Alpha’s Relic

Episode 5: Heat and Hydrangeas

Declan stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

The evening air wrapped around them—cooler now, carrying the faint scent of pine sap, wood smoke, and something distinctly wild. The kind of scent that only clung to pack lands. The boards beneath their feet creaked with age, and the porch rail was warm where Quinn’s hand brushed it, as if the sun hadn’t quite let go. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf called—a low, echoing note that sent a shiver down her spine, not from fear, but recognition. The land remembered them. And it was watching.

"I’m sorry about your father," she said quietly.

Declan nodded. "Thank you."

A long silence stretched.

"You look good," he said, voice rough around the edges. "I’m glad you came." There was something in the way he said it—quiet, sincere, laced with a kind of rawness that had nothing to do with grief. It landed in her chest like a bruise she hadn’t expected, and it meant more than just showing up to a funeral. They both knew it.

She snorted, making light of the moment—because if she let it land the way it wanted to, it might crack her wide open. She wanted to say she’d thought about him every night since. That she’d read his father’s obituary three times and nearly booked a flight before the ink was dry. But grief was safer than honesty. And distance safer than touch.

"Save the charm. I’m immune."

"You sure about that?"

She wasn’t.

He stepped closer, and her breath caught. She hated that her body remembered the shape of him. Hated that her fingers itched with the ghost of muscle and ink. Hated that his voice still did something low and dangerous to her chest.

He cupped her face—gentle in motion, possessive in intent. Like he was staking a claim he hadn’t realized he'd never released.

"I missed you," he said, voice low and rough. His gaze didn’t waver, not even for a breath. "You left without saying goodbye, Quinn. Not even a note."

"Don’t."

But the damage was done. He’d said it—and now she couldn’t un-hear it, couldn’t unfeel the raw truth tucked inside those three words. She should’ve pulled away. Should’ve told him he didn’t get to miss her. Not after she’d made damn sure he had nothing left to miss.

But her resolve cracked in the space between them. And when his hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers pressing possessively into her skin like he could anchor her there—she shattered.

She didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Her wolf surged beneath her skin, claws skimming the edges of her control, curling into his touch like it belonged.

Then he kissed her.

It was all teeth and tension, a collision years in the making. She tasted the grief, the ache, the fury he hadn’t spoken aloud. He kissed her like he was punishing her for leaving—and like he’d never stopped waiting for her to come back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was possession. It was need. It was everything she’d told herself she didn’t want—and everything she burned for.

Until the front door slammed open.

"Grandpa fell off the roof!" Aisling shouted from inside. "Well, he bounced. But he might be dead!"

Quinn jerked back with a gasp. "What?!"

Declan swore under his breath.

Behind them, Moira’s voice rang out through the open door: "If he’s dead, he better not bleed on my hydrangeas!"

Declan was already off the steps before she could react, boots hitting gravel hard as he sprinted across the yard. Quinn followed, heart thudding. The shift from heat to panic was so fast her wolf barely kept up, the instinct to protect slamming into her harder than she expected.

Patrick was on the ground, groaning, one arm cradled under him. Aisling knelt beside him like a tiny feral medic, looking proud of herself.

“I told him not to lean so far,” she said matter-of-factly. “He said he was part squirrel. I said he was part stupid.”

“Thanks for the diagnosis, doc,” Patrick muttered.

Declan crouched beside him, hands moving with calm precision—as if he were reading a witness, not a body. Years of navigating tense courtrooms had taught him how to read damage fast. Quinn hung back, scanning for blood—there wasn’t any, thank god—and let out a shaky breath.

“Dad,” she said, voice tight, “you good?”

“Broke the fall with my ego,” he grunted. “Which, lucky for me, is still fully intact.”

Moira appeared with a glass of something brown and probably not tea. “Drink this,” she ordered. “And don’t you dare die until after the will reading. I already made too much stew.”

Quinn snorted. Even chaos couldn’t shake Moira.

Aisling handed Quinn a single shingle like it was a trophy. “This hit him in the head. I’m keeping it.”

Quinn accepted the shingle like it was a medal. “Honestly, I’d keep it too,” she said, ruffling Aisling’s hair.

“I'll let you borrow it,” Aisling said with a smirk, clearly proud of her improvised victory prize. Quinn grinned, shaking her head.

Declan stood, brushing gravel from his knees. “He’s fine. Bruised, maybe cracked a rib. But nothing life-threatening. Nate will be happy to take a look.”

“Shame,” Moira deadpanned. “Would’ve made a hell of an exit.”

The tension eased. People trickled back toward the porch. Quinn lingered. Her lips still tingled, her skin flushed like it remembered the weight of his mouth, the claim in his grip. Her wolf paced restlessly beneath the surface, ears pricked, unsettled by the absence that followed so much heat.

Declan passed her on the steps, and for a breath, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at her. Not angry. Not smug.

Wrecked.

And she hated how much it matched how she felt.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said finally. “At the reading.”

She nodded. “Right.”

He left.

His scent lingered behind him—smoke, spice, heat. It wrapped around her like a phantom she couldn't shake. Her wolf chased it even as he walked away, unsettled by the loss, teeth bared at the emptiness his absence left.

The door creaked behind her.

“You got a minute?” Moira’s voice was softer now. Less teasing. “Before you brood yourself into a coma?”

Quinn sighed. “Only if there’s wine.”

“There’s always wine.”

They stepped back into the house.

Inside, chaos had reassembled itself like it had never paused. Aisling had taken up residence under the dining table, growling like a wolf pup and pretending to maul a chair leg. Keira was curled on the couch with a book nearly as thick as her head, muttering lines aloud like she was rehearsing for a school play—or a trial.

Brenna darted from kitchen to living room with a dish towel over her shoulder, the scent of rosemary and garlic trailing behind her like a flag of surrender. "Aunt Moira! The roast is still frozen in the middle!"

"It's not frozen, it's just dramatic," Moira called back. "Like you." Moira let out a wheezing, wine-warm cackle that probably echoed down the block.

Patrick, now seated with an ice pack balanced on his ribs and a mug in hand, raised it like a toast. "Survived another rooftop adventure. Better than my last one."

"That was a garage, and you got stuck in a gutter," Brenna said flatly.

"Semantics."

Quinn blinked as a towel flew past her head. Aisling had launched it like a lasso and was now trying to capture a chair leg with it.

Moira handed Quinn a glass of wine and nodded toward the hallway. "Come on. Before you start lying to yourself again."

Quinn followed, slipping down the hallway, the chatter of her nieces fading with every step. The deeper she moved into the house, the quieter it became—like even the walls knew she needed a moment to breathe.

She didn’t head straight to Moira. Instead, she detoured down the hall and ducked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

The light buzzed overhead as she leaned over the sink, bracing herself against the porcelain.

Her reflection stared back at her—lips red, pupils blown wide, neck flushed like a live wire. She looked wrecked. Kissed. Claimed.

She splashed cool water on her face, but it didn’t help. Her skin still burned where he’d touched her. Her wolf prowled just under the surface, pacing like it had been denied something vital.

"Get it together," she muttered to herself, but her voice sounded thin.

It wasn’t just the kiss.

It was the way he’d looked at her. Like she was still his.

And worse—like some part of her wanted to be. Her lips still tingled. She could feel the pull of him—of what they almost were—like a magnetic ache in her chest. The kiss still clung to her skin like heat.

Her wolf watched her from behind her own gaze, ears pinned back, restless. Hungry.

It wanted more.