Page 1 of Alpha Unbound

PROLOGUE

KATE

McKinley Homestead

Wild Hollow, West Virginia

Thirteen Years Ago

It’s snowing fat, wet flakes when I find him.

Hank, puffed up and pissed off, is huddled in the corner of the chicken coop, honking like a maniac whenever a hen twitches. He’s got a mean streak, even for a Canada goose, and a beak like a snapping turtle. But I see the tremble in his wings.

I see something else, too—something I recognize. That stubborn refusal to go quietly. That look that says, 'I know you’ve already decided what I’m worth, but I’m not done fighting.' Maybe I’m not just saving him. Maybe I’m saving something in myself, too. I see the fear behind the bluster.

And I see the red string tied around his foot—the McKinley family version of a death sentence. It’s something he’s done since before I was born. None of the others ever question it—everyone seems to approve and most of them even help.

Granddad—the unofficial alpha of our bloodline, even if we never said it out loud—does it every year.

He picks one bird, marks it with the string, and says, “That’s Christmas Dinner.” Then someone—usually a cousin looking to score points—rings its neck before supper on the twenty-fourth. It’s tradition.

Hank doesn’t know about tradition. He just knows he’s cold and alone and that something bad is coming.

I crouch down, boots sinking into the straw and mud, and whisper, “Easy now.”

He hisses.

“Don’t make this harder than it already is,” I say, edging closer. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

He lunges. I lunge faster.

I wrap my arms around his flapping, furious body and haul him to my chest. He bites me. Twice. Draws blood. I swear like my Uncle Joey and clutch him tighter, ignoring the sting. I know I’m not just risking bruises—I’m defying the rules written in blood and family loyalty. Girls in this family don’t make waves. They don’t steal dinner. They don’t stand up to Granddad. Not just in this house, either. It’s a rule written across most of the McKinley pack: girls keep their heads down while the boys inherit the fire.

But I do. And there’s no going back now.

“You wanna die out here, go ahead,” I mutter. “But if you wanna live, shut up and come with me.”

He keeps honking. Loud enough to wake the mountains. But I don’t let go.

By the time I get back to the house, my hands are frozen, feathers cover my coat, and Hank is still fighting as if he believes he can win.

Inside, the McKinley kitchen is nothing but clattering chaos. Cousins. Uncles. Wolf-shifters in flannel and denim, and too many opinions. The smells of cider and smoke and roasting meat fill the air. Laughter bounces off the walls.

“Kate, what the hell is that?” Aunt Frankie demands, brandishing a ladle like it’s a weapon.

I square my shoulders. “His name’s Hank.”

“That’s Christmas Dinner, girl.”

“Not anymore.”

Granddad’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. He doesn’t shout. He never has to. “Put the goose down, Kathryn.”

He’s sitting at the head of the table, nursing a mason jar of apple pie moonshine—eyes like chipped slate. His beard’s white, his temper worse. And when he calls me 'Kathryn,' it means I’ve crossed a line.

But I don’t back down. Not this time.

“No.”

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