Page 24 of Alpha Unchained
Instead, I speak to the baby, my palm pressed to my belly.'It’s you and me now. I wish I could tell you everything will be okay. I wish someone had told me how hard it is to be alone—but I promise, you’ll never be alone, not if I have breath left in me.'
A soft knock at the door, and Kate appears. "Ready?"
I nod. We gather our things and head downstairs, lingering at the big front doors as the Rawlings pack comes and goes—errands, work, the quiet rhythm of a life I barely remember how to live.
The drive into town is a strange balm. We pass the old general store, the overgrown field where I fell learning to ride a bike, the stone bridge with initials carved in its side. Every curve in the road is thick with memory—some sweet, some bitter, all of them mine. I watch again for a sign of anything following to appear in my rearview, but the only thing chasing me this morning is my own anxiety.
Kate hums along to the radio, oblivious or pretending to be. She keeps the conversation light, talking about plans for the fall festival, gossip about Mrs. Wallace and her standing order for all the 'filthiest books'—she’s the only customer who asks me to set aside every new Delta James or Sage Matthews' book before anyone else can grab them. I laugh, grateful, and let the words wash over me.
As we pull up behind the Moss & Ink, I squeeze her hand. "Thanks for last night. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t insisted I stay."
"You’d have survived," Kate answers, but she smiles. "But it’s easier with a friend, right?"
"Right."
She heads into the mercantile, and I watch her disappear, wishing I felt half as brave as I pretend to be. Then I square my shoulders, grab my bag, and head for my bookstore.
Inside, everything is as I left it—orderly, full of quiet comfort. I move through my routines, each step a ritual that grounds me. I unlock the back door, take in the familiar creak of the floorboards, open the blinds. The familiar scent—aged paper, ink, and the faintest trace of last night’s storm—settles me further.
Routine steadies me: blinds open, till counted, cart of returns checked, restock list updated. I’m about to flip the sign toOPENwhen something catches my eye. A folded piece of paper slipped through the mail slot, half-hidden by the doormat. My heart jumps.
I kneel, fingers trembling as I pick it up. No name. The paper is thick, the handwriting jagged—black ink pressed too hard into the page. I hesitate, then unfold it.
It’s short. A threat, plain as day:
You don’t belong here. You, the bastard, and the man who marked you—your fates will be decided tonight, at moonrise, at the standing rocks. Don’t get comfortable.
I stare at the words, ice racing through my veins. Every syllable feels carved in bone. A warning—and a promise. Whoever left this wanted me rattled. I read it again, and then a third time. For a moment, I stand frozen; the world narrowing to the paper in my hand, the sound of my own breath, thesudden urge to run. I scan the street—there's no one in sight, but a memory of the dark sedan flashes through my mind. Was it them? Was it one of the McKinleys? Or someone else altogether?
I stare at the paper in my hand, hardly able to breathe. Minutes stretch like hours as I remain rummaging around the store, the old clock’s steady tick filling the quiet space between each breath. Outside, the faint hum of distant traffic drifts through the windows, a soft reminder that the world keeps moving even when I don’t.
The store feels hollow now—the morning rush of regulars, the casual conversations, even Mrs. Wallace’s familiar footsteps with her latest order—all have long since faded into silence and shadow. Sunlight slants in through the front windows, turning the dust motes gold, making the rows of books glow. It’s later than I thought. I realize how empty the store feels with the shadows stretching long across the floor.
I move to the front, pull the sign toCLOSED, and begin the slow process of shutting down for the evening: checking the register, wiping down the counter, switching off the overhead lights. Every sound is too loud, every movement deliberate, my mind circling the words from the note like a predator. When I finally reach the door, I pause, looking out at Main Street—a last glance for anyone watching.
My hands shake as I lock the door for the night. I stuff the note in my bag, grab my phone, and all but jog the few doors down to the mercantile. Kate looks up from the register, her smile vanishing the moment she sees my face.
“Elena?” she asks, voice sharp.
I push the note across the counter. “This came through the mail slot earlier today.”
Kate scans it, her face going pale. She curses under her breath and dials Hudson. “We need to talk. Elena received a threat.”
Her hand finds mine across the counter, squeezing tight. The world outside is still bright and calm, but I know better now. Everything’s about to change.
The bell over the door chimes. Hudson strides in, jaw tight, eyes sharp. “Let me see.”
Kate hands him the note. Hudson reads it once, his face darkening.
Tonight, the moon will rise, and everything will be decided—by blood, by legacy, by the kind of violence I’d only read about in books.
I press my hand to my belly, whispering a promise to the life inside me.‘I will fight for you. I will survive this, whatever it takes.’
But as the sky grows darker and the shadows lengthen on Main Street, and I can’t help but wonder—if I’ll ever see Luke again, or if by the time the moon rises over those standing stones, everything I’ve clung to will be gone.
CHAPTER 11
LUKE
