Claimed By The Hidden Alpha

Chapter Eight

LYRA

The morning sun warms my back as I kneel between rows of feverfew and wolfsbane, fingers deep in dark soil that smells of rain and growing things. The herbal garden spreads before me in neat rows—medicinal plants that Nana has cultivated for decades, each one holding memories in their leaves. Here, the chamomile she planted when I first came to Moonhaven. There, the echinacea that bloomed the year I learned to control my gift.

I’m reaching for the pruning shears when his scent hits me—cologne too strong, alpha musk artificially enhanced, the particular combination that makes my skin crawl.

Hunter Stevens.

“Working hard as always, beautiful.”

His shadow falls across the plants, blocking the sun. I don’t look up, just continue deadheading the calendula with careful precision. Maybe if I ignore him completely, he’ll take the hint. The same hint I’ve been giving for six months.

“Come on, Lyra. How long are you going to play hard to get?” His boots crush a sprig of thyme as he steps closer, and I have to resist the urge to shove him backward. “I know you can’t talk, but you could at least look at me.”

My hands move in sharp, clear signs: Go away, Hunter.

“You know I don’t understand that shit.” He crouches beside me, and his proximity makes my omega instincts recoil. Where Riley’s presence pulls me like gravity, Hunter’s repels like oil on water. “But I understand this.”

His hand closes around my wrist.

The touch explodes through me—his thoughts a cesspool of entitlement and frustrated desire. Stuck-up b***h thinks she’s too good for me. I’ll show her what she’s missing. Omega needs a firm hand, needs to learn her place—

I jerk away, but his grip tightens. His other hand reaches for my face, and panic floods my system. I can’t scream. Can’t call for help. Can only struggle against his superior strength while his thoughts paint explicit pictures of what he wants to do.

“Just relax. You’ll like it once you—”

Hunter’s words cut off in a strangled yelp as he’s suddenly airborne. One moment he’s crowding me against the garden bed, the next he’s flying backward through the air like a discarded doll. He hits the oak tree twenty feet away with a crack that echoes through the morning air.

Riley stands where Hunter was, chest heaving, eyes flickering between green and gold. His hands shake with barely controlled rage, and the air around him shimmers with heat.

“Touch her again and I’ll rip your throat out.”

The words come out more growl than speech. Hunter slides down the tree trunk, groaning, as his patrol buddies come running. Kyle reaches him first, hauling him upright while Tom steps between us, hands raised.

“Easy there, cousin. Let’s all calm down.”

“He had his hands on her.” Riley’s voice drops to subsonic levels that make my bones vibrate. “He was hurting her.”

“And you threw him into a tree.” Tom’s trying for reasonable, but I can see the worry in his eyes. “That’s assault. Even here, there are rules.”

“f**k your rules.”

The temperature spikes. Grass around Riley’s feet starts to smoke, and I move without thinking. My hand touches his arm, skin to skin, and—

Silence.

Not the chaos of thoughts I usually drown in. Not the stream of consciousness that makes touch unbearable. Just… quiet. Like diving into still water after a lifetime of storms.

But something else flows between us. I can feel him—not his thoughts but his emotions, raw and powerful. Rage at Hunter. Fear for me. And underneath, that pull I’ve been feeling for months, reflected back like an echo.

It’s okay. The thought flows from me to him, clear as if I’d spoken aloud. I’m okay.

His head snaps toward me, eyes wide. “Did you just—”

“Get him to medical.” Kyle’s already half-carrying Hunter away, shooting dark looks over his shoulder. “This isn’t over, Outsider.”

They leave, Hunter cradled between them like broken goods, and I’m alone with Riley in a garden that smells of crushed herbs and smoke. His arm under my palm feels like touching a live wire, electric and vital.

“How?” His free hand covers mine, trapping it against his skin. “I heard you. In my head.”

I try to pull away, but he holds firm. Not like Hunter—this is desperation, not domination.

I don’t know. The thought transfers easily, like we’re two parts of the same circuit. This has never happened before.

“God, your voice.” His eyes close briefly, and I feel his shudder through our connection. “I’ve been dreaming it for months, but it’s even more—” He stops, seems to realize he's still holding my hand captive. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just—”

He releases me, and the loss of connection feels like losing a limb. My hand burns where he touched it, but it’s the good kind of burn. The kind that makes me want to reach out again.

His hands move in clumsy signs: You… safe… now?

The ASL is rough, clearly self-taught, but the effort makes my chest tight. He’s been learning. For me? For the pack? The signs are backward and his syntax is atrocious, but it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

You’ve been practicing, I sign slowly, making sure he can follow.

“YouTube.” His cheeks darken with embarrassment. “I wanted… I mean, after the other day, I thought…” He runs a hand through his curls, frustrated. “I wanted to be able to talk to you without a translator.”

My heart does something complicated in my chest. I reach for his hand again, and this time he meets me halfway. The connection reestablishes instantly.

Your signs need work, but the effort is appreciated.

“I’ve only been at it for three days. Cut me some slack.” But he’s smiling now, that crooked grin I’ve painted a dozen times. “This is incredible. You can’t read my thoughts?”

No. It’s quiet. Peaceful. I let him feel how rare that is, how touch usually drowns me in other people’s mental noise. With you, there’s just… us.

“Us.” He tests the word, and I feel his wolf stir at the concept. “Lyra, what is this? What are we?”

The question I’ve been dreading and craving in equal measure. I could lie, could deflect, could pretend I don’t know exactly what this bond between us means. But Hunter’s assault has left me raw, and Riley’s touch feels like the only safe harbor in a storm.

You really don’t know?

“I have suspicions.” His thumb traces circles on my palm, and each pass sends sparks up my arm. “The dreams started after I saw you in Raleigh. Just flashes for a while, hints of stuff. Your eyes, your face, your... Every time I closed my eyes, there you were. Silent, watching, always just out of reach.”

You were hunting. I share the memory—him in wolf form, magnificent and terrible, chasing shadows through my visions. I painted you over and over, trying to understand why I couldn’t stop.

“Can I see them? The paintings?”

The question surprises me. Most alphas would be disturbed by the idea of being watched, captured without consent. But Riley’s curiosity feels genuine, tinged with wonder rather than violation.

If you want. They’re not very good.

“Liar.” He squeezes my hand gently. “I saw them through your window the other night. They’re extraordinary. You captured something I didn’t even know existed in me until recently.”

We stand there in the garden, hands clasped, surrounded by herbs that will need replanting thanks to Hunter’s boots and Riley’s protective rage. The morning sun climbs higher, and I realize we’ve drawn an audience. Pack members pretend to go about their business, but everyone’s watching the Alpha’s nephew hold hands with the mute omega.

People are staring.

“Let them.” But he releases my hand anyway, and I immediately miss the connection. “I should go. Hunter’s buddies will make trouble if I stick around. But Lyra…”

He pauses, and I see him struggle with words. His hands move in those clumsy signs again: I… want… know… you.

The grammar is atrocious, but the meaning is clear. I sign back slowly: Then know me.

“Tonight? After dinner? We could…” He gestures vaguely, then laughs at himself. “I don’t even know what. Talk? Walk? Stare at each other while I butcher sign language?”

Yes.

“Yes to which part?”

All of it.

His grin could power small cities. He backs away slowly, like breaking eye contact might shatter something. “Tonight then. I’ll find you.”

He's halfway to the main house when he turns back. “Lyra? Thank you. For letting me hear your voice.”

Then he’s gone, jogging up the path with easy grace, leaving me alone with crushed herbs and a heart beating too fast. I press my palm to my chest, trying to hold onto the feeling of his thoughts flowing into mine. That perfect silence where his mind should be, filled instead with just… him.

Nana finds me there an hour later, still kneeling in the garden, thyme and oregano wilting in the sun.

“Hunter again?”

I nod, then sign: Riley stopped him.

“So I heard. Threw him clear across the garden, according to witnesses.” She settles beside me with a grunt, joints protesting. “Also heard you two were holding hands after. Caused quite a stir.”

When I touch him, I can’t read his thoughts.

Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Can’t?”

It’s quiet. But I can send thoughts to him. He can hear me. I show her my palm, still tingling from contact. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

“Soul bonds work in mysterious ways.” She starts gathering the damaged herbs, practical even in the face of revelation. “Your gifts were always going to manifest differently with your mate.”

He doesn’t know. About the bond.

“Child, that boy knows. He might not have words for it yet, but his wolf recognizes you.” She pauses, studying my face. “The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

I help her salvage what we can from Hunter’s destruction, but my mind keeps drifting to tonight. To the promise of more conversation, more connection. To the possibility of touching someone without drowning.

The day passes slowly, each hour dragging like molasses. I catch glimpses of Riley throughout—training with the patrol teams, suffering through etiquette lessons with Luna Miranda, helping the cubs with their letters. Each time our eyes meet across the compound, heat flares between us like struck flint.

By the time evening falls, my nerves sing with anticipation. I’ve changed clothes three times, tried to tame my hair, given up and let it fall wild. When the knock comes at my cottage door, I nearly jump out of my skin.

He stands on my threshold, freshly showered, wearing jeans and a henley that brings out the green in his eyes. His hands move carefully: Hello… beautiful.

The signs are still wrong—he’s essentially calling me “beauty hello”—but the effort makes me smile. I step back, inviting him in, and watch his eyes widen at the organized chaos of my home.

Canvases cover every wall. His face in dozens of iterations, painted from memory and dream. The wolf he becomes. The fire that dances under his skin. The moment in Raleigh when our eyes first met, captured in oils and acrylics and watercolor.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “This is… I had no idea I looked like that.”

Like what?

He moves deeper into the room, studying each painting with intense focus. “Dangerous. Wild. Like something that shouldn’t exist but does anyway.”

You’re beautiful, I sign, then blush at my own boldness.

He turns to me, and the heat in his eyes makes my knees weak. “Say that again. With our connection.”

I cross to him, slip my hand into his. The contact sings between us, electric and right.

You’re beautiful.

His free hand cups my cheek, thumb tracing my jawline. “So are you. God, Lyra, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this. Being close to you. Hearing your voice.”

Show me.

And he does. Not with words but with the emotion that flows between us. The longing, the confusion, the growing certainty that whatever this is between us, it’s inevitable as gravity.

We have so much to talk about. The mate bond. Hunter and his threats. What happens next.

But for now, we just stand in my cottage surrounded by paintings of his face, hands clasped, sharing silence and connection and the first fragile hope that maybe we’re not as alone as we thought.