Page 21 of Alpha Unbound

Because whatever this is, whatever it becomes, it won’t be quiet. It’ll come with teeth.

The man does too. And maybe that's the most dangerous part... the part I don’t know how to leash.

Not when every breath I take pulls her deeper into my blood. Not when my control frays the closer she gets.

Because one day soon, I’m going to stop trying to hold back—and when I do, the Hollow that raised me, shaped me, warned me to stay silent will bear witness to the one thing even it can’t quiet—claiming what’s mine. And when I do, nothing in this hollow or any other will stand in my way.

CHAPTER 8

KATE

The air outside is cooling fast, dusk pressing in on the windows like a warning. I lock the cash drawer, brew a cup of tea I don’t drink, and sweep the same patch of floor for the fifth time. I’ve already tucked Hank the goose in for the night, thank God—because if Hudson is the storm, Hank is the lightning.

The bell above the store door rings. Of course it does—it's impossible for it not to. But something about the way it rings is different. Like it doesn't dare chime too loud. Like even it knows who's on the other side. And the second I hear it, I know it's him.

I glance up from behind the counter, heart already ticking faster. The lights are off. Closed sign hanging. But I unlocked the door twenty minutes ago, like I knew he’d come. Not hoped—knew. Which makes it worse. Because knowing meant I’d already surrendered to something I told myself, I wouldn’t. It meant that despite everything—his silence, his distance, the way he made my blood heat and my guard rise—I still wanted him to come through that door. And that terrified me more than anything he might say once he did.

Hudson Rawlings fills the frame like a thunderstorm—tall, sharp-eyed, jaw set hard enough to cut through Appalachianstone. His shoulders stretch the worn leather of his jacket, jeans slung low on lean hips, every inch of him carved and coiled like danger in a man’s skin. His scent hits me next—smoke and pine and male—and my stomach flips, low and hot. It’s the same smell that clung to the old Rawlings’ cabin I wasn’t supposed to sneak near as a kid. Danger wrapped in temptation. A wild, feral thing that made me want to get closer, even when instinct screamed I shouldn’t.

Now, it curls around me like a memory and a promise I haven’t decided to believe. My breath stumbles, and my thighs tighten involuntarily. My body responds before I can think better of it, before I remember why this is a bad idea. My body remembers, even if my brain is trying really hard to forget. I move behind the counter, suddenly too aware of the thin cotton of my shirt, the way my breath catches at the base of my throat. His boots track mud across my freshly swept floor. Typical. But he stops short just inside the door like he feels the tension hanging in the air too, like he knows I’m watching every move he makes and feeling far too much.

“I’m closed.” I don’t raise my voice, but it slices anyway.

His gaze sweeps over the dark interior, slow and deliberate, like he’s cataloging every shadow, every inch of the space that’s mine—until it lands on me. And when it does, it’s like being branded. His eyes drag over my face, down my frame, pausing just long enough to make heat bloom low in my belly.

“I know,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel ground beneath his boots.

There’s a beat where we just stare at each other—too long to be polite. Long enough to crack the tension wide open, to let everything we haven’t said start humming between us. My breath stutters in my chest, and the space between us feels thick with things we might do and things we absolutely shouldn’t.I drag my eyes from his and turn toward the back, pulse drumming in my ears. I don’t tell him to follow.

But I leave the door open anyway. It's not an invitation, not exactly—but it’s not a warning, either. Just space. Space he can fill or walk away from.

The silence stretches behind me, then comes the click of the door, the soft tread of boots across worn wood. My pulse jumps.

He follows.

I don’t offer coffee. Don’t need to. He hasn’t come for small talk or coffee.

“I heard about the delivery,” he says, voice low, controlled.

“Which one?” I toss over my shoulder. “The basket of preserves to Widow Ridley, where your wolves tried to muscle me off Hollow Ridge?”

I don’t have to see him to feel the change in the air. It rolls in slow and heavy, coiling between the walls and sliding over my skin like a warning. The hairs on my arms rise, gooseflesh chasing down my spine. It’s subtle—like the pressure changing before a storm, the kind that makes birds go quiet and leaves tremble without wind. The kind of change you feel in your bones before you even know why.

"I admire the way you handled it," he offers.

“Handled it?” I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Do I get a medal or just a pat on the head?”

“Neither. I didn't mean to sound condescending.”

I turn then, arms crossed. “Too late." Before he can respond, I continue, "Let me guess, you’re here to apologize. Offer me protection? Swear you didn’t know?”

His jaw clenches. “I didn’t. But that doesn’t change what happened.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I step closer. “And I don’t need your protection. I’m not some doe-eyed human who wandered too close to the woods.”

His eyes flash, the wolf flickering behind them. “I know exactly what you are.”

“Then stop treating me like I need saving.”

---