The Alpha's Claim

Silver burns.

That’s the first thing I register. Cold, biting into my wrists, my ankles. Chains. I’m on my knees in the center of the den, and every wolf in Blackwood is staring at me like I’m something they need to scrape off their boots.

“Traitor.”

“Abomination.”

“Hybrid filth.”

The words hit harder than the silver. I lift my head, and the room goes quiet. Because my eyes are still gold. I can feel it. The wolf Bronte tried so hard to keep caged is awake now, and she’s pissed.

Rhys stands in front of the Alpha’s dais, shirt off, four claw marks still weeping blood down his chest. My claw marks. He plays them up, wincing when he moves, the bastard.

“Brothers. Sisters,” he says, voice carrying through the stone chamber. “You saw her. You smelled her. The hybrid Bronte hid from us. The one he died protecting instead of his pack.”

A growl ripples through the crowd. Marcus, the Beta, spits at my feet. “She killed him. Then came for Rhys.”

“I didn’t kill Bronte,” I rasp. My throat feels shredded. From the shift? From screaming? “He did.”

Rhys backhands me.

The crack echoes. My head snaps to the side, blood filling my mouth. I taste copper and something else. Something wild. The wolf in me wants to bite. Wants to tear his hand off at the wrist.

“See?” Rhys says to the pack. “Violent. Unstable. This is why hybrids are outlawed. They can’t control their nature.”

Elder Maeve steps forward. Her face is older than the trees, and she’s the only one who doesn’t look at me with hate. She looks at me with pity. Which is worse.

“The law is clear,” she says. “A hybrid discovered post-maturity is to be executed before the next moon. For the safety of the pack.”

Executed. They’re going to kill me. Just like they killed Bronte.

“Any last words, hybrid?” Rhys crouches in front of me. He smells like pine and blood. Like Bronte, but wrong. Rotten. “Want to beg? Bronte always liked it when you begged.”

I don’t flinch. I lean forward until my lips brush his ear, and I whisper, low enough that only he can hear:

“I’m going to wear your pelt to his grave.”

He jerks back, rage flashing gold in his eyes. His hand goes to my throat, claws pricking skin —

And the doors to the den explode inward.

---

Wind. Rain. The scent of ozone and fury.

Five figures stand in the doorway, soaked from the storm outside. They’re not Blackwood. Their scents are wrong. Older. Meaner.

The one in front is a woman with silver hair cut sharp at her jaw. She’s not big, but every wolf in the room takes a step back when she enters. Even Rhys.

“Valeria,” Maeve breathes. Like a curse. Like a prayer.

Valeria’s ice-blue eyes scan the room, land on me. On the chains. On Rhys’s hand at my throat.

“Is this how Blackwood treats its Alpha now?” Her voice is quiet. It’s worse than shouting.

Rhys drops his hand like I burned him. “This is pack business, Northfall. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Don’t I?” Valeria steps into the den, water pooling under her boots. Her wolves fan out behind her. “Bronte was blood-sworn to Northfall before he took Blackwood. His mate falls under our protection. By pack law.”

Mate. The word hits the room like a thunderclap.

“She’s not —” Rhys starts.

“She wears his ring,” Valeria cuts in, nodding to my chest. Bronte’s ring, still on its chain, is glowing faintly against my skin. It’s been doing that since I shifted. I thought I was imagining it. “The bond was consummated. Witnessed by the moon. That makes her Luna of Blackwood. And Alpha, if the previous Alpha dies without heir.”

The den goes dead silent.

I’m Alpha. The word doesn’t fit in my mouth. I was a librarian four days ago. I can’t even keep a succulent alive.

“Bullshit,” Marcus snarls. “She’s a hybrid. She killed Rhys —”

“I bled Rhys,” I say, finally finding my voice. It comes out rough, wrong, edged with a growl I can’t control. “Because he killed Bronte. He admitted it. Said Bronte was weak for wanting peace.”

Valeria’s head tilts. “Did he now.”

Rhys recovers fast. “She’s lying. She’s hysterical. You can smell the madness on her.”

“Can I?” Valeria walks to me, crouches. She’s not afraid of my teeth. Not of the gold in my eyes. She studies me like I’m a puzzle. Then she does something no one expects.

She unlocks my chains.

The silver falls away, and I gasp. My skin is blistered underneath, but the pain is already fading. Fast. Too fast for human.

“Stand up, girl,” Valeria says. Not unkindly. “If you’re Alpha, act like it.”

My legs shake, but I stand. The den feels smaller suddenly. Every wolf is watching me. Waiting.

“What’s your name?” Valeria asks.

“Wellie,” I say. “Wellie Morgan. Wellie Cade, technically. I took his name.”

A murmur goes through the pack. Taking a wolf’s name is old law. Binding.

Valeria nods. “Wellie Cade. Do you challenge Rhys Cade for the Alpha seat of Blackwood, by right of vengeance and by right of blood?”

I look at Rhys. He’s bleeding, furious, but there’s fear under it now. He thought I’d be easy. A human to break. A hybrid to put down.

He didn’t count on Bronte’s secrets. Or mine.

“I do,” I say.

The word seals something. The air gets heavy. The ring on my chest burns.

“Then it’s decided,” Valeria says. “Challenge at moonrise tomorrow. To the death. Pack law.”

“No,” Maeve says, stepping forward. “There’s another law. Older. If the mate survives the death of the Alpha, and carries his heir…”

Every eye in the room drops to my stomach.

I freeze.

Heir? I’m not — we were careful. We weren’t even trying. Bronte said we had time. That he wanted to tell me everything first. That he wanted me to choose.

“There is no heir,” Rhys says quickly. Too quickly. “She’s barren. She’s —”

“Am I?” I don’t know why I say it. I don’t know if it’s true. But the way Rhys pales, the way Maeve’s eyes sharpen… it means something.

Valeria smiles. It’s not nice. “We’ll see. Until moonrise, Blackwood is without an Alpha. Northfall claims stewardship.” She turns to her wolves. “Chain him.”

Rhys roars, half-shifting, but Valeria’s wolves are faster. Silver chains, same as mine, lock around his wrists. He fights, but there’s five of them and one of him.

“This isn’t over, hybrid!” he spits at me as they drag him out. “You’re not pack! You’re not —”

The doors slam shut behind him.

---

They give me Bronte’s room.

Alpha’s quarters. It’s at the top of the den, carved into the rock itself. It smells like him. Like safety. I want to crawl into his bed and never come out.

Valeria doesn’t let me.

“Sit,” she says, pointing to the chair. Not the bed. Never the bed. “We talk.”

I sit. My hands are still shaking. Adrenaline, grief, whatever’s happening to my body — I don’t know. “You knew. About me.”

Valeria pours two glasses of whiskey. Slides one to me. “Bronte came to me a year ago. Said he’d found his mate. Said she was dormant. Asked me to protect you if anything happened to him.”

“Why you? Why not his own pack?”

“Because he knew his brother.” She drinks. “And because you’re not just a werewolf, Wellie.”

The whiskey burns. “What am I?”

“What do you remember from before Bronte? Before age ten?”

The question throws me. “What? I… nothing. I was in foster care. Records were lost in a fire. Bronte said it didn’t matter. That I was his now.”

“It matters.” Valeria leans forward. “You’re a hybrid, yes. Wolf, obviously. But the other half…” She taps her glass. “Your mother was fae, Wellie. Wild fae. The kind that doesn’t bow to courts or kings. The kind that went extinct three hundred years ago. Or so we thought.”

Fae. Like, fairies? I almost laugh. Then I remember the dreams. Running on four legs and two. The way plants grew faster when I was near them. The way Bronte always planted wolfsbane around our cabin and said it was “for the deer.”

“Bronte bound your fae side,” Valeria says. “Used old magic. It’s why you didn’t shift until now. Why you lived as human. He thought he could keep you safe. Keep you his.” She says it without judgment. But it feels like one.

“He lied to me,” I whisper. Again.

“He loved you,” Valeria corrects. “And love makes wolves stupid.” She stands. “You have until moonrise to decide what kind of Alpha you want to be. Bronte’s kind? Rhys’s kind? Or something new?”

She’s at the door before I find my voice. “What if there is an heir?”

Valeria pauses. Doesn’t turn around. “Then you’re not just fighting for a pack tomorrow, girl. You’re fighting for a lineage. Two of them.” Her hand is on the door. “Sleep. You’ll need your strength. The fae side of you is waking up, and it’s hungry.”

The door clicks shut.

I put my hand on my stomach. It’s flat. Normal. But Bronte’s ring is warm against my skin. And for the first time since I found him in the creek, I feel something other than grief.

I feel him. A pulse, deep in my bones. Gold and green and mine.

Not yet, love, his voice whispers in my head. Same as always. You’re not ready yet.

“Then make me ready,” I say to the empty room. To his ghost. To whatever’s growing inside me.

Outside, the moon starts to rise.