Page 2 of Alpha Unbound

There’s a pause. A hush. The kind that only happens right before something breaks.

“What did you just say?”

“I said no,” I repeat, louder now. “He’s not food. He’s mine.”

Laughter bursts from the table—half of it mocking, the other half disbelieving. A few of the younger cousins nudge each other. One of my uncles snorts. Even my mama looks like she wants to disappear into the floorboards.

I know what they see: a girl with windburned cheeks and straw in her hair, holding a feral bird like it’s some kind of puppy. But I also know what I feel: something sharp and electric, twisting in my gut like it wants out.

Power.

I never thought it would feel like this. But it does. It's like the moment right before a storm hits.

Granddad rises. Slow. Deliberate. “You live under my roof. You eat what I put on the table.”

“I’ll make something else,” I say. “I’ll cook for myself.”

“You don’t get to decide...”

“I just did.”

His eyes narrow. “Don’t forget who you are, girl.”

“I’m a McKinley,” I snap. “Same as you. And if being one means killing something just because it’s tradition, maybe it’s time we made a new tradition.”

Someone whistles. Someone else groans. Mama’s eyes go wide. Dad looks like he wants to crawl under the sink.

But I don’t care. I’m tired of following rules I didn’t make. Tired of playing quiet and sweet while the men talk and the women clean up after them. Tired of pretending I don’t see the cracks in everything they worship.

Hank lets out a defiant honk, as if to second my declaration.

Granddad glares at the bird, then at me. “You’re soft.”

“No,” I say. “I’m just not cruel.”

He stares for a long beat, then downs the rest of his moonshine and slams the jar on the table. “Fine. Keep the damn goose.”

I don’t smile. I don’t gloat. I just turn and walk out, Hank still clutched in my arms, heart thudding like a drumbeat in my chest.

I make a nest in the corner of my room. Two years ago, I carved out a part of the attic and claimed it as mine—my first real act of independence. A space above it all, away from the eyes and expectations downstairs. I don’t trust my family not to try to eatHank, so I turn my sanctuary into his, too. It started as a retreat. One day it might have to become a fortress.

I line the corner with old towels and half a bag of pine shavings, tucking him in like he’s always belonged here. Hank watches me like he’s waiting for the punchline. I bring him a bowl of grain and warm water and sit beside him on the tile floor, nursing my bleeding fingers.

“You bit me,” I tell him. “I hope you know that means we’re bonded for life.”

He flaps one wing and settles into the corner like he owns the place.

Outside, the snow’s still falling, blanketing the mountains under a silent shroud of white. Inside, the McKinley house goes back to its noise and smoke and stubborn traditions. But something changed tonight. I can feel it.

For the first time in my life, I said no. And no one dragged me back into line.

I curl up beside the goose I saved and whisper, “You’re not just a bird, you know.”

He tilts his head.

“You’re a middle finger with feathers.”

Present Day

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