Page 25 of Alpha's Heir

A collective sigh rippled through the room. One small victory in a night that had seen too few.

"Thanks, Jenna," I said, my voice gravelly with emotion. "You're a damn miracle worker."

She shook her head. "Just doing my part. But, Weston, you need to rest. You're no good to Cora or anyone else if you collapse."

"I can't," I said, though every cell in my body screamed for sleep. "Not yet. Not until I know she’s safe."

Jenna didn't argue, just placed a hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze before moving on to the next patient.

I was running on fumes, the kind that churned in your gut, made of adrenaline and desperation. The sun clawed its way higher, a ball of spite in a sky that had seen too much. My eyes were scanning the forest, back and forth, until they felt like they'd roll out of my head. And then, like a specter out of the mist, Cora emerged.

She was a shadow of herself, her steps faltering, her clothes torn. My heart lurched, my feet moving before I could process the relief flooding my veins.

"What the hell, Cora?" I spat out as I closed the distance, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice. "What were you thinking?"

Her eyes met mine, and it was like looking into a well of sorrow so deep I feared I'd drown in it. She crumpled then, her body no longer able to bear the weight of her despair, and I caught her, her name a whisper against the chaos of my mind.

"It's hopeless," she sobbed, her voice a threadbare sound, the words repeating like a mantra of defeat. "It's all hopeless."

I tried to piece together the fragments, but they slipped through my fingers like water. She clung to me, her cries a soft keening that struck a dissonant chord in my chest.

I didn't understand, couldn't fathom what had drained the fight from her, but it could wait. She needed care, and I needed her safe.

With an arm around her waist, I guided her away from the trees, away from whatever hell had claimed her spirit. That's when she saw it—the ruin, the ash, the stark aftermath of battle.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice hollow, her eyes trailing the blackened skeletons of homes that used to stand proud and filled with life.

I looked down at her, the dirt on her face, the fatigue etched in every line of her body. "I'll tell you later," I said, my voice firmer than I felt. "When you're clean and rested."

We moved through the compound in silence, the pack members we passed nodding their greetings, their expressions a mix of concern and relief. They knew better than to ask; they saw it in my eyes, the 'not now' clear as day.

Once home, I steered Cora to the shower, the practical part of my brain taking over. I found some clean clothes for her, left them on the bed, and when the water started running, I sank onto the mattress, my head in my hands.

The house was too quiet, the kind of silence that follows a storm, and it weighed on me. I rose, restless, pacing the length of the room. Every fiber of my being screamed to go back out there, to do something, anything, but I was tethered to this spot by her, by the need to see her through this.

When the water stopped, I stood outside the bathroom door, my heart thumping against my ribs. She came out, her hair damp, her face scrubbed clean, but the turmoil in her eyes was still there, raw and unguarded.

I reached for her hand, brought it to my lips, a silent promise that I was there, that we'd face whatever 'hopeless' meant together.

She didn't speak, just leaned into me, her body a fragile thing against mine. And in that moment, I made a silent vow to the powers that be, to the fates that seemed so intent on tearing us apart—I would fix this. Somehow.

The room was dim, the early hours of dawn peeking through the curtains. I lay there, Cora’s head resting on my chest, her breathing evened out in sleep. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, and she looked up at me with a mix of emotions swirling in her gaze.

“I’m sorry, Weston,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “For sneaking out, for all of this.”

“It was stupid,” I agreed, a bit more sharply than I intended, “and reckless. But damn it, Cora, I’m just glad you’re home.”

She winced at my tone, and I instantly regretted my harsh words. Her eyes dropped, a shudder running through her. “I wish I’d never gone,” she said, her voice breaking.

I propped myself on one elbow, looking down at her. “Why? What happened out there, Cora?”

She hesitated, then shook her head faintly. “Tell me what happened here first,” she insisted, her eyes meeting mine, searching for some kind of reassurance.

So, I told her. I recounted every detail of the attack—how the Unseen Pack had come out of nowhere, the chaos, the fear, the fiery destruction that almost consumed us. I described how we fought, how we managed to drive them back, how the flames were doused, and the aftermath we were left with. With each word, I watched her face, saw the color drain from her cheeks, her eyes growing darker, not with fear, but something worse—desolation.

When I finished, there was a heavy silence, the kind that felt like it was suffocating. Cora’s eyes were glassy, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“We’re on our own,” she finally whispered, her voice hollow.

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