Page 5 of Alpha Unchained
I step closer, lowering my voice. “I’m here to end this. No more hiding. No more running.”
Kate’s eyes search mine, softer now. “She’s not the same girl you left, Luke. She’s fierce. She’s hurting. And she isn’t going to forgive easily. Not anymore. Neither is anyone else.”
“She's not the only one who won't forgive..."
"You have nothing to forgive. You're the one who needs forgiveness, and I'm not sure you're going to find it this time."
"I did what I had to do..."
"So you tell yourself. You did what was easy, what was expedient. You're a selfish bastard, and I hope she kicks your balls up around your teeth.”
The pack had no named alpha, but Waylon tried to rule by blood and threats. I used to think I was different. But the wolf in me doesn’t ask—it takes. And if I’m going to lead, I need to remember I can’t force loyalty the way he did.
"Tell me how you really feel," I say, trying to keep it lighthearted, but feeling every blow my little sister inflicted.
She isn't wrong. The sting of her words settles in my gut—heavy, inescapable. But I can’t help questioning how right she is. I thought walking away would protect her. All I did was leave her wide open to bleed. Still, doubt or not, I’m not here to ask for forgiveness. I’m here to claim what’s mine.
A sudden crash shatters the quiet—glass breaking, voices rising in the distance.
Kate tenses. “That’s the bookstore."
She turns to run toward danger, not the other way. I stop her. "Go. Call Hudson. I’ll take care of Elena.”
Kate hesitates, then nods. "Don't fuck this up."
I grin—how typically my sister. I turn to run to the bookstore. I don’t waste any time. I’m already moving, the world narrowing to a single thought—Elena.
She’s here. She’s in danger. And this time, I’m not leaving her behind.
CHAPTER 2
ELENA
The bell above the door gives a half-hearted jingle as I turn the key in the lock. Dawn edges in through the shop windows, streaking the shelves with uncertain gray. The Moss & Ink feels bigger in that in-between light—every corner softening, every book spine catching the first weak spill of morning. I’ve come in early to inventory a shipment that finally arrived after days of delay. But it’s easier to shelve new arrivals and fuss with the register than face the silence of my empty apartment.
My body’s tired, but my mind is a hive, humming with worry. My mother’s old mug—still chipped, still refusing to be replaced—waits for me behind the counter, half-full of lukewarm tea. I sip it anyway. Pregnant women aren’t supposed to drink caffeine, but if that’s the biggest rebellion I stage today, the universe can deal with it.
The receipt printer stutters to life as I ring up the first early-morning, online sale, and I stuff the slip in the drawer. I pause in the quiet, letting the hush settle over me. For one breath, it almost feels safe—until a sharp crash snaps the calm. Glass explodes on the floor in the backroom. The sound ricochets through my chest, adrenaline lighting up my nerves.
“Dammit...” I spin toward the noise, heart pounding. The baby kicks in protest, as if warning me to run, but I reach for the heavy flashlight beneath the counter and shove my phone in my pocket, staying rooted in place. I should call for help—but instead, I steady myself, refusing to run from my own shop.
There’s a scraping sound, then the squeak of a window frame. My mind races through every possible threat—disgruntled pack enforcers, a pissed-off customer, another one of those cryptic notes shoved under my door. So many choices, and none of them good.
I force a steadying breath. “If you’re here to steal romance novels, I hope you brought a thesaurus for the dirty bits. And if you’re here to judge, take a number—literary snobs line up around the block.”
A heavy thump, the scrape of sneakers on wood, and then—silence.
I grip the flashlight tighter and creep toward the backroom, staying close to the wall. My foot nudges a stray shard of glass near the threshold—the broken pieces have scattered all the way from the back window to where I stand. I flatten myself against the wall and peek around the corner.
A teenage boy—one of the local delinquents, maybe sixteen—frozen mid-step, one hand already clutching a handful of loose bills from the petty cash box left in the back office. He must have been hoping the noise wouldn’t draw anyone in this early. His eyes are enormous in the gray morning light, face pale.
“Put it down, Danny Price,” I say, low and even, using his name so he knows I’m not just some shopkeeper—he’s not invisible here.
He hesitates, then does, mumbling a curse as he drops the bills. “Didn’t mean nothin’,” he says, backing toward the window he jimmied open.
“I know your mom, Danny,” I add, raising my phone and snapping his picture. “I could call her right now if I wanted.” There’s no real menace in my voice, just weary disappointment—and a warning that he can’t just slip away unnoticed in a place like this. My wolf stirs inside me—impatient, wild, but not threatened by this kid. More annoyed than anything, wishing he’d just take the second chance he’s being offered and get out.
He bolts out the window, sneakers slapping the pavement as he disappears into the early-morning quiet. I press my back to the wall, letting out a shaky breath. Relief and leftover adrenaline war for space in my chest; my heart doesn’t slow, not yet, every nerve on edge, waiting for the next hit of chaos.
