Page 42 of Alpha Unbound

“I need answers,” I say.

“I figured.” She gestures toward the kettle on the stove. “Tea’s hot.”

“I’m not here for tea.”

“No, you’re here to shake the dust off ghosts.”

We sit. Or rather, I perch on the edge of her armchair, every muscle tight, my foot bouncing while Elena moves with the glacial patience of someone who’s holding more answers than she's ready to give. She pours tea into two mismatched mugs—one chipped at the rim, the other stained at the bottom from too many refills. Her hands are steady, her face unreadable. I don’t touch mine. The scent of bergamot wafts up anyway, irritatingly calm in the face of everything twisting inside me.

“Elena,” I say carefully, “how deeply were you involved with Luke?”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look surprised. Just sets the kettle down with a quiet finality, clicks off the burner like she’s been waiting for this moment longer than I’ve known, and takes a long sip of her tea—buying time, maybe. Or bracing herself.

“I loved him,” she says finally.

The words hit hard, sharper than I expect. She’s never said it before—not to me, not to anyone, I’d bet. Her voice didn’t break, but something in her eyes flickered like it wanted to. For a second, I see past the sharp edges and steady hands. I see grief. I see love that never got the ending it deserved. And suddenly, I’m not just angry for me. I’m angry for her, too.

“And he trusted you.”

She nods. “He did.”

“So where did he go?”

“That’s not an answer I have.”

“Elena.” I lean forward. “Don’t stall me. Not now.”

She exhales, slow and ragged, like she’s about to do something she promised herself she never would. Then she leans forward and reaches beneath the cushion of the chair, her hand disappearing into the shadows there. When her hand reappears, she holds a small, worn tin box, dented at the edges, as if it has spent too long in a pocket that weathered too many storms. She opens it with a quiet snap. Inside, nestled between old receipts,yellowed notes, and a photograph of Luke I didn’t know she had, is a sealed USB drive.

She stares at it for a second, thumb brushing the metal, and I realize this isn’t just a handoff. It’s a confession. A release. A goodbye she never got to give.

“I went looking for answers after he disappeared. I found this. There was a note wrapped around it telling me not to open it unless things got... bad.”

“Give me your definition of bad... because I'm thinking when he disappeared without a trace would qualify for bad.”

She looks me dead in the eye. “I understand what you're saying, but he was gone, so I thought I should just hold on to it. But with how spooky everything seems right now, now would be the time.”

I take the flash drive. It feels heavier than it should.

“Be careful with that, Kate. Whatever’s on it—he was afraid of it.”

At the store, I find Hank perched on the counter, one foot planted firmly in a half-crushed box of granola bars, his beady eyes sharp as ever. He glares at me, lets out a low, indignant honk, then resumes picking apart the wrapper with his beak. Determined, chaotic, and completely unfazed.

“Hey,” I say softly, crouching near the counter. “We’re moving.”

He tilts his head, blinks, and honks again—quieter this time. Then, with a flutter of wings, he hops down from the counter to the floor, webbed feet slapping softly against the tile. He waddles in a slow circle before pecking at my boot. I take it as understanding.

“To the compound. Safer there. Less chance of you getting mistaken for some rogue snack.”

In the backroom, I dig through a storage drawer until I find what I’m looking for—an old strip of red leather I’d been saving. I cut it, punch a few holes, and fasten a small buckle. Not because Hank is a pet, but because if anyone in the Rawlings pack sees a goose flapping through their woods without a mark, someone might decide he’s dinner.

He watches me with suspicious patience while I loop it around his long neck, craning his head in that sassy, jerky way only Hank can manage. The collar settles snug just above the base of his feathers. He honks once—sharp and offended—and hops backward a step. Then he fans his wings wide and flaps hard, sending a burst of wind into my face, like he's making a point. A beat later, he gives me a side-eye glare, ruffles his feathers, and stands there like a smug little statue.

Still his own bird. Still ungovernable.

“I know,” I mutter, adjusting the fit. “You’re still free. You’re still a menace. Just... don’t get eaten, okay?”

He lets out a snort-honk that sounds like agreement. Or insult. Hard to tell with Hank.

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