No Mercy for Alphas

Chapter 2 – Before the Ash Settled

The memory came back in smoke and shouting.

“Left flank's breaking!" a scout yelled, stumbling into the council yard. His arm was slashed open, blood dripping on the flagstones.

Aaron's voice cut through the chaos. “Isabella—north gate, now!"

She grabbed a satchel of bandages and herbs. “I'm not a soldier."

“You're the only one who can keep them on their feet." He shoved her toward the wall. “Go!"

The north palisade loomed ahead, its timbers shaking under the rogues' pounding. Isabella ducked past archers, sliding to the side of a young guard clutching his leg.

“Look at me," she ordered, tearing his trousers to find the wound. “You're not dying today."

“I can fight—"

“You can't even stand," she snapped, pressing cloth to the gash. “Hold this. Hard."

Another crash rattled the wall. Aaron appeared, blade slick with blood, face streaked with soot.

“How bad?" he asked.

“Three down here," Isabella said, tying off the bandage with her teeth. “And we're low on clean linen."

“We're low on everything." He glanced toward the gate. “We need the rogues to break off before nightfall."

“Then give me a reason for them to leave," she said.

Aaron's eyes narrowed—half calculation, half admiration. “You think you can barter with wolves who eat their own?"

“I think I can make them pause."

Minutes later, she was standing atop the palisade, wind whipping her hair, a torch in one hand and a bundle of food in the other.

“You want grain?" she shouted into the dark where eyes gleamed. “You want medicine? We'll trade—three sacks for every prisoner you release right now."

A murmur rippled through the rogues. Someone laughed, but the pounding slowed.

“You'll be dead by morning!" one of them called.

“Then you'll be eating empty sacks," Isabella replied.

Aaron's voice was low behind her. “If they rush—"

“They won't," she murmured, watching the rogues' leader tilt his head, weighing the offer.

An hour later, the prisoners stumbled back inside, half-starved but alive. The rogues melted into the treeline, leaving only the smell of wet fur and blood.

Aaron caught her arm as she descended. “You gamble with lives like you've done it before."

“I gamble with what we have," she said. “And today, it was worth more to them than killing us."

For weeks after, the two of them moved like twin axes in the same swing.

“You take the east quarter," Aaron told her one morning, tossing her a ledger. “Check stores, list what we're missing, and make them sign for everything."

She nodded, tucking the ledger under her arm. “And you?"

“South wall repairs. And shaking down merchants who think war's a reason to triple prices."

That evening, they met in the burned-out council chamber, spreading maps over a blackened table.

“If we divert timber here," Isabella said, pointing, “we can patch the roof before winter. Otherwise, the food stores will rot."

“And if we move the scouts here," Aaron countered, “we'll catch any raiding parties before they hit the farms."

Some nights they fell asleep over ledgers, the ink smudging between their fingers. Other nights, they walked the rebuilt streets, nodding at wolves who lowered their heads in quiet thanks.

Once, under the bare frame of a half-built roof, Aaron stopped her. “You're the gravity that keeps this place from flying apart," he said.

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “You mean I nag."

“I mean you hold the line when I can't."

The words stayed with her longer than she wanted to admit.

But gratitude in the pack was fragile, like frost that melted under the first heat.

One night, Aaron returned from patrol with a bundle of silver-ribboned letters. He tossed them onto the table.

“From the council?" Isabella asked, untying one. The paper smelled faintly of expensive ink and perfumed wax.

“They're offers," Aaron said flatly. “Alliances. Conditions."

She scanned the first letter. “They want you to marry."

“They want stability. A Luna with soldiers, grain, winter stores."

“And what do *you* want?"

Aaron didn't answer immediately. He poured two cups of water, handed her one, and sat across from her. “Borders are still weak. We've barely rebuilt the farms. If I choose wrong—"

“If?" she interrupted, her voice sharper than intended.

He met her eyes. “When the borders hold, when the council stops breathing down my neck—then I'll choose with my heart."

She held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away. “You think love can wait until the world's tidy?"

“I think survival comes first."

The words should have stung more than they did. Instead, they settled like a stone in her chest—heavy, cold, impossible to move.

So she worked harder. She convinced the miller to lend his men for repairs, bullied a merchant into selling grain at pre-raid prices, soothed a fight between two captains before it could split their patrols.

One night, after they'd finished a long list of supply counts, she asked quietly, “Do you believe we'll ever be done fixing?"

Aaron leaned back, watching the candle gutter. “No. But I believe we'll be strong enough to survive whatever comes next."

And so they celebrated small victories—one repaired roof, one recovered field, one returned scout—as if they were enough to outpace the debts piling around them.

But under every cheer, Isabella heard something else: the quiet scrape of duty sharpening its teeth.

The pack slept lighter.

So did love.