Page 32 of Alpha Unchained
His hand finds mine, warm and rough. “Elena… I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if I have to.”
“You might have to,” I whisper. “But you’re off to a decent start.”
He leans in, brushing his lips against my cheek, my jaw, the corner of my mouth. I let him. More than that—I melt into it. There’s no heat in the kiss, not this time. It’s soft, reverent. A promise.
I finish cleaning his wounds, bandaging the worst of them. When I’m done, he catches my wrist.
“Thank you.”
I shake my head. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t give me another reason to break out the gauze.”
He nods, but doesn’t let go. He’s quiet for a long beat, eyes tracking mine like he’s weighing what to say next. Then, almost cautiously, he says, “We should talk about the baby.”
I go still. My heart thuds once, loud and sharp in my ears.
“What about the baby?”
“About us,” he says. “About how I want to be there. Really be there. Not just in the shadows, not just when it’s convenient. I want to be a father. And I want to be with you. About all the things I should already have done.”
I stare at him, my throat thick. For a moment, I can’t speak.
He barrels on. “I know I left. I know I hurt you. But I won’t do it again. You and this baby—you’re my future, Elena.”
“I want that,” I blurt. “I do. For me. And for the baby. I want you.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for months.
I press a hand to my belly; the baby fluttering inside me like it knows it’s being talked about. “You’re going to be a good father. I can see it already.”
“And you,” he says, voice full of wonder, “You’re already the fiercest mother I’ve ever known. And that’s saying a lot. My mother gave new meaning to the word fierce. You're cut from the same cloth as she and Kate.”
We sit like that for a while, wrapped in morning light and shared breath, our future stretching out in front of us like the spine of a well-read novel—worn, familiar, and full of promise.
“What kind of life do you want?” I ask eventually, my voice barely above a whisper.
Luke glances out the window, where pale sunlight filters through frost-tipped leaves, their edges catching just enough gold to hint at the coming change. "A quiet life," he says softly, "an honest one. I want mornings like this—with you beside me. “I want to build something real—with dirt under my nails andyour voice in the next room. I want to be the man our kid looks up to, not the one who disappears when things get hard. I want to rebuild what’s been broken—the McKinley name, the damage Waylon left behind, the rift with the Rawlings. And maybe, in time, even your heart. I want to watch things mend, watch them thrive. I want to see you in your bookstore, fierce and radiant, fighting for every story like it matters. I want that life with you, Elena. More than I’ve ever wanted anything."
It shouldn't make me tear up. But it does.
I lean into him, resting my forehead against his. "You might get that if you don’t screw it up."
He smiles faintly. "No pressure, huh?"
"Not a bit," I murmur, and then we just sit there for a while, not speaking, the quiet thick with things we don’t need to say.
Eventually, my stomach betrays me with a loud, indignant growl, breaking the hush that’s settled over us. Luke startles, then laughs—a deep, rich sound that wraps around my ribs and loosens something tight inside me. I can’t help but join him, my own laughter bubbling up, soft and surprised. It vibrates in my chest like the echo of something long forgotten—joy, maybe. Or hope. For a few seconds, the room feels lighter. So do I.
"Breakfast," I say, getting to my feet. "Come on. Kate promised bacon, and I’m not above using the baby as an excuse to steal the last piece."
"If anyone can outmaneuver Kate when it comes to bacon, it’s you and our baby,” he says with a soft chuckle.
He winces slightly as he rises, careful and deliberate in his movements. Gently, he slips his shirt off my body and pulls it on, each motion slow and measured. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t make a sound beyond the quiet exhale of effort, but I can see the pain etched into the set of his jaw. Still, he moves like a man who won’t let a little thing like bruised ribs stop him from showing up.
I watch him dress. Watch the careful way he moves, the bruises he doesn't try to hide, the quiet way he rolls his shoulders like he's preparing to take on the weight of everything we’ve left unsaid. It stirs something in me—admiration, fear, longing. Maybe all of it at once.
I cross the room to where Kate had left a folded stack of my clothes on the chair last night—leggings, a soft cotton tee, and a flannel that smells faintly of lavender and sun-dried cotton. I pull them on quickly, grateful for the warmth and the small gesture of comfort from someone who knows how hard it is to keep moving forward when the past is still clawing at your heels. There’s a mirror on the far wall, but I don’t need to glance at it to know how I look. The way he’s watching me—like I’m everything he never stopped wanting—tells me all I need to know.
Downstairs, the Rawlings kitchen is a small kind of chaos—the good kind. Coffee brewing, biscuits on the table, someone left a record spinning low in the next room. It’s too domestic, too warm, too real not to ache a little.
