Page 17 of Alpha Unbound

I growl once—low and full of promise, my voice riding the rumble of the wild still burning in my bones. It rolls through the clearing, sharp and sure, a sound that belongs to the Hollow itself. It carries teeth and history and warning. I want them to feel it in their marrow, to remember that red doesn’t mean lesser—it means fire.

They hesitate, eyes locked on mine. Then the silver-gray wolf lowers his head slightly in acknowledgment—more of a warning than respect—and turns. His companion moves with him, both of them keeping their bodies low and their gazes sharp as they back away.

They don’t run. They don’t posture further. They simply fade into the underbrush with a silent efficiency that says they got what they came for—or at least enough to walk away for now.

But they retreat. They yield the path. And that, in this place and under these rules, means I won.

I don’t chase. I don’t flinch. I just hold their gaze until the forest takes them back. And in that silence, I stand taller. Not just red wolf—but threat. Warning. Answer.

The moment they disappear, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Relief crashes in behind the adrenaline, leaving my legs just a little shaky, my heartbeat thudding unevenly in my chest. I stood my ground, but it could’ve gone so differently. They could’ve lunged. I could’ve bled.

But they didn’t. And I didn’t... for today, that is enough.

I grab the basket meant for Widow Ridley in my jaws and run. The rest of the hike blurs—just scent and sound, heat and motion. Adrenaline drives me forward, the air thick with the taste of almost. Almost lost control. Almost let them see too much. My paws tear through the underbrush like I can outrun the moment, like speed alone could strip away the weight of what just happened.

When I reach Widow Ridley’s porch, I drop the basket carefully in front of the door, nudge it into place, pull out my spare set of clothing, and then leap up to tug the frayed cord that rings her bell. It clangs once—low and familiar—and I step back, tail high and wagging, head level, waiting.

The door creaks open, and Widow Ridley peers out.

For a second, I’m twelve again, bringing jam jars and fresh biscuits to her doorstep under Mama’s watchful eye, legs scraped from running through brush and hair wild with river water. Back when Luke was still just my older brother and not a shadow in the woods. Widow Ridley had been there through all of it—births, deaths, and backroom whiskey deals. Seeing her now, squinting through the mist at my four-legged form, feels like some strange, steady thread in the tangle of everything that’s come undone. Peering past the screen and squinting through the haze. "Kate," she murmurs, not surprised in theleast to see me on four feet. "Brought the preserves. And what's this?"

She crouches slowly and lifts the cloth napkin to reveal the fresh banana bread tucked on top, neatly wrapped in wax paper and still smelling faintly of banana, brown sugar and roasted walnuts.

"Well, aren’t you full of kindness today," she says, smiling like she can still see the girl I used to be under the fur.

I huff once—soft, a sound close to a laugh—and dip my head.

Only when she closes the door and I hear the latch slide home, do I pick up my clothing bundle, turn and trot back into the woods.

I don’t shift back until I’m tucked deep in the cover of trees near the cabin, heart still thundering in my chest, lungs heaving. I pause, taking one last moment in this form where everything feels cleaner, clearer, stripped of second-guessing.

Then I let the mist take me.

It rises from the ground like breath from the Hollow itself, thick and laced with light. It wraps around my body, drawing the wolf inward and peeling humanity back over my bones. The cold hits first—then the air, then the vulnerability. My skin prickles as the fur disappears, and I’m left panting, naked, raw in a way that has nothing to do with modesty.

I press a hand against a tree trunk to steady myself, the bark rough and grounding against my palm. My legs still feel loose, blood buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the aftermath. I close my eyes, let my forehead rest against the trunk, and exhale a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The Hollow is quiet around me now—less judgmental, more watchful. Like it saw everything and decided, just this once, I passed. There are days when I feel like the woods are waiting for me to fail, to fall short of whatever legacy Luke left behind. Butnot today. Today, I feel like it held its breath with me. That it let me walk away not just because I earned it, but because, maybe, it wanted me to. Maybe this place doesn’t just test you. Maybe it protects what it claims.

I breathe deeply while I pull on my clothes and boots quickly. No one’s around, but I take the long way home just in case.

By the time I reach the edge of town, the weight of what just happened is settling in my shoulders. I’m exhausted, but the quiet of the woods clings to me like mist.

When I finally reach the store, it's still and silent, like it’s been waiting too. I head upstairs, strip out of my dirt-smeared clothes, and pull on a sweatshirt that smells like old pine and home. Hank flaps from his perch onto the floor and trails me to the kitchen.

“You’d have loved it,” I tell him. “Big macho posturing. Real caveman shit.”

He honks.

I lean against the counter, heartbeat finally slowing, and let my eyes drift toward the old shelf near the window—a corner of the store I know like the back of my hand. But something tugs at my attention, subtle but persistent. A photo frame is tilted—just barely. Not enough for a customer to notice. But I do. The kind of off-kilter that whispers rather than shouts, and suddenly, I’m not just looking—I’m bracing.

I walk over.

It’s a picture of Luke and me, mid-laugh, muddy from one of our creek runs—my arm slung over his shoulders, his hair a wild mess of curls and leaves, both of us grinning like we didn’t have a care in the world. The kind of moment that belonged to before. Before the silence. Before the fear. Before everything broke.

Behind it, a folded note.

I open it. Recognize the handwriting before I even read the first word.

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