The Alpha I Chose

Chapter Ten

Meadow

Grumpy pants… I mean, Alpha Malcolm… leads me out of the dungeony cellar and into a calm, evening atmosphere above. Even in the dusky light, I can tell that this pack is different from Blackwood Ridge on a massive level.

The territory is a huge grassy area surrounded by trees, with cozy-looking cottages dotting the hillside. I’m not sure what time it is, but most of the cottages have lights on inside, and I can hear laughter coming from the one closest to us. An old-fashioned stone walkway leads up to the packhouse at the top of the hill. My eyes widen as I take in the large building overlooking the land.

The packhouse resembles a castle, its large stone walls rising above the territory with a tower at the end of each wing. The building looks like it should be intimidating, but after the dark, cold looking packhouse at Blackwood Ridge, I find it absolutely breathtaking.

“You live there?” I ask him, in awe of the massive structure.

“Well, yes,” he says, sounding confused that I’d ask him such a thing.

“And you put me in the tornado dungeon?”

“It wasn’t a dungeon!” he insists.

“You had a bucket for me to pee in. That just screams dungeon,” I say emphatically.

We keep walking up the stone path and I can’t help but smile as I look around, seeing cottages occasionally decorated with flowers, welcome mats, or cute little decorations. Sounds of life come from all around us, more laughter, conversations I can’t quite make out, and even music.

I stop walking and close my eyes, clutching the sweats to my chest, breathing in the fresh air. The scent of lilies fill my nose and I smile. Who would have ever dreamed that being kidnapped would smell like freedom?

When I open my eyes again, the Alpha is a few feet ahead of me, staring back at me with a curious look on his face.

“You good?” he asks uncertainly. I smile at him.

“I just didn’t think I’d ever smell freedom again,” I tell him, moving to catch up with him as he turns back towards the packhouse.

“That’s a bit dramatic for someone who was only locked up for a day,” he says rolling his eyes and smirking.

“Try six months,” I tell him, causing him to stop and look down at me, his brows furrowed. “I wasn’t referring to here.”

The smirk slips from his face and for a moment he says nothing, just stares at me. Clearing his throat, he begins to walk again.

“I’ll show you to a guest room when we get to the packhouse,” he says, all business. “Dinner is over, so I’ll have one of the Omegas bring you something to eat. And I should be able to find some more suitable clothing.”

“What’s wrong with the sweats?” I ask waving the t-shirt at him. “I’m fine wearing these.”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate for you to be wearing my clothing if someone should happen to see you,” he says gruffly. It’s my turn to smirk.

“Ohhh, right,” I say in a singsong tone. “Can’t have people think I’m doing the walk of shame from your room or something!” I tease.

He just sighs, rubbing his temples, and keeps walking.

We make it to the packhouse and I freeze once we are inside. Just like with the cottages, I’m sort of speechless at how modern but beautiful everything is. Homesickness tugs at my heart, remembering how full of life Silver Creek had been. I’d almost forgotten a pack could feel like this. I glance around trying to take everything in, not realizing that Alpha Malcolm has kept walking.

“Meadow?” he calls. “You coming or you gonna act like you’ve never been inside a packhouse before?” I scurry to catch up with him.

“Sorry,” I say when I reach him. “Everything’s just so… so pretty.”

“Most are. They’re the heart of the pack after all.”

I burst out laughing, my mind immediately thinking of Garbage Garrett with his black packhouse and matching black hole where a heart should be. Seeing the Alpha frown at me I try to control my laughter but fail miserably and end up snorting instead.

“I’m sorry,” I say sincerely. “It’s just such a fitting comment when Garbage Garrett’s packhouse was all gloomy and doomy.”

“Gloomy and doomy?” He stares at me as if I’ve grown a second head. “Doomy isn’t even a word.”

“Sure it is.”

“It absolutely is not.”

“It is in Meadow language.”

“I don't think that's a real thing either.”

“It should be.”

He shakes his head and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience.

I grin. For the first time in months, it feels easy.

We continue through the packhouse, passing a few people who smile and nod at their Alpha as we go. Nobody looks afraid. Nobody rushes out of our way. Nobody drops their head and stares at the floor. The difference is impossible to miss.

Eventually, Malcolm stops in front of a door near the end of a quiet hallway.

“This will be your room for now,” he says.

He pushes the door open. I freeze.

The room is nearly as large as my entire suite at Blackwood Ridge. A massive bed sits against one wall piled high with blankets and pillows. There’s a fireplace, a comfortable sitting area, and a large window overlooking the territory below.

I enter the room and walk over to the bed, placing the clothes on it before turning to give the Alpha a genuine thank you. Looking at the small heap though, I realize something quite tragic and gasp.

I left my quilt in the dungeon.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, taking a step towards me as tears fill my eyes.

“Can we go back to the dungeon?” I ask, my voice shaking. “I forgot my quilt. I need it.”

“I’ll have someone retrieve it for you in the morning,” he says dismissively.

“But I need it now!” I argue. “I haven’t slept without it ever since my Granny Beth helped me make it when I was seven.”

“It’s one night, Meadow.”

“But…” I try to interject, the tears dangerously close to falling down my cheeks.

“You’ll get it in the morning,” he says, his voice not cruel, but definitely final. “Goodnight.”

He turns and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him. Frustrated, I grab one of the fluffy pillows and hurl it at the door.

“You should have left me in the dungeon!” I shout. From somewhere outside my new room, I hear his voice call a reply.

“It’s a storm cellar!”

Jerk.