Chapter 2 — The Alpha's Hunt
1518 Words
Rain was bitter with blood and fury.
Dante Thorn crouched in the forest gloom, chest heaving, every muscle crying out in outrage.
His wolf form clung to life by a thread, the gash down his shoulder burning like fire, but all of it meant nothing.
None of it mattered.
Except for one thing.
Her.
The girl.
His mate.
Golden eyes ablaze, Dante pulled himself upright, changing slowly, excruciatingly, as the storm raged about him.
Bone and flesh contorted, fur contracting into skin, a silent scream ripping through him as he transformed into his human form.
Naked, shaking, bleeding—but alive.
Reality snapped into finer focus.
Her scent lingered in the air, honey and wild even above the metallic stench of his own blood.
He drew breath deep, feeling the bond set its roots deep in his bones, in the farthest, most primal regions within him.
Destiny had finally caught up with him.
After all these years of running, after all the betrayals and blood—
She'd found him.
Touched him.
Rescued him.
A low, rumbling growl began to build in his chest, rocking the empty woods.
And he'd allowed her to walk away.
Not acceptable.
Dante curled and flexed his fingers, bunching them into fists as lightning ripped the sky. He would go find her. He would claim her, mark her, bind her to him in ways she could never escape.
Nothing—and no one—would separate her from him now.
He lurched through, following the faint trail she had left behind, his sharp senses cutting through the storm like a blade.
Between the trees.
Across the muddy ground.
Down the shattered streets of Hollow Creek, where the town's lights flared like dying coals.
Every step pounded with pain.
His injuries screamed at him to stop, to rest.
But the beast inside him—the Alpha—snarled louder.
Mate.
Find her.
Claim her.
He moved through the streets like a phantom, unseen, the storm hiding him from the handful of late-night stragglers hurrying home.
Her scent led him by the dimly lighted diner, the humming neon sign creaking overhead.
Through boarded-up shop fronts, and rusty street lamps.
He caught sight of himself in a shattered window—blood dripping from the gash on his shoulder, muddy footprints behind him.
The civilized part of his brain reminded him to stop.
Heal.
Clean up.
But he was no longer civilized.
Not when she was near.
He kept going, driven by something beyond instinct—something primal, something absolute.
And then he saw her.
Standing in the street in front of him, beneath the awning of a crumbling apartment building, fiddling with her keys.
Her hair was wet, plastered against her neck.
Her clothes were clung to her bony frame.
She was exhausted, shoulders curved under some hidden weight.
But even at a distance, she sparkled to him.
Bright.
Perfect.
His.
Dante hesitated, every muscle in his body stretched to the breaking point with yearning.
The urge to sprint to her, to pick her up and squeeze her close and never let her go was almost too strong to resist.
But he restrained himself, shaking muscles with control.
She was human.
She didn't know what she was.
Didn't know who he was.
Didn't know the bond already binding their souls together, hidden and unbreakable.
If he hurried, he might scare her.
Lose her.
And that—
That was something he would never risk.
So he waited.
Watched.
Felt the bond between them humming, heavy and alive in the stormy night.
Aria at last managed to pull the door open and slipped away inside, out of sight into the building's darkness.
Dante drew a slow breath, forcing himself to turn away.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
He needed to be strong when he confronted her.
Whole.
He would heal.
He would train.
And when he came back for her, there would be no more sneaking away.
No more goodbyes.
She would belong to him.
For all eternity.
---
A few hours later, Dante stood beneath the cold spray of the motel shower, blood and dirt coursing down shattered tiles.
The cheesy room stank of mildew and despair, but he didn't care.
It was a temporary den.
All that had concerned him was becoming strong enough to take what was his.
He pushed a hand against the gash in his shoulder, grimacing.
The wound was deep, deeper than it should have been.
Silver-tipped claws.
He could still scent the bastard who'd attacked him—one of the rogue packs pursuing him since he'd left the council's bloody games behind.
But they'd made a deadly error.
They'd pushed him directly into her arms.
He winced, showing sharp white teeth.
Fate had always been a cruel mistress.
Tonight, she had finally seen fit to grant him a wish.
Dante stepped out of the shower, drying himself in a hurry.
He put on the spare clothes he'd grabbed from the emergency kit he'd stashed away in the woods—jeans, dark hoodie, boots.
Nothing fancy.
Nothing that screamed billionaire heir to the throne of Thorn Pack.
He no longer needed titles or wealth.
He only needed her.
Their bond pulsed in his veins, hotter, tighter, minute by minute.
It was going to only grow worse.
The pull would become too much to endure.
Mates had to be separated for so long before the bond drove them mad—or killed them.
He wasn't going to risk it.
Tomorrow.
He would see her.
Talk to her.
Make her see what they were to each other.
If she ran.
He would follow her.
If she fought.
He would court her.
If she fought him.
He would break every vow he had ever made to keep and take her anyway.
Because Aria Blake was his.
By blood.
By bond.
By fate.
And nothing—not even the girl herself—could change that now.
---
Huddled in her tiny bed, back in town, Aria tossed and turned, fever dreams tangling her mind.
She dreamed of golden eyes looking back at her out of the darkness.
Of a voice saying her name, low and rough and heavy with longing.
Of a touch she'd never experienced—but somehow required more than air.
When she woke up at dawn, heart racing, sheets wrapped around her body, the feeling remained on her skin.
Warm.
Heavy.
Inevitable.
She placed a trembling hand against her chest, her heart hammering against her ribcage.
Something was coming.
Something she couldn't escape.
And somehow, in the space where reason had no voice, she didn't want to.
---
The next morning was grey and heavy, clouds still low over Hollow Creek.
Aria strode down the cracked sidewalk to Rosie's Diner, coffee thermos in hand, yawning behind her sleeve.
It had been odd last night.
No—past odd.
She couldn't shake the vision of those golden eyes.
The way the wolf had looked at her—as if she were something special.
Something meant for him.
She shook her head emphatically.
Get a grip, Aria.
It was only a hurt animal.
A big, uncomfortably intelligent hurt animal, but nevertheless.
She pushed through the diner door, the bell above ringing, and was hit at once with the familiar scents of burned coffee, bacon grease, and lemon-scented floor disinfectant.
Normal.
Safe.
Predictable.
She was in need of predictable right then.
Gliding behind the counter, she strapped on her apron and picked up the coffeepot, psyching herself up for another long, miserable shift.
Maybe if she kept herself occupied, she could shake the strange feeling of being attracted to him.
The empty ache in her chest she'd only realized last night.
The door jingled again.
Aria glanced up instinctively—and nearly knocked over the coffee pot.
He stood in the doorway, rain trickling from the hem of his black hoodie, boots thudding on the tile floor.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Wild.
Even in jeans and a T-shirt, there was something about him, something dangerous and impossible to ignore.
And his eyes—
Golden.
Just like the wolf's.
They locked gazes across the room, and Aria's breath caught agonizingly in her throat.
The link flared to life between them, hot and burning and terrifying.
She couldn't budge.
Couldn't breathe.
Could only stay there, frozen, as the stranger—the man—began toward her, slow and deliberate.
With each step he took, her heart pounded faster.
Made the intangible thread between them tighten.
By the time he struck the counter, he said nothing at first.
He stood there, dripping water onto the floor, eyes ravenous over her as though memorizing every inch of her.
Aria swallowed hard.
"May I. help you?"
His voice was low, rough, laced with something menacing and sweet.
"Found you," he breathed.
Before she could talk, before she could even think, he leaned over the counter, close enough that she could feel the warmth off of his body—and inhaled her.
As if she was all that ever was.
As if he'd starved for her, and now that he'd found her, he'd never release her.
- Writer
