The Alpha Who Tried to Unmate Me

Chapter 4 – Home That Doesn’t Fit

By the time my shift ended, the city had gone from gray to full dark. Clinic windows glowed like a lighthouse in a sea of neon. I shoved my scrubs into a locker, pulled on jeans and a worn leather jacket, and stepped out into the night with my wolf pacing just under my skin.

“Need an escort?” Arlen asked, leaning on the nurses’ station, one brow up. “Boss man will have a coronary if you vanish between here and home.”

“I’m not porcelain,” I said. “And I can smell trouble before it gets within biting distance.”

“Uh‑huh.” She flicked a glance past my shoulder. “Tell that to the wall currently looming at your nine o’clock.”

I didn’t need to turn to know who she meant. The air had shifted, that subtle tightening that came with certain kinds of power.

“I’ll be fine,” I told her, too bright. “I grew up here, remember?”

“Yeah,” Arlen muttered. “And look how well that turned out.”

I left before she could say anything else.

Outside, the chill hit my face like a slap. I shoved my hands into my pockets and started toward Vaelir territory, ignoring the heavy tread that fell in a half‑beat behind me.

He kept his distance for three blocks. Of course he did. Alpha or not, Corren knew better than to crowd a wolf who smelled like a cornered animal.

At the fourth block, I stopped.

“Are you planning to follow me all the way to my bedroom,” I said without turning, “or do we talk before that and save everyone the scandal?”

Bootsteps slowed, then ceased. A quiet moment, then, “Your father requested an escort.”

That earned him a snort. “Garron Vexen trusts you with my spine again? That’s new.”

“He trusts my pack with your safety,” Corren said. “There’s a difference.”

I turned.

City light haloed him in harsh white and gold, throwing deep lines along his cheekbones. He’d traded the alley’s dark clothes for a charcoal coat that did absolutely nothing to soften him.

“I don’t need an escort,” I said. “I know the way home.”

“Humor me,” he replied. “Or humor him.”

“What if I don’t feel like humoring either of you?”

His eyes flicked over my face, searching. He must have found something there—exhaustion, maybe, or the faint tremor in my fingers—because when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“You’re a medic tied to a case where someone is wearing your scent to kill wolves in my city. Humans are already circling for a scapegoat. I am not letting you walk alone through three territories after midnight.”

His wolf pushed just under his skin, authority bleeding into the air. My own wolf bristled, then grudgingly settled. It wasn’t an order. Not quite. But it stroked every instinct wired for pack.

“Fine,” I said. “Walk behind me. I can pretend you’re not there.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something and thought better of it. He fell into step at my side instead of behind, half a pace off, like old habit.

We crossed from neutral streets into Vaelir borders. The city shifted here—more trees squeezed between buildings, more shadows that smelled of fur and earth under concrete. Somewhere, a wolf barked laughter and was shushed.

The old Vexen house sat near the inner line of pack territory, squat and square, bricks dark with age. The porch light was on. Of course it was.

I stopped at the gate and inhaled.

Pine. Steel. Old oil from weapon racks. Under it, the sharper scent that was my father—smoke and leather and something worn thin at the edges.

“You don’t have to come in,” I said. “He won’t bite you.”

“Your father has bitten me before,” Corren said dryly. “Metaphorically. I’m not afraid of a repeat engagement.”

“That’s your funeral.”

I pushed the gate open. Gravel crunched under my boots as we crossed the small yard. The front door opened before I could knock.

Garron Vexen filled the frame like he owned it and everything beyond. Gray threaded through his dark hair now, more than when I’d last seen him. The lines around his mouth had carved deeper.

His gaze skipped past me first, landing on Corren. Jaw tight. Shoulders tighter.

“Alpha,” he said, short as a blade.

“Garron.” Corren inclined his head, formal. “Your daughter is back in one piece.”

“For now,” my father said.

Only then did his eyes cut to me. There was a flicker—relief?—quick as a matchstrike, smothered under something heavier.

“You look tired,” he said.

I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Hi, Dad. Missed you too.”

He stepped back, giving me just enough room to pass. As I brushed by, his scent hit me full force: memories of training runs, of bandaged knees and proud smiles the day my name and Corren’s were carved into the same stone at the pack hall.

Memories of the day he wouldn’t look at me at all.

“Don’t stay on the porch,” he said brusquely. “We’re not animals.”

Behind me, Corren huffed a sound that might, in another life, have been a laugh.

I crossed the threshold, the weight of the house settling over my shoulders like an old, badly fitted coat. My wolf paced, restless. This was home. It didn’t feel like it.

From the hallway, my father’s voice, low and hard: “We need to talk about why the humans already know my daughter’s name again.”

I glanced back once. Corren met my eyes over Garron’s shoulder, something like apology in his.

Too late, I thought.

Aloud, I said, “Yeah. We really do.”