Page 27 of Alpha Unbound

I wrap my fingers around the strap of my satchel and retrace my steps, faster now. Each snap of a twig underfoot sounds like a warning. My boots slip once on a patch of black ice, and I catch myself hard against the trunk of a pine. Bark scrapes my palm. I curse under my breath and push off, refusing to look back. Whatever—or whoever—is behind me can’t know I’m rattled. Not yet.

Luke wasn’t paranoid. He wasn’t chasing shadows or spinning stories like I used to think. Something real, something big enough to make even a stubborn bastard like him walk away from everything he loved, had captured his attention. He was right. Dead-on right.

And maybe he wasn’t just trying to disappear. Maybe he was trying to protect us... me. Shielding me from whatever he’d seen,whatever he'd gotten tangled in. Leaving behind the clues he could without drawing attention, trusting I’d be smart enough to find them and strong enough to follow the trail. That’s the kind of brother he was—reckless, secretive, infuriating—but loyal. Always loyal.

There’s a rustle to my left—just enough to make my wolf stir. I freeze mid-step, breath caught in my throat, eyes scanning the dense underbrush that crowds the edges of the trail. Nothing moves. No sound follows. But the hair on my arms is already standing up, my skin prickling with the unmistakable awareness of being watched. Not imagined. Not paranoia. Something—or someone—is out there. And it’s close.

I don’t run. Not yet. Running triggers pursuit—and I don’t want to look like prey. But I do move quicker, weaving through the trees with more urgency now, every footfall calculated, quiet, deliberate. I count each step like a heartbeat, marking the distance with the rhythm of survival.

The forest feels like it’s narrowing behind me, shadows folding inward. Every snap of a twig might be something following.

My breath comes fast now, misting in the cold air, as I break the tree line and finally spot the gravel edge of the fire road where I left my truck up ahead. Relief doesn't come, not really. But I let it in just enough to keep moving.

By the time I make it to the road, my legs are burning and my lungs hurt, the chill biting deeper with every breath, but I don’t stop. Not for anything. My fingers fumble for the keys before I’ve even reached the door, nerves jangling, pulse a roar in my ears. I throw myself into the cab and slam the door shut, locking it with a punch of the button and a flick of my eyes to the mirrors. Nothing. Just trees.

But I’m not fooled. That quiet isn’t empty—it’s listening. Watching. And every instinct in me is screaming that this isn’t over. That it never was.

I sit for a long second, breath fogging the windshield in frantic bursts, hands trembling against the steering wheel like they might let go of the fear clamped around my ribs. The engine turns over with a growl, but I don’t put it into gear. Not yet. Not until I’ve caught my breath enough to make sure I’m not driving blind—because whatever that was back there, it’s not finished with me. Not even close.

I glance at the glove box, where I keep a small pistol tucked inside a false bottom—a last resort, a line in the sand. I’d put it there after Hank chased off a drifter with grabby hands and wandering eyes last spring, when I realized even in a town like Wild Hollow, not every threat comes with claws or fur. I haven’t needed it since. But the weight of its possibility has never felt heavier than it does now.

Because now, I feel it. That line between fear and knowing—the cold certainty that whatever this is, it’s already inside the lines we drew to keep the world out. Just like Luke said it would be. Just like he warned me, pacing that attic like a man being hunted, eyes wild with truths no one else wanted to hear. Whatever Luke was running from, it’s not just close. It’s here. And it knows I found it.

My phone buzzes on the seat beside me. Unknown number. One word...

RUN.

My heart skips a beat—suspended for one breathless second—before slamming into overdrive, pounding like it’s trying to break free of my chest. Adrenaline surges fast and fierce,flooding my limbs with heat, and every nerve in my body sparks awake as if I’ve been plugged into a live wire.

The Hollow isn’t just remembering… it remembers. This isn’t just a message. It’s a pattern. A signal. And if they were watching him... they’re watching me now, too.

And it’s getting bolder. Not content to linger in shadows or whisper threats in the dark. Now, it’s making moves—deliberate, strategic. Whatever this game is, I’m in it. And the next move might already be coming for me.

CHAPTER 11

HUDSON

The call comes in at 6:17 a.m.

Blocked number. Garbled voice, thick with static and distortion software. Could be local. Could be four states over. And that’s what makes it worse—nothing to trace, nothing to pin down. No scent. No slip. Not even a damn accent I can anchor to. Just static and vagueness and the sense I’m being led by a ghost. I hate this kind of game. No follow-up. No leverage. It’s like someone dangling a thread above a fire and daring me to grab it before it burns away. And it’s working—because I’m already moving.

“Cabin. Bearclaw Ridge. West side. He was there.”

Then nothing... just dead air.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m tearing up the fire road, frost crunching beneath my truck's tires, steam rising from the hood in the frosty morning light. The woods are gray and brittle, the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. Even the birds are silent—no crows, no songbirds, not even the rustle of wings. It’s the kind of unnatural stillness that makes your instincts flare, that prickles against the back of your neck like you’re being watched. Like something’s gone still, just waiting for you to step wrong. I don’t need more intel. I don’t need a second opinion.My gut’s already convinced—this isn’t some prank or wild goose chase.

This is bait. Or it’s proof Luke is alive. Either way, I’m not leaving without answers.

And damn if it doesn’t rankle me that I don’t have more to go on. No license plate. No footprint. No residual heat signature, no traceable signal from the call. Every angle I’d normally chase is a dead end—cleaned, erased. Like they knew exactly what I’d look for and scrubbed it before I could blink. Someone is manipulating me with misleading clues, frustrating me because I was trained to avoid this.

It’s a hell of a thing, being out-hunted in your own territory. It hits like a bruise to the pride—deep and dull and impossible to ignore. My training taught me to see patterns in chaos, to track enemies through bombed-out terrain halfway across the world, and now I’m stumbling through my own mountains as if I’ve forgotten how to hunt. That frustration curdles into something sharper—humiliation, maybe. A flash of failure from a mission I try not to think about—one where the trail went cold and people paid the price. I swore I’d never let that happen again.

Bearclaw Ridge is the kind of place you only end up if you’re running from something—or hiding something you never want found. Abandoned hunting leases, rusted traps, the bones of moonshine cabins long since swallowed by moss and shadow. Even the locals keep their distance. Which makes it damn near perfect for anyone looking to go invisible. No cell reception. No traffic. No chance of a random hiker stumbling in.

I know every inch of this ridge and it still unsettles me—because even with all that familiarity, the place feels like it’s trying to swallow anything that doesn’t belong. And today, I don’t belong. I’m not hunting. I’msearching.

And this place? It’s not giving up its secrets easily. Every broken branch could be two days old or ten. Every footprint, ifthere were any, has long since faded into damp mulch and rot. It’s like chasing a ghost through a graveyard. And that burns. Because I’ve chased ghosts before—and they almost always leave bodies behind.

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