Caught Between Two Alphas

Chapter Six

Sophia

The Still is exactly the kind of place where wolves go to forget they have ranks.

It’s tucked behind the main compound, looking more like a converted moonshine shed than a bar—warped wooden floors that groan under every step, amber bulbs that cast everything in nicotine yellow, a counter worn smooth by decades of elbows and spilled whiskey. The smell hits you first: stale beer, old smoke that’s seeped into the walls, and something indefinably sad. After nine PM, when the patrols change shifts and the day’s hierarchy loosens its grip, The Still becomes neutral territory where Betas drink with warriors and sometimes even an omega can sit without being bothered.

I push through the door, muscles still aching from this morning’s run with Lou, sweat dried stiff at my collar. My shoulders burn from the pushups she insisted on, my thighs scream from the hill sprints. I don’t drink often—it dulls the edges I need sharp—but tonight I want bourbon and anonymity. I want to sit somewhere dark and not be the omega everyone’s watching, the project Lou’s reshaping, the curiosity who knows things she shouldn’t.

The place is nearly empty. The bartender, a grizzled Delta with nicotine-stained fingers and a face like worn leather, doesn’t look up from his phone where he’s studying race results. In the corner booth, shadows pool around a familiar silhouette—broad shoulders, black shirt under blue flannel, hands wrapped around a glass like it might escape.

Alcyde.

My pulse kicks up, but I ignore it. I order my bourbon neat, let the bartender’s indifference wash over me like a blessing. The first sip burns perfect, carving a path down my throat, building a wall between now and everything else. I don’t look at Alcyde. Not yet. But I feel his attention like heat on my neck, like fingers trailing down my spine.

A glass thumps softly against wood. Deliberate.

I take my time turning, meeting those electric blue eyes across the dim space. In this light, they look almost black, dangerous. He tips his chin—minimal invitation, maximum impact.

I grab my drink and slide into the booth across from him. The vinyl is sticky with age and other people’s regrets, and it creaks under my weight.

“You always drink alone?” I ask.

He grins, crooked and knowing. “Someone’s got to keep the chairs warm for the lost causes.”

He pushes a battered deck of cards across the table. “Pick one.”

The Queen of Spades finds my fingers—bent corner, edge marked with what might be old blood or coffee or both. I flick it back. He catches it midair, shuffles it away with practiced ease that speaks of countless lonely nights.

“You ran with the pack today,” he says. Not quite a question.

“Lou’s trying to kill me. Or impress someone. Maybe both.”

“No one's good enough for Lou to impress.” He pours from a bottle that costs more than most omegas see in a month. The bourbon is amber gold, smooth. “You keeping up?”

“Better than most.”

He studies me, but not the way men usually do—not cataloging assets but counting survivors. “Most omegas don’t last a week here. You’ve got the others spooked. They’re taking bets on when you’ll break.”

“What’s your bet?”

“I don’t think you will.”

The certainty in his voice makes something flutter in my chest.

He leans forward, elbows on scarred wood. “You move like you’ve had training. Real training. But not from Moonstone—they don’t teach their omegas to fight. Where’d you learn?”

The lie comes smooth as the bourbon. “City. Couple years back. Some self-defense classes. Nothing special.”

His eyebrow says he's not buying it. “You ever run security?”

“I barely ran breakfast most days.”

“You’ve got tells,” he says, voice dropping to something intimate. “But they’re not omega tells. You don’t flinch when someone says Luna. You look Betas in the eye like equals. You’re not afraid of Alphas. Hell, sometimes you look at them like you want to rip their throats out.”

The word 'Luna' lands hard, but I keep my face neutral. “Maybe I’m just stupid.”

He laughs, real and unexpected. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re exactly what this pack needs.”

We drink in silence that’s almost comfortable, the jukebox in the corner playing something old and mournful. Then he sets his glass down with decision.

“You could try for patrol team. Council wants fresh blood. People who know rules but don’t follow them blindly.”

“They don’t take omegas.”

“First time for everything.” His eyes hold mine, and there’s something there—promise, challenge, heat. “Meet me behind the gym at midnight. I’ll show you what Betas do after hours.”

Challenge or invitation or both.

“Midnight,” I agree.

He leaves first, cards disappearing into his pocket, boots silent on soft wood. The bartender winks as I go. “Good luck, kid. That one’s got teeth.”

Outside, the wind bites sharp and clean. My heart pounds with something that might be anticipation. Or fear. Or both.

~°~

The clearing behind the gym is slick with dew, grass trampled flat by generations of training and fights. The moon hangs swollen overhead, almost full, and two resin torches throw dancing shadows across the makeshift ring marked in white paint. The air smells of pine sap and old sweat, with an undertone of blood from fights that got too real.

Alcyde’s already there, leaning against chain-link, all dangerous angles in the firelight. The shadows carve his face into something ancient, primal. He doesn’t look up, just says, “You’re late,” and tosses me water.

I catch it clean this time. “Lou’s making protein bars. Someone had to talk her out of adding fish oil and cricket powder.”

He almost smiles. "She tries to patent those, I’ll pay you to burn her kitchen.”

He drops into a fighting stance in the painted circle. “You done this before?”

“Does dodgeball count?”

“Everyone’s a comedian.” But his eyes are warm. “Copy me. Feet shoulder-width. Knees bent. Guard up.”

I mirror his position, trying to ignore how natural it feels. How my body remembers things Sophia never learned. The stance, the balance, the coiled readiness—it’s all there, buried under soft flesh but not forgotten.

He closes distance until I smell cedar and sweat and something uniquely him. “You’re smaller, so you go for weak points. Elbow, wrist, knee, throat.” His hand presses my neck, showing target zones. His fingers are warm, callused, gentle despite their strength. “Here. Then pivot.”

He guides my arm up into a block, fingers leaving trails of heat. We run the sequence over and over. Each correction is physical—a tap on my thigh for stance, palm sliding down my spine for alignment, hands adjusting my hips. Every touch burns through my shirt, leaves me hyperaware of everywhere we’ve connected.

By the third drill, I’m soaked with sweat, shirt plastered to skin. My hair escapes its tie, sticking to my neck. But my body starts predicting his movements, muscle memory surfacing from somewhere deeper than Sophia, older than this new life.

He throws a practice punch. I block perfectly, turn it into a counter that stops just short of his ribs.

“Fast learner,” he approves, and there’s pride in it.

“Good teacher.”

The sparring intensifies. We circle, lunge, grapple, break apart, come together again. Each time he gets close, my body responds with forgotten hunger. The Luna’s desire, the woman’s need, things I thought died with Hannah. I try to suppress it, but it leaks out—a flex of wrist, heat in my cheeks, gazes held too long, breath catching when he pins me.

He notices but doesn’t pull back. If anything, he pushes harder. His hands linger when adjusting my form. His grip tightens when demonstrating holds.

When he shows me a takedown, he keeps me under him a heartbeat longer than necessary, our faces inches apart, breathing the same air.

During a break, we collapse on the grass, breathing hard. He’s on his elbows, shirt transparent with sweat, hair wet and wild. In the torchlight, he looks younger, less guarded.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he says quietly.

“Not just to you. To myself.”

He reaches over, thumb gentle as he brushes hair from my face. The touch is so tender it makes my chest ache. “Survival’s a marathon, not a sprint. Your body needs time to adjust. You push too hard, you’ll burn out.”

The intimacy of it—so different from the Alcyde I knew before, always in his brother’s shadow—makes my breath catch.

“Getting soft, Beta?”

“Don’t tell anyone. Ruins my reputation.” But his thumb traces my cheekbone before pulling away.

The silence stretches taut between us, loaded with possibility. The torchlight flickers in his eyes, turning them from blue to black and back.

He stands, offers his hand. “One more round?”

This time, the sparring is pure instinct. I stop thinking, just respond. We move together like we’ve done this a thousand times. When he comes in high, I go low. When he grapples, I flow around him like water. And when he overcommits to a grab, I use his weight against him, dropping and spinning. He lands hard on his back, surprise clear on his face.

I stand over him, grinning, breathing hard. “Gotcha.”

He looks up with something new in his eyes. Respect. Desire. Maybe more.

“You sure you’re an omega?”

I pull him up, and we stand close enough that I see his pulse jumping at his throat. He doesn’t release my hand.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says, voice rough.

“Neither are you.”

The torches burn low. The moon paints everything silver. Something has fundamentally shifted between us, tectonic plates realigning.

“Tomorrow?” he asks. “Same time?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

We walk back together, shoulders brushing, wrapped in comfortable silence that says more than words could.

~°~

The packhouse is mostly dark, just kitchen lights and the upstairs landing still glowing. We slip through the laundry entrance—a shortcut that smells of bleach and wet fur. My body still hums from training, from his touch, from the promise of tomorrow.

Rounding the corner into the main hall, I freeze.

Anson.

He stands at the far end, backlit by a dying bulb, wearing a parka despite the warm night and the look of someone several drinks past caring. His beard has grown wilder since the funeral, eyes red-rimmed and hollow. But the Alpha presence remains—he owns the space simply by existing in it, power radiating even through the whiskey haze.

Every muscle in my body locks. My vision tunnels to his throat, the pulse there, the memory of his hands on mine as he squeezed the life from me. His tears. His whispered apologies. His betrayal.

The rage is instant, volcanic. I want to tear him apart with my teeth. Want to make him suffer like I suffered. Want to hear him beg like I begged.

I’m moving before I think, snarl building in my chest, when Alcyde’s arm locks around my shoulders. His other hand clamps my wrist—firm but not painful. He holds me back, breathing steady against my ear.

“Easy,” he murmurs, just for me. “Not here. Not now.”

Anson watches it all, lips parting in surprise before twisting into a mean smirk.

“Well, well. Didn’t know you’d traded up, little brother.”

Alcyde’s grip tightens fractionally. “Not your business.”

The Alpha laughs—all teeth and whiskey fumes that reach us from ten feet away. “Everything’s my business when it’s pack. Especially when the new toy has more bite than expected.”

“Let go,” I hiss at Alcyde. “I won’t make a scene.”

He doesn’t move. If anything, he pulls me closer against him.

Anson saunters closer, gaze sliding over me with drunken calculation. “Since when do you care about omegas, Ace? Or is this one special? She got something the others don’t?”

Alcyde steps between us, solid wall of protection. “Leave it alone. She’s with me.”

Something flickers in Anson’s eyes—not just surprise but recognition. He points at me, swaying slightly.

“I’ve seen her before. Haven’t I?” His eyes narrow, trying to focus through the alcohol. “Something about the way she moves…”

My voice comes out steady despite the earthquake in my chest. “Maybe in your nightmares.”

He studies me with dilated pupils, searching for something he can’t quite place. Then he laughs, harsh and broken.

“You should have her teach you how to forget, Ace. God knows I can’t remember anything but—” He stops, jaw clenching, pain flashing across his face.

He shoves through the stairwell door, footsteps echoing like distant thunder. Only when he’s gone do I realize I’m shaking, breath coming in sharp gasps.

Alcyde releases me gently. “You okay?”

I nod, though blood still roars in my ears.

His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and grounding. “He won’t try anything. Too drunk. Too lost in his own head.”

“But he will eventually.”

“Maybe.” Alcyde’s eyes are serious. “But not while I’m around.”

We stand there, breathing through the adrenaline. For the first time since dying, I feel protected. More than that—I feel seen. Not as Hannah or Sophia, but as something in between. Something worth defending.

“That reaction,” he says carefully. “It was personal.”

“Everything with Alphas is personal when you’re an omega.”

He accepts the half-truth, but his eyes say he knows there’s more. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”

We walk to Lou’s cabin in loaded silence. At the door, he pauses, hand on my elbow.

“Tomorrow night?” It’s a question and promise and something else.

“Tomorrow,” I confirm.

He disappears into shadows, leaving me with the ghost of his touch and the echo of Anson’s recognition. My murderer knows something’s familiar about me, even through the drunk haze and this different body.

Inside, Lou’s already asleep, cats piled around her like furry guardians. I slip into my room, press my back against the door, and let myself feel everything—the rage at seeing Anson, the heat of Alcyde’s touch, the terror and thrill of being almost recognized.

Tomorrow I’ll train harder. Tomorrow I’ll get stronger. Tomorrow I’ll move closer to the revenge I’m building piece by piece.