Caught Between Two Alphas

Chapter Eight

ALCYDE

My wolf won't settle.

It's been pacing since dawn, restless in a way that has nothing to do with the coming storm or the Council's investigation. Every time I think about Sophia—and I think about her constantly now—something in my chest tightens like a fist around my ribs. The sensation is familiar and foreign all at once, like hearing a song in a language you don't speak but somehow understanding the melody.

The morning started wrong. Found Anson passed out in his office again, empty bottle of that expensive bourbon Hannah used to hide from him rolling under his desk. Had to forge his signature on three different Council documents just to keep them from sending an intervention team. The irony isn't lost on me—protecting the brother I'm actively working to replace.

Now I lean against the oak tree fifty yards from Anson's office window, positioned where the afternoon shadows mask my presence. The bark is rough against my shoulder, grounding me in the moment. It's 2:55. She'll be here soon.

The rational part of my brain knows I shouldn't be here. I told her I'd wait, let her handle this alone. We went over the plan twice this morning during training—she'd get him talking about Hannah, try to understand his mental state, gather information we could use. But my wolf has other ideas, and right now, my wolf is winning. It wants to protect what's ours—and somewhere between pulling her from those rogues almost two months ago and feeling her body move against mine during training, my wolf decided Sophia is definitely ours.

The compound is quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Most of the warriors are out on patrol, the omegas busy with evening meal prep. Through the kitchen windows, I can see them moving in practiced synchronization, and I wonder if any of them miss Sophia from the morning shift. She's supposed to be there, but I pulled rank, said I needed her for something. Nobody questioned it. They're getting used to me making decisions that should be Anson's.

There—that familiar gait, slightly uneven from an old injury she's trying to hide. She walks like someone who's relearning their own body, careful and deliberate. Six weeks of Lou's brutal training regimen and my midnight sessions have carved away some of the softness, but she still moves like she's not quite comfortable in her own skin. The afternoon sun catches the dark strands that have escaped her ponytail, turning them auburn at the edges, and my fingers itch with the memory of how soft her hair felt when I brushed it from her face during last night's training.

She's wearing the green dress Lou gave her, the one that brings out flecks of gold in her brown eyes. It fits her differently now than when she first tried it on—her body has been changing, getting stronger, more defined. The transformation is remarkable. The scared, soft omega I rescued is becoming something else entirely. Something dangerous.

She pauses outside Anson's door, squaring her shoulders. Even from here, I can see the tension in her spine, the way her hands flex at her sides. She's preparing for battle, and it takes everything in me not to stride over there and pull her away from whatever pain my brother is about to cause.

The door opens before she knocks. Anson must have been watching for her. The thought makes my teeth clench—my brother, drunk and unstable, waiting for her like a spider in his web.

I shift position, angling for a better view through the window. The glass is dusty, covered in water spots from the last rain, but I can see them clearly enough. My enhanced hearing picks up their voices, though the words are muffled by distance and glass.

"You came back." Anson's voice is thick with bourbon already, though it's barely past three. He's been starting earlier each day.

"You asked me to."

The same words she said to me three nights ago when I asked her to meet me at the training grounds. My jaw clenches at the parallel, at how easily she slips between us both, playing her role in this dangerous game.

I watch them through the dusty glass—Anson slumped in his chair like a broken doll, all his Alpha authority dissolved in alcohol. His shirt is wrinkled, the same one from yesterday, maybe the day before. Sophia perches on the edge of her chair like she might bolt, back straight, hands folded carefully in her lap. She looks smaller in that office, dwarfed by the massive desk and the weight of pack history on those walls.

"I've been thinking," he starts, then laughs bitterly. The sound carries even through the glass, hollow and sharp. "That's the problem. I can't stop thinking about that night, but the thoughts... they're like smoke. Every time I try to grab them, they slip away."

He pours another drink, and I can see his hands shaking from here. The tremor is getting worse. Doc mentioned it yesterday when I asked him to check on Anson discreetly—could be the alcohol, could be guilt, could be something else entirely.

Sophia leans forward slightly, just enough to show interest without seeming eager. Her voice is steady, controlled. "Tell me what you remember."

"I remember..." He drains his glass in one swallow, immediately pours another. The bottle is already half empty, and it's fresh from the cabinet. "I remember candles. Dozens of them. Hannah loved candles during..." He stops, face flushing dark red. "She liked the ambiance."

My stomach turns. I don't want to hear about my brother's intimate moments with Hannah, but I can't look away from Sophia's face. There's something in her expression—not just disgust or discomfort, but recognition. Pain. Like she's hearing about something she experienced firsthand.

"Go on." Her voice is barely audible, but I catch the slight tremor in it.

"We were... together. Like we'd been a hundred times before. She trusted me completely." His voice breaks, raw and ragged. "God, she trusted me with everything, and I—"

He stands abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, and starts pacing. His steps are uneven, catching himself on furniture as he moves. When he reaches the window, I have to press deeper into the shadows, holding my breath. This close, I can see the broken blood vessels in his eyes, the way his beard has grown wild and unkempt.

"I remember my hands on her throat. She liked that sometimes, the edge of it. The trust it required." His fingers flex unconsciously, and I see Sophia tracking the movement. "But something was different. Wrong. There was... pressure. Like something else was using my hands. The next thing I know, I'm waking up on the floor with the worst hangover of my life, and she's..."

He turns back to Sophia, and even from here I can see the tears starting. "I found her in the closet. Our walk-in closet. Hanging."

Sophia's entire body goes rigid. Her hands grip the chair arms so tightly I can see her knuckles white from here, tendons standing out like wire. A muscle jumps in her jaw, and for a moment, I think she's going to launch herself at him. The killing rage that flashes across her face is so intense my wolf responds, ready to intervene.

"Hanging," she repeats, voice flat and cold as winter ground.

"The rope was one of ours. From our... collection." Anson collapses back in his chair, boneless and defeated. "But here's what doesn't make sense—Hannah would never kill herself. Never. She was too strong, too stubborn. She had plans, projects, reforms she was working on. She had too much to live for."

"Then what do you think happened?"

He looks at her with haunted eyes, and for a moment I see my brother again—not the Alpha, not the drunk, but the man who used to teach me constellations on summer nights. "I think I killed her. I think somehow, some way, I strangled the woman I loved and then... blocked it out. Or something made me forget. But either way, she's dead because of me."

The confession hangs in the air like poison gas. Through the window, I watch Sophia process this, watch her fight whatever war is happening behind her eyes.

She stands abruptly, and for a second, I see something else—another woman's rage in her movements, another woman's grief in the line of her shoulders. My wolf surges forward, recognizing something it can't name, something that makes every instinct scream pack and protect and mine.

"I need air." She's at the door before Anson can respond.

"Wait—" He reaches for her, hand grasping, desperate, and I'm already moving, ready to intervene, when she spins to face him.

"Don't touch me." The command in her voice stops us both cold. There's Alpha authority in it, the kind that shouldn't come from an omega's throat. "You want absolution? You want someone to tell you it's not your fault? I'm not that person."

She storms out, leaving Anson staring after her, hand still extended toward empty space.

I follow at a distance, keeping to the shadows between buildings. She moves fast, almost running, until she reaches the tree line. Then she drops to her knees in the undergrowth and retches violently, her whole body convulsing with the force of it. The sounds she makes are wounded, animal, like grief being torn from her throat.

I should go to her. Comfort her. But something holds me back—the sense that I'm witnessing something private, something that belongs to someone else entirely. This isn't Sophia the omega reacting to a horrible story. This is something else. Someone else.

When she finally stands, wiping her mouth with a shaking hand, I'm already back at the training ground, pretending to work through forms I've known since childhood.

She finds me twenty minutes later. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, and she's changed into training clothes. The dress is gone, replaced by worn leggings and a tank top that shows the new definition in her arms.

"How did it go?"

She laughs, hollow and bitter. "He claims he can't remember anything. Says he found her hanging in their closet the next morning."

I force surprise into my expression, though my wolf is watching her with ancient knowledge. "Hanging? But everyone said—"

"Everyone says a lot of things." She starts attacking the heavy bag with a violence that makes me step back. Each strike is precise but brutal, like she's working through murder in her mind. "He thinks he killed her but can't remember how or why. Convenient, isn't it?"

"You don't believe him."

She lands a particularly vicious kick that makes the hundred-pound bag swing wildly, chain creaking in protest. "I think he's either the best actor in the world or the most pathetic. Either way, Hannah's still dead."

The way she says Hannah's name—familiar, possessive, grieving—makes my wolf's ears prick. It's not how you talk about a stranger, a Luna you've only heard stories about.

"You didn't know her." It's not quite a question.

She stills, then turns to face me. There's calculation in her eyes as she constructs her lie. "Everyone at Moonstone knew about Hannah Durand. Our Alpha was obsessed with her—said she was everything a Luna should be. Strong, beautiful, fierce." Her voice catches with real emotion. "He used to say if he could have stolen her from Silverfrost, he would have."

It's a good lie. Believable. Mitchell at Moonstone is exactly that kind of creep. But my wolf doesn't buy it, and neither do I.

I close the distance between us, backing her against the wall. She doesn't retreat, doesn't submit, just watches me with those dark eyes that hold too many secrets. "Why do I feel like I know you?" My hand cups her jaw, thumb tracing her cheekbone. Her skin is soft, warm, and my wolf rumbles approval at the contact. "Why does my wolf go crazy every time you walk into a room?"

Her breath catches. "Alcyde—"

"You smell familiar. Not your scent now, but something underneath. Something that makes me want to protect you and claim you and—" I cut myself off before I say something insane like 'worship you' or 'die for you.'

She reaches up, fingers threading through my hair, and the touch sends electricity down my spine. "Maybe some souls recognize each other across lifetimes."

It's romantic nonsense, the kind of thing Hannah used to read in those books she kept hidden in her office. But the way Sophia says it, the certainty in her eyes, makes me believe it might be true.

I kiss her because I can't not kiss her. Because every instinct in my body says she's mine, has always been mine, even though that makes no logical sense. She tastes like mint and rage and secrets, and when she moans against my mouth, my control snaps like overtightened wire.

I lift her, pressing her harder against the wall. She's heavier than she looks, solid with new muscle, but I hold her easily. Her legs wrap around my waist, and the friction makes us both groan. My hands are everywhere—her hair, her throat, her hips—trying to memorize every curve, every response. The sounds she makes, small and desperate, drive my wolf to the edge of taking over completely.

"Someone could see," she gasps as I trail kisses down her neck, tasting salt and woman and that underlying something that screams home.

"Let them."

But she pushes at my chest, and I immediately step back, letting her slide down the wall until her feet touch the ground. Her lips are swollen, eyes dark with want, and it takes everything in me not to cage her against the wall again.

"We can't. Not yet. Not until..."

"Until what?"

She looks away, and I see the war in her face again. "Until I know the truth about what happened to Hannah."

The desperation in her voice should worry me. The way she says Hannah's name like it belongs to her should be a red flag. But all I feel is the overwhelming need to give her whatever she wants, whatever she needs to find peace.

"What if the truth is worse than not knowing?"

She meets my gaze, and for a moment, I swear I see amber flecks in those brown eyes. A trick of the light, maybe, or maybe something else. "Then at least it's the truth."

Later, after she's gone back to Lou's cabin, I return to Anson's office. He's passed out in his chair, bottle empty, face wet with tears even in sleep. The sight of him like this—my older brother, my Alpha, the man who might have murdered his mate—makes something in my chest crack.

On his desk is a photo of Hannah, taken last summer at the pack celebration. She's laughing at something off-camera, head thrown back, utterly alive. Her amber eyes catch the light like fire, that distinctive smile that could command a room. I pick it up, comparing the woman in the photo to the woman who just left my arms.

The faces are completely different. The bodies, the coloring, everything physical is wrong. But there's something in the way Sophia holds herself, the way she tilts her head when she's thinking, the way she says Anson's name with barely controlled violence...

My wolf stirs, restless and certain of something my human brain can't quite grasp.

I set the photo down and leave my brother to his guilty dreams.

Outside, the storm that's been threatening all day finally breaks, rain coming down in sheets that blur the world into watercolor impressions.

Standing in the downpour, I think about Sophia's reaction to Anson's story. The way her body locked up when he mentioned the closet. The violence in her eyes when he talked about not remembering.

She's connected to Hannah's death somehow. My wolf is certain of it. But the how and why remain mysteries, and part of me—the part that's already too far gone to save—doesn't care. Whatever she's hiding, whatever she's planning, I'm in it with her.

The rain soaks through my clothes, but I don't move. I think about the investigation, the Council circling like vultures, Allura's too-convenient grief. I think about my father choosing death over dishonor, Anson drinking himself to destruction, and a mysterious omega who makes my wolf howl with recognition.

Change is coming to Silverfrost. I can feel it in my bones, in the electricity that charges the air before lightning strikes. And whether she knows it or not, Sophia is going to be the catalyst that burns everything down or builds something new from the ashes.

I just hope we survive the flames.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: Stop following me, or next time I won't be so nice about it.

I grin despite everything. She knew I was watching. Of course she did.

Never, I text back.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally: Your funeral.

Standing in the storm, I laugh. She has no idea how right she is. This obsession will probably kill me. But what a way to go—consumed by a woman who might be a ghost, might be vengeance incarnate, might be my salvation or my destruction.

My wolf doesn't care which. It just knows she's ours.

And God help anyone who tries to take her away.