The Alpha's Dark Solstice Claim

Marybeth I WAS SIXTEEN when I first noticed Rowan Blackridge as more than a name my father said with caution. He was already Alpha then. Young for it. Too young, according to half the town. Dangerous because of it, according to the rest. I lived in a small town called Alder Ridge that liked its neat layers. The humans ran the storefronts and the school board. They also complained about parking and snow removal and posted flyers on corkboards. Wolves lived right alongside them, careful with our teeth and our tempers, loyal to legacies that never made it into the council minutes. We didn’t hide who we were so much as we restrained ourselves. You could feel it in the way people watched the moon. In the way, certain families never moved houses, only expanded them. Rowan didn’t blend. He didn’t need to. Blackridge Security was his public face. White trucks with a clean logo. Municipal contracts. Event staffing. Patrol routes that looked random to anyone who didn’t know better and traced pack borders to those who did. To humans, he was a businessman who kept the town safe. To wolves, he was an Alpha wearing a modern coat. He carried his power like muscle memory. I met him for the first time at a fundraiser my father insisted that I help with. I was pouring drinks at the VFW hall because being the Alpha’s daughter meant being visible but useful. I was nervous and determined not to spill anything. Rowan arrived late. Rain darkening his shoulders, as his eyes swept the room like he was expecting trouble to step out from behind the raffle table. When our gazes met, something shifted. Not sparks. Not romance. Recognition. He knew who I was. I knew who he was. Neither of us smiled. He took a drink, nodded once, and moved on. I watched him leave and felt the room exhale. After that, he was everywhere. At the grocery store, loading bulk protein and black coffee like a man who didn’t believe in small comforts. At council meetings, standing at the back with his arms crossed, listening more than speaking. Outside the high school on Friday nights, his trucks parked discreetly nearby, engines idling like patience. He never approached me. For two years, he was simply there. That should have made it easier. It didn’t. The first time tension flared, it was over nothing. I was seventeen and leaving the library after closing. With my backpack slung over one shoulder, I found him by the bike rack, phone pressed to his ear. He finished the call when he saw me, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You shouldn’t be out alone,” he softly growled. “I live three blocks away,” I shrugged. “That doesn’t change the risk.” He sounded agitated. “You don’t get to tell me where I can go.” I stood my ground. “I get to warn you.” His gaze held mine, steady and assessing. We stared at each other for a long beat. Then he stepped aside and let me pass. The air felt charged long after I was gone. Another time, months later, I ran into him at the diner during a snowstorm. The power was out, and the generator was humming. Humans were complaining. Wolves were watching the door. Rowan slid into the seat across from me because there were no others left. We talked about nothing serious. Coffee. Road closures. The way storms made people careless. When the lights flickered back on, he paid the bill and left without saying goodbye. I sat there with my hands wrapped around a mug that had gone cold. I told myself it was curiosity. Then irritation. Then awareness became sharp enough to sting. At eighteen, I started noticing the moments when he seemed to notice me too. The way his eyes tracked me through a room and then deliberately looked away. The way he placed himself between me and raised voices at a town meeting, as casual as breathing. The way he once said my name … quietly, like it tasted dangerous. “Marybeth.” Just that. Nothing after. That was also the year that peace came dressed as a party. The town called it Founder’s Day. Wolves called it the Truce Festival. Banners went up between lampposts with geometric patterns that humans read as festive and wolves read as sigils. Permits were approved. f*******: events shared and reshared. Alder Ridge congratulated itself on surviving another year without blood. Humans drank because it was fun. Wolves drank because restraint was exhausting. The festival was on the first Saturday of December just as the weather turned sharp and cold. Strings of lights glowed across Main Street. Food trucks idled. Music spilled from rented speakers. The air hummed with anticipation and something close to relief. Now that I was eighteen, I could feel all eyes on the alpha’s daughter. Laughter was louder than necessary. Touches lingered. Old grudges pressed against smiles like teeth behind lips. I drank more than I usually did. Enough that warmth curled through my chest and softened the constant vigilance. Enough that when Rowan appeared beside me near the fire pit, I didn’t step away. “You shouldn’t be drinking this much,” he said, voice low. “Is that an order, Alpha?” I laughed, reckless and bright. He hadn’t spoken to me in months, and that was his opening line. “It’s advice.” His jaw tightened. I rolled my eyes. He was always giving me “advice”. “I didn’t ask for it.” I crossed my arms, amused when his eyes flicked … just once … to my chest. I held his gaze and didn’t move. “No,” he agreed. “You didn’t.” The silence stretched, heavy and hot. Music pulsed. Someone bumped into me from behind, sending me forward just enough that my hand brushed Rowan’s arm. The contact landed like a spark. His fingers closed around my wrist, steadying me. Not rough. Not gentle. Possessive without claiming to be. Our eyes met, and for a second the world stalled. “Careful,” he sounded as out of breath. “I am,” I said, breathless. “Are you?” I challenged without thinking. The air between us became electric. That was when the line finally snapped. We didn’t announce anything. We didn’t sneak away dramatically. We simply stopped being where everyone else was. Behind the old community centre, the noise dulled. The cold bit harder. Rowan stood too close, his presence filling the space like gravity. We looked at each other, breathing the same air, years of almosts pressing in. “This can’t happen,” he said, sounding as out of breath again. “Then why are you still here?” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Because I’ve been good for a long time.” His laugh was quiet and humourless. “So have I.” That was all it took. The kiss was heated and clumsy at first, fuelled by alcohol and years of restraint. My back hit the wall, his hands braced beside my shoulders, caging me without touching until I reached for him. When he finally did touch me, it was deliberate. Slow. As if he were memorizing something he had already decided to lose. We didn’t talk after that. We didn’t need to. The world narrowed to breath and heat and the way his control frayed only when I pressed closer. My hands slid beneath his jacket, and his mouth found the hollow beneath my ear. Lingering like he might forget himself if he stayed there too long. It felt dangerous. It felt inevitable. His fingers found my core and I gasped. “So wet.” He looked surprised only for a second, then his expression changed to one of pure hunger. He lifted me with ease, and I gasped as he slipped inside me. We moved as if we were meant to be together. We moved on instinct. As if this moment had been written in the stars. His hands supported me, while I clung to him as if my life depended on it. When it was over, reality crept back in all too fast as the cold air warmed our sweat-drenched bodies. Rowan stepped away first, running a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. I reached for my coat, suddenly aware of every inch of exposed skin. “This was a mistake,” he said. “Yes,” I agreed, heart racing. “But not because I regret it.” “You need to forget this.” He looked at me then, really looked, something raw flickering behind his eyes before it vanished. “You don’t get to decide that for me,” I straightened, anger cutting through the haze. I knew what we had just done could cause a war. That was what my head was telling me, but my heart and, worst of all, my wolf were drooling and completely head over heels in love. “I do,” he said quietly. “Because if this continues, it won’t end with just us.” He was right. I knew he was, but … “And if I don’t want to forget?” It slipped out. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was still trying to process that this had actually happened. That after years of fantasizing about possibilities, he actually didn’t just notice me, but … “Then you’ll get hurt.” His expression closed completely. He left without another word. I stayed there a long time after, staring at the spot where he’d been, my body humming, my chest aching with something I didn’t yet have a name for. By morning, Alder Ridge pretended nothing had happened. The festival was over. People were hungover. Life resumed. Rowan avoided me with surgical precision. He passed me on the sidewalk without looking. Spoke to my father without acknowledging my presence. I told myself he was right. That forgetting was survival. That there was no way we could be together without shattering the delicate peace holding the town together. I didn’t yet understand that some lines, once crossed, never disappeared. They just waited.