Page 7 of Alpha Unbound

It should be familiar. Comforting, even. But the air is thick, still clinging to that unnatural hush. The hair on my arms won’t lie flat, and there’s a pressure in my chest like the forest hasn’t let us go. Like the shadows followed us through the trees and are just now settling in to watch. Kerrigan’s sitting there like a sentinel, an old rifle across his knees, a chipped enamel mug in his hand, eyes narrowed and face unreadable.

The whole scene feels like something out of an old mountain ghost story—the kind whispered by firelight and never written down. Only now, I’m not sure I’m the audience.

A single dry twig snaps in the woods behind me.

I freeze.

Hank makes a low, throaty noise deep in his chest, something between a warning and a growl. My heartbeat stutters, then kicks hard.

I think I might be in the next chapter.

“Took you long enough,” Kerrigan says, voice gravel and smoke.

“You’re lucky I like you.” I hand over the box.

“You bring the good stuff?”

“Peaches and pie whiskey.”

He grunts, inspecting the jars. Then his eyes flick toward the tree line. “You see anyone on your way up?”

I frown. “No. Why?”

“I’ve seen tracks by the old still site. Fresh ones. Big. Two sets. One smelled off.”

My spine goes tight. “Off how?”

“Like rot. But covered in pine. Like someone’s trying to hide under the wrong scent.”

Hank honks low, uneasy. His head jerks up, feathers twitching, body tense—not like his usual bluster, but something sharper, more instinctive. He doesn’t honk at squirrels or shadows. Not like this. This sound is lower, heavier, vibrating with a kind of primal warning I’ve only heard a handful of times. Every time it meant danger.

He’s picked up something I haven’t yet. Something wrong. And the unease rolls over me in a wave.

“You think it’s tourists poking where they shouldn’t?” I ask.

Kerrigan shakes his head. “Tourists don’t know where to find the old still sites. And they don’t cover their scent.”

I glance toward the woods. The breeze alters its direction—slow, deliberate, as if the mountain itself is exhaling—and something in me stirs. A ripple of warning threads down my spine. Not sharp, but slow and spreading like a shadow at dusk. The trees don’t sway; they lean. The leaves don’t rustle; they whisper. It’s like the forest knows something I don’t know yet. Something it’s not sure I’m ready to hear.

Hudson might’ve been a pain in the ass today, but I have a feeling I’m going to need him before long. And that might be the worst part. Because needing him means opening a door I’ve spent years nailing shut. Letting him in—into my business, my territory, my life—feels a lot like stepping off a cliff and trusting the wind to catch me.

And that man doesn't strike me as gentle landing material. He’s all hard edges and slow-burning fire. He looks at the world like it’s already guilty, and at me like I’m the one who set thecharges. I don’t need his protection. But God help me, a part of me wonders what it would feel like to have it. To stop being the one who holds the line, just for a moment.

I can still feel the heat of his gaze from earlier, the way his voice rumbled low when he warned me about Hank. It settled deep, like a secret I couldn’t shake. I didn’t ask for and can’t quite forget.

That thought alone is enough to make me shove the door shut all over again. I’ve survived without him. I can survive with him watching from the other side of the room. Just not any closer.

“I’ll check it out,” I say.

Kerrigan snorts. “You always were too damn brave for your own good.”

I give him a tight smile, but there’s no humor behind it. “Somebody’s got to look, and I don’t see anyone else getting off their porch.”

As I head back to the truck, Hank trailing close, I can’t shake the feeling that the shadows in the woods aren’t just watching—they’re waiting. There’s a thickness in the air, a breath held too long.

The wind grazes my skin like a warning, and every instinct I have whispers the same thing: trouble is coming.

Hank stays close, closer than usual, his feathers ruffling every time I glance toward the trees. The quiet isn't empty anymore. It’s charged. Heavy. And familiar in the worst way.

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