Page 3 of Alpha Unchained
If he comes back, he’ll have to earn it... all of it.
CHAPTER 1
LUKE
Inever planned to come back.
Some nights, when the world shrank to a shotgun and a bottle of shine in a stranger’s barn, I’d lie awake and try to convince myself I’d burned that bridge so thoroughly, nothing but ashes remained. But Wild Hollow isn’t the kind of place you can outrun—not when you carry its blood in your veins, not when every nightmare smells like mountain laurel and old secrets. Not when the only woman you ever loved is the last thing you see before sleep, every goddamn night.
But it isn’t the memory of Elena that drags me back tonight—it’s something colder, sharper, worming through the static of my burner phone. The past always finds a way to catch up, but this time, it finds me sitting in the blue glow of my dashboard, behind a boarded-up gas station thirty miles past the state line, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, restless energy building in my chest.
I pull out my burner, thumb hovering over the keypad. The number’s always blocked, always hidden. That’s how we do business. I punch in Joe’s digits from memory; the signal scratching out across county lines. It rings twice—then that voiceI haven’t heard since the days I ran shine for my father cuts through, rough as gravel and heavy with warning.
“Joe,” I say, keeping my voice low, steady. “It’s me.”
A pause. Then a rusty chuckle. “Well, hell. I thought I was hearing ghosts. I've never known you to call from a blocked number unless there’s trouble brewing, Luke. And if rumors are correct, there sure as hell is. I figured I might hear from you eventually.”
"What’s got the Hollow buzzing?"
Joe grunts. “McKinleys are sniffing around. Your kin are asking too many questions. Only this ain’t about shine, boy. It’s about a baby.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe. My knuckles go white around the phone, every muscle locked tight.
“You sure?” My voice comes out lower than I mean. Dangerous.
“Dead sure. Your sister’s got the entire pack jumpy."
"Kate's pregnant?"
The old man cackles. "Not that I've heard, but I suspect it ain't for lack of effort on the sheriff's part. But the word is, the baby’s got your blood.”
My blood. Elena.
He doesn’t have to say her name. I hear it in every beat of silence between us.
“Thanks, Joe,” I say.
He just grunts. “Don’t thank me yet. Trouble’s coming, McKinley. You'd better run toward it this time. People in these parts are fond of Elena and they figure that baby's got to be yours so those who are gunning for you might see her as leverage and those that don't, will damn you to hell for knocking her up and walking out on her.”
The line goes dead, but his warning clings to me like the mountain’s damp—cold, hungry, impossible to shake. I tightenmy grip on the phone, restless energy sparking under my skin. The old ache starts up behind my ribs, sharp and hot as ever. I’ve been gone for a while, and the past still knows how to gut me clean.
I’ve spent years killing ghosts—hunting the Sable Rock syndicate, dodging ambushes, outfoxing mercs who never miss twice. Their last message was a body dumped in the Monongahela River, its belly ripped open, eyes gone. That was their way of saying they knew I had something to lose again. I’d convinced myself that leaving Elena behind was some kind of mercy. Now all my self-righteous excuses are circling back, fangs bared.
She’s carrying my baby. My mind snags on the words, rough and raw, carving their way through every defense I built. The ache in my chest goes electric. Fear, need, guilt—fused so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. I close my eyes, her face painting itself behind my lids: wild hair, stubborn chin, eyes sharp enough to cut bone.
There’s no choice left. If the pack’s circling her, if my family’s putting her at risk… I’m done running.
I crank the truck and drive north, the old roads winding under my wheels like a blood trail I can’t ignore.
Wild Hollow is exactly how I left it—steeped in shadows and half-familiar ghosts. The mountain air tastes like memory, sharp and cold, laced with the tang of old moonshine stills and wood smoke. The last hint of night clings to the branches, thick as a curse.
I kill the headlights as I roll past the old county line. Not a soul in sight. But I know better. The McKinleys don’t live in town—they rule the wooded outskirts, their territory marked by old fences and half-buried secrets. Out here, it’s McKinley country—no one moves in these hills without someone from my birth pack, and specifically Waylon, knowing.
I park beneath a knot of old maples and step out, the chill biting through my jacket. The forest is alive with small sounds: a possum snuffling through leaves, a distant owl, the wind threading secrets through the pines. I crouch low, moving silently and carefully. I know every break in this fence, every hollow where a wolf could hide. My blood remembers even when my mind wants to forget.
A single misstep and it’s over. My father used to say the mountain sees everything. Tonight, I hope the ole girl is still on my side.
I keep my head down and let the trees swallow me. My boots leave no sound, each stride calculated, heart drumming wild in my ears. I follow the scent of rain-soaked earth, of moss and damp bark—until the air thickens, charged with something unseen. Something sharp, animal, electric. Not just mountain air. Wolves, specifically wolf-shifters. Close.
