Page 10 of Alpha Unbound

My fingers twitch at my side, jaw tightening, every muscle locked against the urge to close that last inch between us. Even with the cold biting at my skin and every instinct screaming caution, she’s the only thing I feel warm near. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to reach for the heat.

I reach out and brush a leaf from her collar. Slow. Deliberate. My fingers graze the fabric, then the heat of her neck just beneath. Her breath catches, soft and sharp, and her eyes flick up to meet mine. For a second, neither of us breathes. Her pulse jumps under my fingertips, and I feel her lean the tiniest bit toward me before she catches herself.

She doesn’t step back. Her breath is still shallow, pupils wide, lips parted like she’s holding back a dozen things she wants to say—or do. My hand’s still hovering near her shoulder, close enough to feel the electricity rippling off her skin. Gravity pulls me toward her, but her refusal to take that one defiant step devastates me. She could’ve pulled away.

She didn’t.

“You don’t want this,” I murmur.

Her voice drops to a whisper, thick with challenge. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

The space between us crackles like a live wire in a thunderstorm. She’s warm—blazing, really—an anchor and a spark all at once. She’s stubborn in a way that makes me want to press her up against the nearest tree just to see if she’d still talk back with my mouth on hers. She’s too damn close, and every inch of her proximity makes it harder to breathe.

I want her. Not just physically—though every cell in my body is screaming for that—but wholly. Viscerally. With a hunger Ididn’t think still lived inside me. A hunger I swore I’d buried in the deserts and dirt of places I left behind. But she’s not a memory. She’s here. Real. And the pull is unbearable.

And the worst part? I think she knows it.

But the unfamiliar scent still lingers—low, like an echo fading into dark water. It coils under the trees, hidden in bark and moss, waiting to be noticed again. Whoever trespassed isn’t just curious—they’re patient. Calculated. And still close enough to be a threat. The feeling crawls up my spine, setting my teeth on edge.

This isn’t over.

Someone crossed sacred lines and marked the stone with intent. That’s not just disrespect—it’s provocation. And if they’re bold enough to do it once, they’ll do it again.

Soon.

“I need to finish the trail,” I say, pulling back. “Go home, Kate.”

She doesn’t move. “Don’t tell me what to do, Sheriff.”

I turn, biting back a smile I have no business feeling. The heat of her still clings to me like sunlight after the storm, and I can feel the pull of the wild rising again in my blood.

I don’t bother hiding it. The need to track, to protect, tomove—it barrels through me like thunder, and this time I don’t resist.

The mist rolls up from the earth, swirling silver and thick as fog. My skin tingles, muscles stretching and contracting as the shift overtakes me. Lightning cracks in the distance—low and rolling—just as my bones vanish into fur.

When the fog clears, I’m wolf again, and I run.

Because whatever this is between us—this fire, this fight, this line we seem to be daring each other to cross? It’s only just getting started.

CHAPTER 4

KATE

My family’s history is interwoven with Wild Hollow like moonshine in mason jars—unofficial, unfiltered, and just dangerous enough to be respected. We weren’t the kind that held council seats or threw our weight around in meetings. We were the kind that got things done in the shadows, behind barns and under the cover of the mists or fog. Moonshiners, smugglers, poker cheats and charmers—we’ve been called worse. And most of it’s true.

But not all of it.

Some of us wanted something more. Something different.

Like my brother, Luke.

Luke McKinley wasn’t like the rest of the family. He questioned everything—the way the pack handled disputes, the old rituals no one could explain. Said rules without reason were just chains.

I remember once when we were kids, we found a wounded fox caught in a snare behind the east ridge. The rest of us wanted to put it down quick—clean, merciful. But Luke? He sat with it for hours, hands bloody, trying to free it without causing more pain. Said we owed it that much. That there was a difference between mercy and convenience. It was the first time I sawhe thought differently—felt deeper. That he couldn’t walk away from something broken, not without trying to fix it.

He was sharp, introspective, always thinking ten steps ahead.

He’d sit at the edge of the porch for hours, staring out at the tree line like it might offer answers none of us were ready to hear. Where most of us leaned into the McKinley legacy of moonshine and mischief, Luke wanted something more. He didn’t just talk about change—he believed in it. Said Wild Hollow deserved better. Said we did, too.

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