Alpha’s Relic

Episode 2 – The Girl He Didn’t Choose

Quinn Murphy’s loft smelled faintly of coffee and rain—but not pine, or musk, or the scent of ritual and rank. Not the pack. Not him. Beneath it all was the sharp tang of tension she couldn’t quite place.

Her wolf didn’t stir here. Not in the city. Not without the familiar pull of the land or the low, steady thrum of pack magic woven into the air. The silence inside her—instinct, pulse, animal—felt unnatural. Like a song missing its rhythm.

The space around her reflected the life she’d built—high ceilings with exposed beams, clean lines, and curated simplicity. Art-lined walls in muted tones, a leather sofa she’d saved for months to buy, and a vintage bar cart that gleamed under warm Edison bulbs.

Everything here had been chosen. Earned.

Outside, the city pulsed with its usual chaos—sirens, car horns, and the muffled thump of bass from the bar across the street. Rain pattered softly against the windows, streaking the view of neon lights and slick streets, but her focus narrowed to the glowing notification on her laptop.

Subject: Reading of the Last Will and Testament of Richard Tierney.

Her stomach dipped. She read the message twice, the words blurring into the past.

Richard Tierney. Declan’s father.

Her chest tightened, a rush of memories threatening to break through the walls she’d so carefully built. She’d already heard about his death a week earlier, the news hitting her harder than she’d expected. She’d sent Declan a brief text—just I’m sorry about your dad—and, as expected, never got a response. She didn’t blame him. Hadn’t expected one.

The last time she’d seen him had been nearly a year ago. One night. One unforgettable, incendiary night when she’d gotten a taste of the man he’d become—older, harder, hungrier. A man who moved like the world bowed to him and kissed like he was trying to ruin her for anyone else. She’d slipped out of his house before dawn, breathless and unraveling, without a note or a call, the air between them thick with everything they hadn’t dared say.

She pushed the laptop away, rubbing her thumb against the edge of her coffee mug. Her wolf itched under her skin now, unsettled by the summons, by the memory of a place where the air was thick with scent and meaning. Even the mention of Willow Ridge stirred something feral and unwelcome inside her—long-buried instincts sharpening like claws unsheathed. The ceramic was warm, grounding her in the present, but her thoughts kept drifting back to Willow Ridge.

Whatever had happened between her and Declan, she’d respected Richard—or at least, she had tried to. He’d always seemed like the lesser of two evils compared to Declan’s mother, Caroline, and on his better days, he’d treated her with a kind of distant civility that passed for fairness in Willow Ridge.

That thought inevitably dragged her mind to Caroline Tierney. If Richard had been the steady hand, Caroline had been the cold stare across every dinner table, the voice that always found a polite way to remind Quinn she didn’t belong. Perfect hair, flawless makeup, manicured nails—Caroline never had a wrinkle out of place, never a single misstep in posture or tone. She carried herself like a queen, regal and cold, as though being the Alpha’s wife had elevated her above the pack. Even now, Quinn could picture that knowing smile, the one that would no doubt widen when she saw her walk back into town.

She stood and began pacing, the hardwood cool beneath her bare feet, passing the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city below—a skyline she had once dreamed of escaping to, and now called hers. Her mind tripped over a dozen reasons to stay away—her work in the city, her peace hard-won, the inevitability of old wounds reopening. But the will wasn’t just a polite invitation. It was a summons—and her wolf recognized it as such, curling tight and alert as if it already sensed the territory calling her home.

The cursor on the now-closed email seemed to blink in her mind’s eye, taunting her with inevitability. Willow Ridge wasn’t just a town—it was a tight knot of memories, grudges, and unfinished business. And now, thanks to Richard Tierney’s will, she was about to walk right back into it.

A dozen reasons not to go flickered through Quinn’s mind.

But every single one ended in Declan Tierney’s eyes—stormy, unreadable, and far too capable of undoing her. Even now, the memory of those warm blue depths could make her pulse trip, her breath catch, and her better judgment dissolve.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Declan moved with the kind of easy, predatory confidence that made people step aside without realizing they had—like his body owned the room before his mind ever entered it. That dark hair she’d once tangled her fingers in? She’d wrecked it into a wild, sinful mess more than once, especially when his mouth was on her—hot, rough, merciless. She remembered the way his breath caught against her throat, the scrape of his teeth over her pulse point, how her body had arched toward him without thought. The beard had scraped over her thighs, her breasts, her throat, leaving raw trails of sensation that lingered long after his mouth moved on.

And those tattoos—gods, those tattoos—hidden beneath his shirts like secrets meant for her alone. She’d traced them with her tongue, with her teeth, with desperate fingers that couldn’t get enough. They coiled over muscle and bone like a map to every way he’d made her come undone. She still remembered the way his skin tasted—salt and heat and something that was always, maddeningly, him. Just the thought of him made her thighs clench, her belly tighten, her breath catch like her body was one memory away from betrayal.

He was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with fangs or claws—and everything to do with the way his voice could slip under her skin, the way his touch could pull her apart piece by piece until all she could think about was him.

But, threaded through every spark of desire was the sharp edge of frustration. Because wanting him had never been the problem.

Believing she could keep him without losing herself… that was another story entirely.

She hadn’t been his mate. Not officially. But she’d loved him like one—and it had broken her all the same.

She had always known she was never going to be the one. Not the mate. Not the future Alpha's chosen. Not the girl who got the fairytale ending. Caroline Tierney had made sure of that—every cold smile, every clipped word delivered like a warning wrapped in silk. Quinn had felt the weight of that judgment from the beginning.

And yet…

The version of her that existed in Declan’s eyes had dared to hope. That girl—soaked in moonlight, bare-skinned in his arms, kissed like a promise—had believed she could be more. That maybe she could outrun Caroline. That maybe, just maybe, she could belong to him—and still belong to herself.

But that version of her died at Declan’s college graduation party.

The words still rang in her head, even now. Betrothed. Spoken like a coronation. Spoken like a verdict. She’d stood near the edge of the crowd, a glass of champagne going warm in her hand, heart pounding so hard she couldn’t hear the applause. The world had tilted on its axis. People she’d grown up with, bled with, smiled and nodded as if her heart hadn’t just cracked wide open. No one looked at her. They didn’t have to. She wasn’t part of the story anymore—maybe she never had been.

And Declan? He didn’t look at her either. Not once. No shock. No regret. No hesitation. Just the firm set of his jaw, eyes locked ahead like the decision had already been made. Maybe it had.

And Caroline had smiled, victory sealed behind a champagne glass, like she’d finally swept the last piece off her pristine table.

The moment Kylie’s name left Richard Tierney’s mouth, something inside Quinn snapped. She heard it again now—not the word, but Richard’s voice, rich and unwavering: “It is our joy to announce…” All that hope, that imagined future, shriveled in an instant. Kylie Maddox. The perfect wolf princess. Daughter of a politically powerful pack with a lineage so pure it practically bled gold. She was all glossy perfection—flawless skin, luminous hair, and a smile that knew exactly how and when to cut. Quinn had seen it up close that night. Kylie had looked at her like she was something unfortunate on the bottom of her heel, a reminder of Declan’s reckless phase before his real future began.

No one—not Declan, not Richard, and certainly not Caroline—objected. Not even with a look. Not even with a breath drawn like it could’ve become a protest. Declan’s silence had been the cruelest cut of all. Something inside her splintered—clean, brutal, final—and her heart shattered with it, not in a quiet ache, but in a jagged, soul-deep break that stripped the softness from her. There was no dramatic scene. No confrontation. Just the cold press of truth settling in her bones like frostbite: he would never choose her—not in front of them. Not when it mattered.

Declan hadn’t agreed to it—not verbally—but he hadn’t stopped it either.

He belonged to a life bound in rules, expectations, and legacy—a future built to serve the pack, even if it meant sacrificing who he really was. Quinn had no place in that life without shrinking, without sanding down the edges that made her who she was. The night she left, it wasn’t because she didn’t love him. It was because she loved herself enough not to stand in the shadows while someone else was crowned beside him.

That night, she stopped trying to fit where she wasn’t welcome. That night, the softness bled out of her and something colder, sharper took its place. She would not forget what they showed her. And she would never let herself be made small again.

She was Quinlan Maeve Murphy—daughter of a family Willow Ridge had always kept at the edges, tolerated just enough to be useful, never enough to be trusted. Her name had been met with sneers, with silence, with doors closed just a little too hard.

She’d told herself walking away was survival. That it was strength. And in many ways, it had been. She’d built a life for herself far from Willow Ridge—a life defined by her own choices. No hushed whispers behind her back, no careful eyes watching her every move.

In the city, she was just Quinn. Her work mattered. Her presence wasn’t questioned. No one cared about the weight of her name—only the weight of what she could do. That life mattered. She mattered.

But now, sitting in this quiet space with her bag half-packed and his name in her bloodstream like a half-forgotten spell, she wasn’t so sure.

Maybe she hadn’t truly let go.

Maybe some fractured part of her still ached to know if the man he became would look at her—not as a mistake or a memory—but as someone he never stopped choosing.

Her city life had walls she built herself. The moment she stepped back into Willow Ridge, she wouldn’t be Quinn anymore. She’d be a Murphy. And this time, they’d learn what that really meant.