Page 24 of Alpha Unbound

The hallway stretches behind me, quiet as a grave. I catch the scent of someone ducking behind the door to the den, the soft creak of a floorboard under a weight held still.

Even the walls feel like they’re holding their breath.

Their silence isn’t respect—it’s fear. And maybe that’s for the best. I’m not safe to be around right now. Frayed and furious, my instincts claw for release, stretching my skin too tight. I don’t want company. I want control. And right now, I’m not sure I can trust myself with either.

The tension claws at my skin. My pulse hums with leftover rage, barely leashed. Every breath is too tight, every step too heavy. I don’t remember feeling this out of control since I was a teenager, and even then, it didn’t feel this close to rupture.

I strip down on the back porch, the old wood cold against my bare feet. The shift comes easy—rage makes it that way. The mist rises fast, curling up from the ground like it knows what I need.Lightning flashes through the fog, a crack of thunder splitting the night.

When it clears, the man is gone... and the wolf runs.

I tear through the woods like I’m chasing something—prey, purpose, clarity. My claws tear into the underbrush. My breath steams in the frozen air. But the only thing I’m really chasing is the scream I didn’t let out back at the store. The guilt I didn’t admit. The truth I didn’t want to feel.

That I came too close to ruining the one thing I’ve ever wanted. Not just the woman. Not just the mate my wolf claws at me to claim. But the idea that maybe I could be more than the damage I came back with. That I could be hers. And that I might still be worthy of being wanted back.

Every scent I pass—the sap from broken branches, the faint tang of deer deeper in the hills, the bitter stink of old ash—feels like a taunt. None of it fills the hollow that opened when she pushed me away. None of it silences the echo of her voice, telling me I crossed a line.

The moon overhead is silver and unsympathetic. The wind carries no answers. My paws find every familiar path, but even the forest feels different tonight—less forgiving.

The mountain watches but does not welcome. The Hollow remembers. And now I understand just how deep that truth cuts.

When I return, the frost on my muzzle has melted. Mud cakes my paws. The cold bites deeper now, like it’s trying to gnaw through my bones. I shift back and stalk through the rear door without care for who might be watching. I grab a pair of sweatpants from the stack by the mudroom bench, pulling them on. It doesn't matter that I’m still dripping mud and half-feral. Modesty's never mattered much in this house, but control does. And I need to look like I still have some left.

Eddard waits in the study.

He’s got a fire going and a drink in his hand like he knew I’d come back this way. The room smells like aged oak and something sharper—gun oil, maybe, or the tang of bitter root. A log splits in the fire with a crack like a bone snapping, and the sound burrows deep inside me. It’s too still, too staged. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll explode or fold. The bastard always did enjoy playing the oracle.

The light from the fire casts him in half-shadow, etching the sharp lines of his face and the silver threading his beard in bronze and black. He’s seated like a man holding court—legs spread wide, one hand wrapped around a tumbler of something amber, expensive, and mine. The other rests loose on the arm of the worn leather chair, fingers drumming faintly against the scuffed surface. Calm. Too calm.

He looks like he belongs here. Like he never left.

And that pisses me off more than it should.

“Make yourself at home,” I mutter, voice low and brittle.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look at me.

Just takes a slow sip, swirls the glass like he’s savoring it. “Didn’t have to,” he says finally, eyes flicking up to mine. “I never stopped thinking of it that way.”

The gall of him. The arrogance. That lazy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing and is doing it for sport.

“You’re in my chair,” I snap.

He leans back a fraction, stretches out even further. “Funny. Doesn’t feel like yours.”

My knuckles go white around the glass I’m still holding. The fire behind me cracks, spitting sparks into the room. Rage simmers just under my skin, raw and restless, like it’s looking for a place to land. He still hasn’t blinked. Still hasn’t moved. And the more still he stays, the more I want to shove him out of thatdamn chair and reclaim the space he stole by simply breathing in it.

I walk toward him, towering over him. “Move.”

Eddard looks up as if weighing the odds of taking me on. Realizing they aren’t in his favor he gets up and moves to another seat.

“Good choice.”

This isn’t just about the chair, and we both know it.

Under the anger, quieter and more dangerous, is regret—the same bitter note I felt in the woods when her scent faded from the air. It's not just about what I did or didn’t do when I left to join the Navy, it's about what I almost became—and what I still might if I don’t get this under control.

The flames crackle on. I sit there and take it in, hoping the heat will burn the worst of it away.

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