry leaves beneath my boots, loud in the hush. The air grows colder, tighter, like it’s wrapping around me. It’s the kind of quiet that warns you to tread carefully, like the woods themselves are watching.

When I reach the cabin, he’s already on the porch, rifle across his knees.

“Sheriff.”

“Grant.”

“You come looking for trouble or truth?”

“Depends which one you’ve got more of.”

He chuckles low. “Still got that Rawlings bite.”

“And you’ve still got that McKinley smirk.”

I hand him the map and a photo—one of the stone markers, slashed deep with gouges. The gouges aren’t random; they’re deliberate, angry, a message written in damage. His face doesn’t change, but his fingers curl tighter around the paper, like he wants to crush it—or the bastard who did it.

The silence stretches between us, thick and expectant.

He doesn’t ask where it was taken. Doesn’t need to. He knows those stones. Hell, he probably helped lay them when he was still walking with the old alpha. His grip says everything his mouth doesn’t.

Then he folds the photo once, precisely, and sets it on the armrest beside him like it’s too loaded to hold. His thumb taps against the rifle barrel, slow and deliberate, like he’s keeping time with a clock only he can hear. The only sound between us is the faint creak of the rocking chair as he leans forward, just enough to show he’s not taking this lightly.

“You think someone’s using our land?”

“Maybe, but at the least, I think someone’s using your name.”

His eyes meet mine. Hard. “You think it’s Kate.”

“I think she’s too close to whatever’s coming.”

Grant leans back. “You ever think she’s the only thing standing between you and a bigger storm?”

---