Claimed By The Hidden Alpha

Chapter Seven

RILEY

Morning mist clings to the mountain like a living thing, curling through pine branches and pooling in hollows where last night's shadows still linger. I follow Earl and Miranda through Moonhaven's heart, my enhanced senses overwhelming me with information I don't know how to process.

The compound unfolds like something from a fever dream—buildings that seem to have grown rather than been built, log structures married to stone foundations in ways that defy conventional architecture. Wood smoke mingles with the musk of wolf, the sharp tang of pine sap, and underneath it all, something ancient that makes my bones ache with recognition.

"The main house has stood for over a century." Earl's boots crunch on gravel worn smooth by generations. "Your great-great-grandfather built it when he first claimed this territory."

A door opens to our left, releasing the warm scent of yeast and flour. The woman who emerges stops mid-step, her coffee mug slipping from suddenly nerveless fingers. It shatters on the wooden steps, but she doesn't seem to notice.

"Sweet moon above." Her voice breaks on the words. "You have her eyes."

"This is Riley," Miranda says softly, her hand finding the small of my back in a gesture that feels both maternal and protective. "Serenity's son."

The baker—her apron reads 'Delilah's Daily Bread'—presses both hands to her chest like she's trying to hold her heart in place. "I knew your mother when we were girls. She used to steal cookies from my mother's kitchen, leave little burn marks on the windowsill where she'd rest her hands."

The image forms unbidden—a wild-haired girl with my eyes, laughing as she runs with stolen sweets, leaving a trail of small fires in her wake. It hurts to imagine her young and carefree when all I know is abandonment and snow.

"Welcome home, child." Delilah's tears smell like salt and old grief. "She would be so proud to see you grown."

Home. The word tastes foreign on my tongue, too big for my mouth. But I nod because what else can I do when faced with a stranger's tears for a mother I never knew?

The pattern repeats as we wind through the compound. Pack members emerging from workshops and gardens, that same shock of recognition followed by introductions that feel like ceremonies. Peter, the blacksmith, nearly drops a glowing horseshoe. Twin boys named Caden and Caleb peek out from behind their mother's legs, noses twitching as they catch my scent. An elderly woman grips her walking stick and murmurs what sounds like a prayer.

"Everyone knew her?" My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.

Earl pauses near what looks like a training ground, where pack members move through combat forms with inhuman grace. "Everyone loved her. She was... incandescent. Wild in the way fire is wild—beautiful to watch, dangerous to touch, impossible to contain."

A young woman executes a flip that defies gravity, landing in a crouch that makes my wolf stir with interest. Her training partner, a man built like a brick wall, grins and offers his hand to pull her up. Their casual display of superhuman ability makes my skin itch.

"The fire thing," I manage, watching sparks dance between my fingers before I clench my fist. "That's from her?"

"Among other gifts." Earl's green eyes—so like mine it's unsettling—track the sparring wolves. "Your mother was half-fae. It's why she burned so bright, why pack life could never quite contain her spirit."

Fae. Another impossible word to add to my new vocabulary, right after werewolf and mate bond.

"Is that why the rogues took her?"

The question hangs between us like smoke. Miranda's fingers tighten on Earl's arm, her knuckles white with old pain.

"Power calls to power. Grendel collects rare bloodlines, uses them to—" He cuts himself off, jaw working. "That's a conversation that requires whiskey and more time than we have."

By the time we complete our circuit, the sun has burned through the mist, revealing Moonhaven in full daylight. The compound sprawls larger than I'd imagined, a small town hidden in the mountains. Gardens heavy with vegetables, workshops where the ring of hammer on metal mingles with modern power tools, children playing games that involve too much jumping and impossible catches.

We end up back in Earl's study, where yesterday's scorch marks have been scrubbed away but the acrid scent lingers. The room smells of leather and old books, cedar and that particular alpha presence that makes my wolf want to bare its throat.

"You mentioned wanting to finish medical school." Earl settles behind a desk carved from what must have been a massive oak. The wood grain swirls like frozen water. "There's a strong program at UNC. We have connections there."

"I can't just transfer." The words taste bitter. "My whole life is at WVU. My apartment, my clinical rotations, my—"

"Your life just became significantly more complicated." His tone isn't cruel, just pragmatic. "The authorities want to question you about the facility. Returning to Morgantown isn't advisable."

The leather chair creaks as I lean back, trying to process the death of everything I'd planned. Four years of undergraduate work, perfect grades, MCAT scores that made advisors salivate—all of it meaningless now.

"Even if I could transfer, how exactly do I explain to the admissions committee that I need to postpone because I might spontaneously combust during histology lab?"

Miranda's laugh surprises me—rich and warm. "You'd be amazed what doors open when you know the right people. But Earl's right about one thing—you need training first."

"How long?"

"Depends entirely on you." Earl's fingers drum against the desk. "Some learn control in weeks. Others take months. You're starting late, and your bloodline is... unprecedented."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we're in uncharted territory. Wolf and fae and whatever your biological father contributed—it's a combination we've never seen."

Another ghost, another empty space in my history. But those questions will have to wait.

A knock interrupts. Tom leans through the doorway, all military efficiency despite the casual clothes. "Transport's ready if you still want to visit the site."

"You don't have to do this," Miranda says quietly. "No one expects you to return there so soon."

But I'm already standing. My father—the man who raised me, loved me, died for me—deserves more than being left in the rubble.

* * *

The SUV reeks of gun oil and the particular tension that comes from heading into uncertain territory. Tom drives while Rick rides shotgun, both armed like we're heading into combat. Dr. Throckmorton sits beside me, remarkably composed for someone whose life's work just became a crater.

"Fascinating social structure," he murmurs, stylus moving across his tablet. "The pack dynamics alone could fuel a dozen dissertations."

"Pretty sure that's not happening, Doc." Rick's scarred hands adjust the rifle across his lap. "Seeing as we're probably on every watch list from here to D.C."

The facility—what remains of it—looks worse in daylight. Twisted metal reaches toward the sky like skeletal fingers. Concrete chunks the size of cars lie scattered across scorched earth. Police tape flutters in the morning breeze, yellow against black, but the scene is eerily empty.

"Where is everyone?" The absence of investigators makes my skin crawl.

"Called off." Tom's satisfaction bleeds through his neutral tone. "Amazing what happens when certain phone calls get made to certain people."

Pack influence running deeper than I'd imagined. Connections that stretch into places I hadn't considered.

We duck under the tape, and the smell hits like a physical blow. Charred flesh and melted plastic, chemicals that make my nose burn even in human form. Underneath it all, the copper stench of old blood baked into concrete.

"The news said seventeen dead." My voice sounds hollow. "They're not even sure if we're among them. Unidentified remains."

"Better they think us dead than hunt us alive," Throckmorton observes, photographing the destruction with clinical detachment.

I head for where the pod room should be, trying to orient myself in the wreckage. Every step releases new scents—fear-sweat crystallized by heat, the ozone trace of my own lightning, rogues' musk turned acrid by flame. My hands shake as I lift a beam that would require a crane for normal humans.

"Riley." Throckmorton appears at my elbow, tablet tucked away. "Your father was near the primary support structure when the charges detonated. The heat would have been... intense. There might not be remains to recover."

The words hit like ice water, but I keep searching. Moving debris with strength I'm still not used to, following scent trails that lead nowhere. Thirty minutes of shifting rubble, and all I find are melted medical instruments and glass fused into abstract sculptures by impossible heat.

"We need to move." Tom's hand on my shoulder grounds me. "I'm sorry, but we've pushed our luck far enough."

The ride back passes in loaded silence. Even Throckmorton keeps his observations to himself, recognizing grief when he sees it. The trees blur past, and I find myself thinking about my father's last words. Find your real family. He'd known, somehow. Known I'd need them when he was gone.

* * *

The common room TV plays on mute, but the images tell the story clearly enough. Aerial footage of the destroyed facility, officials in hazmat suits, and then—my medical school ID photo next to Throckmorton's academic headshot. SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING scrolls across the bottom. POSSIBLE WITNESSES TO TRAGEDY.

"They can't prove anything." Earl mutes the TV entirely. "Without the facility's records, you're just two more potential victims."

But we both know it means the life I'd built is over. No more apartment near campus, no more study groups at the coffee shop, no more pretending to be normal while something wild clawed at my insides.

Dinner becomes an exercise in endurance. Pack members try to make me feel welcome, but their curiosity presses against my skin like humidity. I force down food that tastes like ash, respond to questions with single syllables, count the minutes until I can escape.

When the meal finally ends, I bolt for the door, needing air that doesn't smell like pack sympathy.

"Where are you going?"

Marie and Mia materialize like twin spirits, eyes bright with barely contained energy.

"Just walking."

"Can we come?" Mia bounces on her toes, reminding me painfully of Matty. "We know all the secret places. The hollow tree where raccoons nest, the stream where the water tastes like stars."

"Mom says we need to be nice because you're sad," Marie adds with devastating honesty. "But really we just think you're interesting. You smell like storms."

Despite everything, my mouth quirks. "Lead the way."

They guide me through paths that seem more suggestion than reality, chattering about pack history and the best spots for berry picking. The forest embraces us, ancient trees filtering moonlight into silver patterns. My wolf settles slightly, soothed by the territory's wild magic.

"Lyra lives down this way," Mia announces, pointing to a cottage that seems carved from the mountain itself. "She's the prettiest omega in the whole pack, but she never says anything."

"She can't speak," Marie corrects with older-sister superiority. "But she paints the most amazing things. Visions from her dreams that come true."

The cottage glows with warm light, windows like golden eyes in the darkness. Through the glass, I glimpse canvases leaning against every surface, colors swirling in patterns that make my chest constrict. And there, moving through the space like smoke given form—

Lyra reaches for something on a high shelf, dark hair cascading down her back in waves that catch the lamplight. When she turns toward the window, those silver eyes find mine across the distance, and the world tilts off its axis.

The pull is immediate, visceral, undeniable. Every cell in my body screams to go to her, to press my palms against the glass, to break through every barrier between us. A growl builds in my chest, low and possessive.

"You're doing the rumbly thing," Marie observes with scientific interest.

I force myself to step back, to breathe through the need clawing at my ribcage. But I can feel her watching, feel the weight of that silver gaze like hands on my skin.

"We should head back." My voice comes out rough, more wolf than man.

"But we haven't shown you the waterfall," Mia protests. "It glows under the full moon!"

"Another time."

I let them lead me away, but every step feels wrong. The bond—I don't have words for it yet, just this terrible pull—stretches between us like a living thing. Questions burn under my skin: why her paintings include my face, why looking at a stranger feels like coming home, why my wolf has gone quiet for the first time since this nightmare began.

Back at the main house, I escape to my room quickly, claiming exhaustion that's not entirely a lie. But sleep eludes me. Instead, I stand at the window, staring toward a cottage I can no longer see but feel in my bones.

The moon tracks across the sky while I replay that glimpse through glass. Silver eyes that see too much. Dark hair I want to tangle my fingers in. The way my entire being oriented toward her like she's magnetic north and I'm just a compass needle helpless against the pull.