Rejected as Weak: The Alpha Wants Me Back

The Boy at the Border

The last stop on the eastbound line was a town called Ashford.

The bus pulled into a cracked lot behind a repair shop, and the driver announced the end of the route without looking up from his phone. I grabbed my duffel and stepped down onto pavement that had seen better years. The air smelled like diesel and dust. A few trucks idled near a loading yard. Across the street, a faded motel sign blinked weakly in the afternoon sun.

I stood there for a moment, orienting myself. My legs were stiff from the ride, and the headache had crept back up from wherever it had gone that morning—not as sharp as Blackridge, but present. My body was tired. Not the bone-deep exhaustion I'd known for years, but a real, ordinary tiredness I could actually feel and name.

I was about to cross toward the motel when the shouting started.

It came from behind the repair shop, near a narrow alley between two storage units. A man's voice, sharp and urgent.

"Back up! Don't corner him!"

"He's halfway shifted—he's going to lunge."

"Get the restraints."

I stopped.

Since leaving Blackridge, I'd been trying to let the world handle itself without me. I had no responsibility here. No one knew my name. No one was asking me to fix anything. I could turn around, cross the street, and check into that motel.

But I stood there, listening.

The sound underneath the shouting was a boy's ragged, uneven breathing, too fast and too shallow, catching on every inhale like he was drowning in air.

I set my bag down by the bus shelter and walked toward the alley, stopping at the edge of the crowd.

A small group had gathered at the mouth of it. Three men in work clothes stood closest, hands raised, faces tight with fear. A woman near the back was already on the phone. And against the far wall, half-hidden behind a stack of wooden pallets, a boy crouched with his back pressed to the bricks.

He was maybe twelve. His left hand was fully human, splayed against the wall. The other was not. Claws had pushed through his fingertips, dark and curved. His jaw was wrong—too long on one side, the bones shifting slowly, painfully. His eyes kept flicking from gold to brown and back again.

A man with a length of rope started forward, and the boy made a sound that was half snarl, half sob. His claws scraped against the ground. The people in front flinched.

"He's going feral," one of the men said. "We need to get him down before he hurts someone."

But I was looking at his feet.

He wasn't advancing. He was pressed as far back as the alley would allow, shoulders curled inward, eyes moving toward the gap between the storage units like he was measuring an escape. Every time the crowd closed in, his breath spiked. Every spike brought the wolf closer to the surface.

He wasn't trying to attack.

He was trying to get away.

The man with the rope moved again. The boy's claws scraped harder, and his whole body coiled tight.

I could still leave. I could turn around and find that motel.

But if they put that rope on him now, he was going to fight it, and someone would get hurt.

I stepped forward.

"Stop closing in on him."

The man with the rope turned. "Who are you?"

"He's scared," I said. "Look at him. He's not charging. He's cornered."

Someone near the back exhaled.

"Beta Reed's here."

The group shifted apart.

The man walking toward us was tall and lean, with dark hair and a tired, watchful expression. He wore a plain jacket, worn at the elbows, and there was a thin white scar along his jaw.

His gaze moved from the boy's feet to the rope, then to the narrow gap behind him.

"Everyone back two steps," he said. "Give her room."

The group obeyed, though slowly.

He watched the boy for another second, then looked at me.

"What do you need?"

I didn't answer him directly. I stepped sideways, making sure I wasn't blocking the boy's exit. Then I knelt, not too close, at an angle where he could see me without turning his head.

"Don't look at them," I said. "Look at the ground if you need to. It's okay."

The boy's breathing hitched. His claws scraped again.

"I'm not going to grab you." I kept my voice low and even, the same rhythm I'd used a hundred times before.

"You're halfway through. I know it hurts. You don't have to force it."

He shook his head, a jerky, frightened motion.

"Breathe with me," I said. "In through your nose. Slow."

I inhaled.

He didn't follow.

"That's all right. We can do it again."

I inhaled again, and this time I let the breath out in a long, steady stream.

"Out through your mouth. Longer than you think you need to."

His chest stuttered.

Then, slowly, it began to match.

The world narrowed.

There was a faint pull behind my ribs, like something under my skin reaching toward the boy's panic.

I didn't understand it.

But somehow I knew exactly when to slow down, when to wait, when to let the rhythm carry both of us.

His claws retracted first.

Then the bones in his jaw shifted back, settling into place with a soft click. His breathing slowed. The gold faded from his eyes.

The boy slumped against the wall, trembling, exhausted.

I stayed where I was until the medic arrived—a tired-looking woman with a kit and steady hands. She knelt beside the boy and spoke to him quietly.

He let her take his wrist.

He didn't fight.

I stood up.

My head throbbed once, sharp, behind my left eye. My fingers had gone cold. A wave of fatigue rolled through me, then eased.

It was less than Blackridge.

Much less.

But it was there.

The medic had him now.

That meant I was done.

I turned and walked back toward the bus shelter. My legs felt heavier than they should have.

"Wait."

I stopped.

The man from the alley caught up in a few strides, keeping a careful distance. Up close, he looked younger than I'd first thought, though the tiredness around his eyes made it hard to tell.

"Silas Reed," he said.

I hesitated for only a second.

"Mara Vale."

"You're not local."

"No."

"You with a Pack?"

The question landed harder than I expected.

For a second, I couldn't answer. I'd been a Pack wolf my whole life.

But that wasn't true anymore.

"No," I said.

He nodded once, like he'd already guessed.

"What did you do?"

"I calmed him down."

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he looked back toward the alley, where the boy was being helped to his feet.

"No," he said. "You didn't."

His gaze came back to me, steady and unhurried.

"What did you do?"