Page 51 of Alpha Unbound

“You don’t get to talk about him,” I snarl, pressing harder. “You don’t get to stand here like you didn’t betray your own.”

“He wasn’t one of us,” Karl rasps. “Neither is she.”

I knock him down. Hard. The ground cracks beneath him. He gasps but doesn’t get back up.

“You sold out your pack for what?” I snarl. “Money? Power? A promise from people who leave bodies in their wake?”

He laughs, and it’s the sound of rot—wet, guttural, and wrong. It bubbles up from his chest like bile, like the bones of every lie he told are breaking free to choke him.

“I did it because you forgot who and what the Rawlings pack is supposed to be.”

I bare my teeth. “No. I remembered exactly who we’re supposed to be. And now we’re cleaning house.”

Eddie steps forward behind me. “Want me to take him back, Alpha?”

I nod once, eyes still locked on Karl. “I need you here. Have one of the others take him and put him in isolation. Ensure the others hear what he did.”

Karl glares up at me, bloody and beaten. Good. Let them all see the cost of betrayal.

I watch Karl being hauled away. A trace of something hits me like static—barely there, but sharp and humming with danger. It smells of leather worn thin, wood smoke caught in fabric, and the dry, ozone tang of an old storm. My hackles rise before my mind catches up, instincts snarling as recognition brushes the edge of memory.

My heart stutters, and something primal stirs beneath my skin—my wolf prowling forward, alert and hungry.

It’s like brushing up against a ghost I never laid to rest.

But it’s there. Familiar. Feral. Threaded through the air like a memory.

Luke... again.

My pulse kicks hard, thudding against my ribs like a warning drum. I pivot, muscles coiled, hunting the source. The scent twists and drifts—elusive, threaded with solvent and decay—but underneath it clings like static.

Him.

Not old blood, not grief—not yet. Just a trace. A footprint in the dark.

My breath shortens. My wolf stirs beneath the surface, a low growl echoing through my chest, hackles rising with recognition. He doesn’t pace—he anchors a sentinel locked on the scent like it’s a target he’s been waiting to strike.

I kneel, fingers sinking into the damp earth as I part the tangle of undergrowth. The brush gives way slowly, stubborn against my touch—then the fabric emerges, half-buried, dirt-clung and torn, its edges fluttering faintly in the breeze like a signal waiting to be found. There it is.

A scrap of cloth. Green and gray. Torn along the seam. My breath catches—just for a second. My heart kicks, and my wolf rises, ears pricked, recognizing the lingering scent clinging to the threads. Luke. The scent is faint, almost lost in the noise of fuel and decay, but it’s there, raw and real. My fist clenches around it, rage and hope coiling tight in my chest. It’s frayed, but unmistakable.

The same jacket he always wore when he came into the store—the one with the frayed left cuff where he used to tug at the seam when he was nervous. I remember how it smelled faintly of cedar and motor oil, how he’d lean over the counter and tease Kate while thumbing through the old coin jar. That scrap of fabric in my hand isn't just proof—the one he never took off—it’s a memory made flesh, and it makes the air around me feel heavier, more charged.

Kate crouches beside me, reaching for it with trembling fingers. She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t even blink. But her breath hitches—just once—and her spine straightens like she’s bracing against a blow.

Her jaw tightens, lips pressed into a line that dares the world to push her one inch further. Her fingers curl into fists at her sides, a tremor betraying the storm she’s holding back. It’s not fear. It’s rage threaded with grief—controlled, but coiled tight, waiting for the right moment to strike. Every inch of her screams restraint, but her hand trembles harder now, defiance and grief warring just beneath the surface.

"He was here," I say. "Maybe recently."

Kate nods slowly. “He left it for us to find.”

A chill crawls up my spine. Not just because of the message, but the implications. Every instinct I have prickles awake, the kind of warning that coils low in the gut and refuses to be reasoned with.

The forest is hushed, every branch and leaf frozen, like the whole place is bracing for what comes next. Something about this reeks of setup, of danger close enough to taste.

“He’s still alive.”

Kate looks up at me, eyes hard. “Or he was. Until they realized he got too close.”

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