Claimed By The Hidden Alpha

Chapter Five

RILEY

Cedar smoke and borrowed cotton drag me from the black.

The shirt hangs loose, saturated with scents that make my skin crawl—pine sap, wolf musk, something ancient and territorial. Jeans that belong to a stranger pool hang high around my ankles. Every muscle screams from being unmade and rebuilt, bones still settling into their new architecture.

Morning light bleeds through hand-blown glass, painting the room in shades of amber and rust. Log walls hewn from trees older than memory. A quilt that speaks of patient hands and winter nights. Everything here pulses with history, with unseen connections I don't understand.

Dad's dead.

The truth of it hits like a physical blow, doubles me over. His blood cooling on my hands. His voice going threadbare while he gasped out words about real family. I dig palms into my eyes until stars explode behind my lids, but his face won't fade. Won't give me peace.

"You're awake."

The voice jerks me upright. The man in the doorway stops my heart—it's my face aged by responsibility and loss. Same black curls that never quite behave. Same jawline that Mom always said could cut glass. Same green eyes that see too much, carry too many secrets.

"Where am I?"

"Moonhaven. About ten miles north of where we found you."

His presence fills the room without trying, authority bleeding from every pore. My spine wants to bend, some primitive part of my brain screaming submit, but I've never bent for anyone.

"I need to get home. My family—"

"Your family's safe. I checked."

The casual way he says it sparks heat in my chest. "How could you possibly—"

"Riley Stoker, twenty years old, eldest son of Mary and Michael Stoker of Rosewood, West Virginia. Med student at WVU. Four-point-oh GPA. Received your undergraduate degree at nineteen. Volunteers at the free clinic on weekends." He steps closer, and his scent hits like a slap—pine bark, old magic, barely leashed violence. "I'm Earl Stanton. Your uncle."

The words don't compute. Can't compute. The room tilts, and I grip aged wood until splinters bite into my palms.

"That's impossible."

"My sister Serenity was your biological mother." His voice stays level, but something raw flickers in his eyes. "Twenty-one years ago, rogues took her. We searched for months. Found nothing but ghost stories and blood trails that led nowhere."

"She abandoned me."

"She saved you." The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. "Whatever those rogues did to her—" He stops, jaw working. "She escaped long enough to get you somewhere safe. Left you at that hospital in a blizzard, then vanished. We never found her body."

The unspoken hangs between us. What kind of trauma makes a mother leave her hours-old baby in the snow. What kind of monsters create that kind of desperation.

"I need to call my mom. My real mom."

He hands me a phone without argument. The weight of it feels wrong in my hands—too new, too expensive, nothing like the cracked screen I've carried for two years.

My fingers shake as I dial. The number flows from muscle memory, each digit a step back toward a life that feels like fiction now.

"Hello?"

"Mom, it's me."

"Riley! Oh God, baby, where are you?" Her voice cracks, and I hear everything she's not saying. The police visit. The questions. The explosion that took her husband. "They came asking about your dad, about some facility in North Carolina. They said there was an accident—"

"I know." The words scrape out raw. "I'm sorry. I'm so f*****g sorry."

"Where are you? Just tell me where you are."

"I'm safe. I'm with..." How do I explain this? Uncle I never knew existed? Pack of werewolves? The people Dad was trying to find? "I can't explain right now."

"Riley, listen to me." Her teacher voice, the one that brooks no argument. "The police think you might be involved. They're asking questions I don't know how to answer. You need to stay away."

"Mom—"

"No. Listen. After the funeral, we're going to Halifax. My parents have that cabin, remember? We'll stay there for a while, let things settle." She takes a shaky breath. "I know you're from a different world, baby. I've always known. But you're my son, no matter what you are. Your dad knew too. He was so proud of you. So proud."

The tears come hot and sudden. I turn away from the doorway, from the uncle who shares my face.

"I love you too. Tell the kids—"

"I'll tell them you're safe. That you'll come when you can." Another breath, steadier now. "There's money in your college fund. Whatever you need."

"Mom, I can't take—"

"Yes, you can. Let me do this one thing." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Be careful, Riley. Whatever you are, whoever these people are—be careful."

The line goes dead. She's protecting me even now, cutting the call short in case someone's listening. My throat closes around grief so thick I can't breathe.

"Most wolves present at puberty." Earl's voice pulls me back. Gentle, like he's talking to something wild. "But you bloomed late. Your mother was only half-wolf, and without knowing your father's bloodline, there was no way to predict when your nature would surface."

"Wolves." The word tastes like insanity. "You're talking about werewolves."

"What did you think you were?" No judgment, just curiosity. "You've been shifting in your sleep for months. Hunting. Your dad took you to that facility because they knew something was breaking through."

"They took me there because I was killing things. Because I kept waking up covered in—"

Heat floods through me, sudden and violent. The curtains beside the bed burst into flames, zero to inferno in a heartbeat.

Earl moves faster than physics should allow. Fire extinguisher in hand, white foam killing flames before they can spread. The scorched fabric fills the room with chemical smoke and failure.

"Interesting." He sets down the extinguisher like this is normal. Like people spontaneously combust his furniture daily. "Your mother could do that too."

"Set things on fire?"

"Among other talents." He opens windows with practiced efficiency, lets mountain air sweep away the evidence. "You killed seven rogues in that facility. Tore through them bare-handed while enough sedatives to drop a rhino pumped through your system. You're unusually strong, even for a young wolf."

Seven. The number sits in my gut like lead. Seven lives ended by hands that used to heal, that wanted to save people.

"I don't remember much. Fragments. Blood. Dad telling me to find my real family." The words catch. "Then nothing until I woke up here."

"Trauma and sedatives. The memories might surface, might not." He settles into a chair that creaks under his weight, movements deliberate and unthreatening. "What matters now is keeping you safe while you learn control."

"Control." Another bitter laugh. "I'm a killer."

"You're my nephew. The rest we can work with."

The door opens before I can respond. The woman who enters radiates warmth that makes my chest ache—dark skin that glows in morning light, eyes that see everything and forgive most of it. She moves like she owns the space, like the house itself bends to accommodate her.

"You're awake. Good. I'm Miranda, Earl's wife."

She sets a tray on the nightstand. Coffee that smells like heaven. Eggs that steam. Toast with butter melting into golden pools. Normal breakfast foods that seem impossible when the world's gone sideways.

"You need to eat. Shifting burns calories like wildfire."

"I'm not hungry."

"Your grief doesn't change your metabolism. Eat."

The gentle command in her voice hits like Mom's. I pick up the fork just to stop the ache in my chest.

"I'm sorry about your father." Her hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching. "It takes rare courage to seek help for someone you love, knowing the cost."

"The cost was his life."

"The cost was always going to be someone's life. He made sure it wasn't yours."

Footsteps thunder overhead like a stampede. Two girls burst through the door—twin tornadoes of energy and curiosity. Twelve and fourteen maybe, all sharp elbows and barely contained chaos.

"Is this our cousin? He looks exactly like Dad!"

"Marie, Mia. What have we discussed about barging in?"

The younger one circles me, nose twitching like a rabbit's. "Why does he smell like blood and smoke and something else?" Her head tilts. "Like Christmas trees on fire."

"Because he's had a difficult night. Go help prepare his room."

"But Mom—"

"Now."

They leave trailing protests and questions that hit too close. Normal kids living normal lives in a house where people breathe magic like air.

"I have a life." Desperation bleeds through the words. "Med school. Exams next week. Anatomy lab on Tuesday. I promised my little brother I'd help him with his science project. I can't just vanish into whatever this is."

"For now, you stay here." Earl's voice carries the weight of mountains. "The rogues who hit the facility are still hunting. They know what you are."

"What am I, exactly?"

"Wolf. My blood. Someone they'll either recruit or remove."

"Why?"

"Because you killed seven of them without breaking a sweat. Because you're strong enough to threaten their hierarchy. Because their leader collects powerful wolves like trophies."

"Their leader?"

"Calls himself Grendel. No one knows his real name or where he comes from. Just that he's old, strong, and has particular taste for breaking pack wolves."

The eggs taste like sawdust and guilt, but I force them down. My body needs fuel even if my soul wants to crawl into the dark and never come out.

"What happens now?"

"Now you rest. Grieve. When you're ready, we'll teach you what you need to know."

"And if I don't want to learn? If I just want my life back?"

Earl and Miranda exchange a look that speaks volumes. History. Pain. Understanding.

"The wolf is part of you. Has been all along, just sleeping. You can't unknow what you are."

"That's poetic bullshit."

"That's survival. Fighting your nature led to the blackouts, the unconscious shifting, the death you carried home to your family. Accept what you are, or it will consume you. And everyone you love."

The truth of it sits heavy. All those mornings waking up wrong. The taste of copper. Mom's face trying not to show fear.

"How long?"

"Until it's safe. Until you can control the wolf instead of it controlling you."

"And then?"

"Then you choose what kind of life you want. But that's tomorrow's problem."

They leave me alone with cooling coffee and ghosts. Outside the window, mountains stretch toward an indifferent sky—ancient peaks that have watched a thousand dramas play out and will watch a thousand more. Somewhere beyond those ridges, Mom's planning a funeral for a man who died saving a son too dangerous to save. Somewhere, my siblings are asking questions she can't answer.

I close my eyes and see Dad's face in those final moments. The pride mixed with terror. The love that didn't flinch even when faced with what his son had become.

He knew what I was before I did.

Loved me anyway.

Died for it.

The tears come quiet and steady, salt and grief and rage with nowhere to go. For the father who gave everything. For the mother who abandoned me to save me. For the siblings I might never see again. For the life I had yesterday that feels like someone else's fever dream.

When I finally open my eyes, the mountains remain. Patient as stone. Waiting for me to decide what comes next.

I finish the cold eggs and buttered toast.

The wolf needs fuel.

Even if the man just wants to disappear into smoke like his biological mother.

Even if some days, that seems like the kindest option for everyone.