Alpha’s Relic

Episode 4: Home

The front door flew open before Quinn could knock again.

"Well, if it isn’t Miss I-Don’t-Need-To-Come-Home strutting up like she never left," Moira announced, voice sharp with affection. She wore her usual "Kitchen Witch" ensemble: a swirling purple skirt, green apron embroidered with crescent moons, and a scarf tied like a crown over her curls. Her gray-streaked hair smelled like clove and sugar, her fingers dusted with flour as if she’d materialized straight from some kind of magical scone spell.

Quinn raised a brow. "Did I step into a cauldron or the bakery?"

"You know damn well it’s both," Moira beamed, pulling her into a hug that smelled like home and chaos. Moira had always preferred the craft to the shift—more herbs than fangs, more intuition than instinct. Probably why the bakery was so popular. Customers swore her honeyed scones cured headaches, and her lemon loaves kept heartbreak at bay. Quinn had seen some of the ingredients she snuck into the muffins before—and none of them belonged in anything found at a human café.

"Quinnie’s here!" came a shriek, and then—

Two blurs barreled down the hallway—Aisling, all elbows and momentum, and Keira, soft-footed and wide-eyed. Nine years old and already disasters in motion, each in their own way. Aisling crashed into Quinn with a squeal and a rib-crushing hug, while Keira slipped in quieter, wrapping her arms around Quinn’s waist and tucking her face into her coat like a secret.

They smelled like sugar and wolf and something warm she hadn’t known she missed until now. Her wolf shifted just beneath her skin, recognizing pack—recognizing family—in the scent that clung to their skin.

"Whoa, hey! Easy!" Quinn staggered back, laughing. "You both grew a foot and got faster. Not fair."

Aisling, her wild auburn curls a carbon copy of Moira’s, lit up. "We missed you."

Keira, the quieter of the twins, clung to her with wide hazel eyes. "Mom says you fight bad guys with words. Did you come to fight Nana Caroline now?"

Quinn choked on a laugh. "Not unless someone’s handing out swords and backup."

Wait—Nana Caroline? Quinn’s eyes narrowed. The words hit like a pebble tossed in a pond—small but rippling with implication. Caroline Tierney had once looked at Quinn like a weed in her carefully cultivated garden. Polished, territorial, and cruel in the most genteel way. Since when had she softened into someone’s Nana?

Apparently, a lot had changed in her absence—some of it more suspicious than comforting.—just not enough to keep her from being dragged back into the madness.

From somewhere above came the clatter of boots on shingles.

Moira shoved open the window with a bang and bellowed at her brother "Pat! Get down from there before you break something important. Quinn is here!"

"I’m replacing the damn weather vane, Moira!"

Quinn leaned to glance out the window and spotted her father balanced on the roof—hammer in one hand, no safety gear in sight, like the laws of physics had never applied to Patrick Murphy in the first place.

"Hi, Dad," she called. "Nice to see you still don’t believe in OSHA."

He shielded his eyes and grinned. "There’s my Quinlan. Thought I smelled trouble pulling into the drive."

Moira swatted Quinn gently on the shoulder. "He’s been up there for an hour, muttering about ‘storm omens.’ I told him the only omen was you showing up unannounced."

Quinn was ushered inside amid a storm of voices, flour, and too-warm hugs. The air smelled like cinnamon and fresh bread, warm spices layered with the buttery scent of something rising in the oven. The hardwood floors creaked beneath her boots, and a low hum of energy buzzed beneath her skin—the kind she’d always felt inside pack territory but never dared name. Family photos lined the hallway, slightly crooked in their mismatched frames, while the living room exploded with color: crocheted blankets, overstuffed furniture, and a crocheted sign above the mantle that read Bite Me Gently.

Moira had insisted Quinn learn a proper craft—said it was tradition, said it was power. So Quinn, in true rebellious form, learned to crochet just well enough to stitch a sign that read Bite Me Gently and hang it above the mantle. Moira had given up on Quinn learning any more trades after that. The sign had been both a rebellion and a declaration: Quinn wasn’t going to be the kind of wolf who followed the expected path—and Moira, to her credit, hadn’t asked again.

Brenna emerged from the kitchen in leggings and a flour-smudged tee, her dark hair piled in a messy bun. She looked tired, but the smile she gave Quinn was real.

"Hey, trouble. You look city-broken."

"I am," Quinn admitted. "High-rises and overpriced lattes softened me."

Brenna rolled her eyes. "I give you two days before you’re barefoot in the garden and yelling at squirrels."

Quinn reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed. Despite how long it had been since she’d come home, that closeness hadn’t faded.

They kept in touch—texts, late-night calls, occasional visits in places that weren’t Willow Ridge. Their bond didn’t need constant tending to survive. Some things just held.

The living room looked exactly the same: chaotic, loud, lived-in. She couldn’t decide if it comforted her or made her itch.

Moira pressed a muffin into her hand like it was both an offering and a command. "You’re too thin. And don’t even think about leaving before I read your cards."

"Hard pass."

"You say that every time."

"And yet you keep trying."

Before Moira could reply, a knock echoed from the open door.

The room went still. Just for a second.

Quinn turned—and there he was.

Declan Tierney. Standing there like sin made flesh—easy smile, dangerous memories, and every inch the man she’d once let ruin her.

He wore dark jeans, a henley that clung to his muscled chest like it was made for sin, and the leather belt she’d once undone with her teeth, back when control was a game they both liked to lose. His beard was trimmed just enough to frame that mouth—God, that mouth—and his hair was tousled in a way that looked accidental but absolutely wasn’t. Those blue eyes? Still impossible. Still dangerous. Still capable of undoing her with one look.

"Quinn," the way he roved his eyes over her body made her stomach flip, "I didn't know you were in town."

Quinn tipped her head in acknowledgment, lips pressed in a flat line. She wasn't going to pretend it wasn’t awkward. Or that she hadn’t been the one to leave without a word. But damned if she was going to make it easy for him now.

He gave her a look that cut straight through her—sharp, deliberate, laced with memory. He remembered. Every depraved, delicious thing they’d done. And that she’d left without a word. No note. No call. Just sheets gone cold and a silence thick enough to choke on. Maybe he’d never stopped wondering why. Maybe he didn’t need to.

The girls came barreling through the front room again at the sound of his voice, eyes lighting up.

"Uncle Declan!" they shouted in unison, launching themselves into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aisling threw herself into his chest without hesitation. Keira, slower, clung to his side like she did it often.

Quinn blinked. That wasn’t new. That was practiced.

She raised both eyebrows. First Nana Caroline. Now Uncle Declan? What the actual hell was going on?

She zeroed in on Brenna, who was fidgeting with the dish towel and not quite meeting Quinn’s eyes. Not unusual—Brenna had never been good at hiding discomfort—but something about the way she hovered near Declan felt... off. Not romantic, not exactly. Just off. Like a piece of a puzzle Quinn didn’t know she was missing.

Before she could press, Brenna jumped in. "Do you want some tea? Aunt Moira just made a new batch of lemon balm. It’ll help you settle. I’ll get it." She didn’t wait for an answer.

Quinn turned, smile sharp. "So, Uncle Declan, what brings you to the wrong side of the tracks?"

Her best mediator glare had no effect. He gently untangled the girls and stepped forward like he had every right to be here.

God, he was good looking. Infuriatingly so.

"I’m actually here for Brenna," he said smoothly.

Quinn’s wolf sense prickled at his tone—and Brenna’s nervous energy didn’t help.

"She’s been helping transcribe some of my notes," Declan said it like he was explaining rocket science. Like Quinn should be grateful for the clarity.

From the kitchen, Brenna called out, "They’re on the counter. I was going to drop them by tomorrow."

"Figured I’d save you the trip."

Quinn folded her arms. "You drove all the way out here to save my sister fifteen minutes?"

"Wouldn’t want to be a burden," he said, locking eyes with her.

Quinn snorted. "How does Nana Caroline feel about that?" The words came out sharp—sharper than she meant—but she didn’t walk them back. Declan’s face didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes flickered.

Moira coughed into the tension. "Quinnie, want to help me finish dinner and set the table?"

"Quinnie," Declan said it with full emphasis on her most hated nickname, dragging out the syllables just to needle her—because of course he would. "Can we talk? Outside?"

Quinn bristled. "Only if you never call me that again."

He smirked faintly. "Can’t promise that."

Moira tossed a dish towel into the air like a white flag. "No one ever listens to me."

"Apologies, Moira," Declan said with a smile so smooth it practically came with a monogrammed napkin and a Tierney family crest—polished, practiced, and designed to disarm. Quinn had seen that smile used to win court cases, dodge pack politics, and charm his way out of his mother's wrath.

She stomped out onto the porch, not waiting to see if he followed—but knowing he would. She didn’t need to look back to know his gaze was locked on her—the heat of it skimming down her spine and settling low. Her wolf responded before her brain did, ears pricking, heart thudding faster.

She wanted to hate him. She really, really did.

But that look in his eyes made it impossible.