Claimed By The Hidden Alpha

Chapter Nine

RILEY

Marie’s shriek pierces through predawn darkness, high and delighted. “He’s back! And he caught rabbits again!”

Consciousness returns in stages—the taste of fur between my teeth, frost-brittle grass beneath bare skin, the copper warmth of fresh blood coating my throat. Eight days in Moonhaven, and I’m still waking up in the forest like a feral thing, surrounded by small corpses arranged in neat rows.

“Easy there, cuz.” Tom’s voice carries that particular mix of amusement and concern I’m getting used to. Earl’s beta crouches just outside lunging distance, smart enough to give a newly-awakened wolf space. “Let’s get you home before the whole pack comes to gawk.”

The patrol team flanks him—Kyle and Rick, who’ve drawn morning retrieval duty three times this week. Kyle tosses me a blanket that smells of pack, of safety, of the home I don’t quite believe in yet.

“Third time this week.” Rick keeps his voice neutral, but I catch the undercurrent. They’re getting tired of dawn rescue missions. “Earl wants to see you when you’re decent.”

The walk back burns with shame. Pack members are stirring, preparing for dawn training, and every eye tracks my passage. The crazy nephew who can’t control his wolf. The one who hunts in his sleep despite enough sedatives to drop a grizzly.

Miranda waits on the packhouse porch, coffee mug steaming in the morning chill. My aunt by mating rather than blood, but she’s shown me more patience in eight days than I probably deserve. Her dark skin glows in the emerging light, and her expression holds that particular blend of exasperation and affection I remember from Mary—from Mom.

“Shower first,” she says, not a question. “Then we talk about why you’re actively sabotaging your own progress.”

The hot water sluices away blood and forest debris, but not the deeper problem. I know exactly why my control keeps slipping. Silver eyes haunt my dreams. The memory of her hand in mine, that impossible silence where her thoughts should be, the way her cottage smelled of oil paint and wild honeysuckle. Every time I catch her scent on the wind, my wolf goes mad with wanting.

So I avoid her. Eight days of careful distance, of taking the long way around the compound, of pretending I don’t feel her watching from windows and doorways. It’s safer this way. Cleaner. I can’t offer her anything until I can guarantee I won’t wake up covered in her blood instead of rabbit fur.

The kitchen smells of bacon and normalcy when I finally emerge. Mia perches on the counter despite repeated warnings about proper behavior, while Marie sets the table with mathematical precision. They’ve folded me into their routine with the easy acceptance of children—I’m cousin Riley, who sets things on fire and needs help with basic tasks like not sleeping naked in the woods.

“Sit.” Miranda points to a chair with her spatula. “Eat. Then we’re having that overdue lesson about pack hierarchy and why you can’t keep pretending Lyra doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not—”

“You literally climbed out a second-story window yesterday to avoid passing her in the hall.” Mia’s observation comes with a grin. “We saw you. It was impressive but also kind of sad.”

Earl enters before I can defend myself, presence filling the kitchen like smoke. My uncle moves with the controlled power of someone who’s never had to prove his dominance. The resemblance between us grows more unsettling each day—same build, same eyes, same way of occupying space.

“Detective Ramirez will be here in an hour.” He pours coffee with steady hands. “He needs statements from you and Throckmorton about the facility.”

My stomach clenches. “I thought the site was cleared.”

“Of evidence, yes. But seventeen people died, Riley. There are procedures even we can’t circumvent entirely.” He meets my eyes over his mug. “Tell the truth, just not all of it. You were sedated during the attack. You remember very little. Your father died trying to protect you from the intruders.”

All true, if carefully edited. No mention of rogues or shifting or the seven bodies I left in my wake.

“Throckmorton has video footage,” Earl continues. “Security cameras showing the attack, though the quality degrades significantly during the… incident. Enough to prove neither of you were responsible.”

After breakfast, Miranda corners me in the study. The room smells of leather and old smoke, Earl’s sanctuary where pack business gets decided. She closes the door with deliberate care.

“Lesson one about wolf etiquette—avoiding your mate is considered a grave insult.”

“She’s not my—”

“Please.” Miranda’s look could strip paint. “The entire pack can smell the bond between you. Lyra’s been painting your face for six months. You threw Hunter Stevens into a tree for touching her. Let’s not pretend we’re stupid.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “I can’t control my wolf. Last time I touched her, I nearly—”

“Nearly what? Claimed her? Marked her as yours?” Miranda settles into the chair across from me, movements elegant despite her bluntness. “That’s what mates do, Riley. The wolf recognizes what the man is too stubborn to accept.”

“I could hurt her.”

“You could. Hunter Stevens definitely planned to hurt her. But you’re so focused on the monster you might become that you’re ignoring the one already circling her.”

The words land like a slap. “Hunter wouldn’t—”

“Hunter’s been pursuing Lyra for years. She’s refused him repeatedly, but unmated omegas have limited protection under old pack law. Your presence here, your obvious connection to her, it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.” She leans forward. “By avoiding her, you’re not protecting her. You’re leaving her vulnerable.”

The truth of It sits like lead in my chest. I’ve been so focused on my own control that I haven’t considered what my distance might cost her.

“She deserves better than someone who wakes up covered in blood three times a week.”

“She deserves the chance to choose for herself.” Miranda’s voice gentles. “Lyra’s not some delicate flower, Riley. She’s survived twenty-three years of feeling everyone’s thoughts, of carrying visions that would drive others mad. She doesn’t need your protection. She needs your partnership.”

A knock Interrupts. Tom leans through the doorway, expression carefully neutral. “Detectives are here.”

Detective Ramirez looks like every cop show cliché—rumpled suit, permanent stubble, eyes that have seen too much. His partner, Detective Hollis, radiates competent exhaustion. They set up in the formal dining room, digital recorders and notebooks ready.

“Mr. Stoker.” Ramirez’s tone stays professionally neutral. “We need to discuss the events at the Red Rock Research Facility.”

Throckmorton joins us, somehow looking professorial even after everything. He opens his laptop with steady hands, pulling up footage that makes my chest tight.

“As you can see,” he narrates clinically, “the facility was breached at approximately 11:47 PM. Multiple intruders, heavily armed. They appeared to be targeting the lower levels where we housed… other subjects.”

The video shows rogues moving through hallways, though the quality makes them look more like blurs than supernatural killers. Bodies drop, scientists flee. Then static, conveniently timed.

“The feeds cut out during the explosions,” Throckmorton continues smoothly. “By the time backup systems engaged, the structural damage was catastrophic.”

“And you, Mr. Stoker?” Hollis addresses me directly. “Where were you during the attack?”

“Sedated in an observation pod.” Truth tastes strange when it’s incomplete. “I have a medical condition. Dr. Throckmorton was monitoring my brain activity during sleep cycles.”

“Your father was present?”

“He brought me to the facility. Stayed to observe the procedures.” My throat tightens. “He died trying to protect me when the attackers breached the observation room.”

Ramirez makes notes, expression unreadable. “The pod saved your life?”

“Reinforced titanium construction,” Throckmorton supplies. “Designed to withstand significant force. Young Mr. Stoker was unconscious throughout the incident.”

More questions follow—my medical history (carefully edited), my relationship with my father (complicated but loving), any enemies who might target the facility (none I knew of). They take DNA samples, fingerprints, all the procedural requirements for surviving a m******e.

“We’ll need you to remain available,” Ramirez says finally, packing up his equipment. “But the evidence supports your account. Domestic terrorism, likely eco-extremists targeting the research. You were victims, not perpetrators.”

They leave with handshakes and business cards, and I slump in my chair as tension bleeds away. Throckmorton closes his laptop with a satisfied nod.

“Well played, gentlemen.” He stands, straightening his vest. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have genetic sequences to analyze. Your transformation metabolism is fascinating, Riley. The caloric requirements alone defy conventional biology.”

Alone in the dining room, I let my head fall back and close my eyes. Eight days of half-truths and careful distances. Eight days of pretending I don’t feel her presence like a second heartbeat. Eight days of—

“Challenge issued.”

Tom’s voice snaps me back. He stands in the doorway, expression grim.

“Hunter Stevens just formally challenged you for insult to his person and status. Tonight, sunset, the challenge circle.” He pauses. “You can refuse, but—”

“I’ll look weak.” The politics become clearer each day. “And he’ll use it as evidence I don’t deserve to be here.”

“Pretty much.” Tom’s sympathy doesn’t hide the truth. “Alpha can’t interfere. Pack law is clear on personal challenges.”

The rest of the day passes in preparation. Kyle and Rick drill me on formal combat rules—no weapons, no outside interference, victory through submission or unconsciousness. Miranda provides more practical advice about Hunter’s fighting style, his tendency to go for hamstrings and throat.

But it’s Mia who offers the most useful insight, cornering me as the sun begins its descent.

“Hunter’s afraid of fire,” she says quietly. “Three years ago, a wildfire nearly took his family’s cabin. He won’t admit it, but watch how he flinches when anyone lights a match.”

The challenge circle Is ancient, carved into the earth before the packhouse existed. Stones mark the boundary, worn smooth by generations of formal combat. What looks like the entire pack has gathered, forming a living wall around the space.

Hunter waits in the center, shirtless despite the evening chill. Scars crosshatch his torso—evidence of a lifetime spent fighting. He’s broader than me, more heavily muscled, with the kind of functional strength that comes from daily use rather than gym time.

“Ready to bleed, cuz?” His smile promises violence.

Earl stands at the circle’s edge, voice carrying formal weight. “Challenge issued by Hunter Stevens against Riley Stoker for insult to person and status. Combat until submission, unconsciousness, or death. No interference, no weapons save what nature provides.” He looks between us. “Begin.”

Hunter moves first, faster than anyone that size should manage. His fist catches my ribs before I can fully dodge, driving air from my lungs. I roll with the impact, coming up in time to avoid his follow-through.

“Too slow, pup.” He circles, predator-confident. “Your fancy bloodline won’t save you from experience.”

He’s right. Every exchange proves it. Where I telegraph my moves, he flows like water. Where I waste energy on missed strikes, he makes every motion count. Blood fills my mouth from a split lip. My ribs scream from repeated impacts.

The crowd murmurs, scenting upset. Hunter grins, moving in for the finish.

Then I catch her scent on the wind. Honeysuckle and paint, wild earth and that particular sweetness that makes my wolf sing. Lyra stands at the circle’s edge, silver eyes wide with concern. Our gazes lock across the distance, and something shifts inside me.

The next punch I don't dodge—I catch. Hunter’s eyes widen as his fist stops dead in my palm, bones grinding under pressure he can’t break.

“My turn.”

The words come out deeper than normal, edged with growl. Heat builds under my skin, not quite flame but the promise of it. Hunter tries to pull back, but I’m already moving.

Three strikes—solar plexus, throat, knee. He drops, gasping, and I follow him down. My hand finds his neck, not choking but holding. Controlling. The wolf rises behind my eyes, and I let him look through.

“Yield.” Not a request.

Hunter’s face purples with rage and oxygen deprivation, but he’s trapped. My weight pins him, my grip allows exactly enough air to keep him conscious. The smell of his fear fills the circle, sharp and satisfying.

“I yield!” The words tear from him like pulled teeth.

I release him immediately, standing and stepping back. Hunter rolls to his knees, coughing, glaring murder. But pack law is absolute—he yielded, I won.

“Victory to Riley Stoker.” Earl’s pronouncement rings with finality. “The challenge is settled.”

The crowd disperses slowly, buzzing with surprise and speculation. Hunter’s friends help him away, shooting dark looks that promise this isn’t over. But I barely notice, because Lyra is walking toward me.

She stops just outside arm’s reach, and I realize she’s giving me the choice. Offering proximity without demanding touch. Her wild hair catches the dying light, and those impossible eyes hold questions I’m not ready to answer.

Her hands move in signs I’m getting better at reading: You’re hurt.

“I’ll heal.”

I could help. A pause, then: If you want.

The offer hangs between us, loaded with more than just healing. Eight days of distance collapse into this moment, this choice. I can maintain the walls, keep her safe from what I might become.

Or I can stop being a coward.

“Okay.”

Her smile transforms her face from beautiful to breathtaking. She reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement, and her fingers brush the cut on my lip.

The connection blazes to life—that impossible silence where chaos should be, the perfect peace of her touch. But more flows between us. I feel her relief, her frustration with my avoidance, her growing certainty that we’re meant to be more than careful strangers.

Don’t hide from me again. The thought transfers clear as spoken words. I’ve been alone with this gift my whole life. Don’t make me be alone with this too.

“I won’t.” The promise tastes like truth. “I’m sorry. I thought—”

I know what you thought. Her thumb traces my jaw, and I have to close my eyes against the sensation. But I’m not fragile, Riley. And you’re not a monster.

When I open my eyes, she’s already walking away, leaving me standing in a challenge circle with blood on my face and hope burning in my chest. Tomorrow will bring new tests, new challenges. Hunter won’t forget this humiliation. The rogues still circle our borders. My control remains tenuous at best.

But tonight, I watch her disappear into growing darkness and feel something settle in my chest. Not quite peace, but the promise of it. The possibility that maybe, just maybe, I can stop running from the only person who makes the wolf quiet.

The forest calls as sleep approaches, hungry and wild. But stronger than that ancient pull is the memory of her touch, the echo of her thoughts, the promise implicit in her presence at the circle’s edge.

She came for me. Despite my distance, my cowardice, my careful walls—she came.

The least I can do is stop running.