THE ALPHA’S GHOST

KAYE'S POV

The coffee pot is burning my hand, but I do not let go.

Mrs. Henderson at table four needs her third refill, and she tips in quarters when she is happy. My shift started eleven hours ago. My feet stopped hurting a few hours back, which usually means something is wrong, but I do not have time to think about it. The truck stop diner smells like exhaustion, the kind that settles into your bones and stays there.

I wipe down table seven when the feeling hits me.

Eyes.

Not the usual kind. Not the bored trucker stare or the lonely glance from someone hoping I smile back. This is sharp. Focused. Heavy.

Predatory.

My wolf stirs for the first time in months, pressing against my ribs like she wants out. Like she wants blood.

Do not shift.

Do not shift.

Do not shift.

I keep my head down and spray cleaner onto the table even though it is already clean. The chemical smell stings my nose. I welcome it. Anything is better than letting my senses fully open and confirm what my gut already knows.

They found me.

I glance up through my lashes, slow and careful.

Booth six.

Three men.

They are not eating. They are not touching menus. They are watching me.

Two of them are big, built like enforcers, broad shoulders, still bodies, the kind of calm that comes from knowing how to hurt people. The third is leaner, relaxed in a way that feels wrong. He looks like the kind of man who smiles before he cuts you open.

My fingers tighten around the spray bottle until the plastic creaks.

The lean one tilts his head slightly. His nostrils flare.

He is scenting.

I am wearing contacts that turn my green eyes brown. I dyed my hair black three weeks ago in a motel bathroom in Idaho. I have worked here for two months. Long enough that the other servers know my fake name. Not long enough that anyone will remember me when I am gone.

I have been careful.

Careful does not matter when wolves are hunting.

The kitchen door swings open and Danny, the night cook, yells that order twelve is up. I force my feet to move. I walk like nothing is wrong, like my heart is not trying to escape my chest.

I feel their eyes follow me.

I grab the plate and turn.

The lean one stands.

He does not rush. He does not need to. He steps into my path with confidence that tells me he knows I cannot get past him. Up close, he smells like pinep, and wolf.

My wolf whimpers.

Pack.

Danger.

Death.

“Kaye Muani,” he says quietly.

Not a question.

I could lie. I could say he is wrong, that my name is Sarah or Jennifer or whatever is printed on my fake ID. But lies do not work on wolves. They hear the heartbeat change. They smell fear.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” I say anyway.

His smile does not reach his eyes. “Yes, you do.”

The plate is still in my hand. I think about throwing it at his face and running for the back exit, but the other two are already moving. One on each side. Boxing me in.

No hiding. No rush.

The humans in the diner are distracted. Phones. Food. To them, this is just three men talking to a waitress.

“You need to come with us,” the lean one says. His voice is calm, almost gentle. “Alpha Rivers wants to see you.”

Alpha Rivers.

Ethan Rivers.

The name hits me hard. Blackwater Pack. The pack my father supposedly ordered destroyed six years ago. The pack that has every reason to hate me.

“I am not going anywhere,” I say.

My voice shakes. We both hear it.

“You want to do this here?” He glances around the diner. Mrs. Henderson pouring sugar. Danny visible through the kitchen window. A truck driver asleep in booth two. “Because we can. But it will get messy. People will get hurt.”

My wolf snarls, furious and afraid, begging me to fight.

But there are humans here.

If I fight, people die.

If I run, they chase, and people die.

There is no win.

I set the plate down on the nearest table. My hand shakes so badly the silverware rattles. “Let me get my bag from the back.”

“No,” he says. “We leave now.”

“My bag.”

“You do not need it.”

He is right. Everything I own fits in a backpack in my car. My car is parked three blocks away, always far enough that no one connects it to me.

I am not reaching it.

The two enforcers step closer. I feel their heat. Smell their wolves pressing forward. One of them looks at me like he wants to tear my throat out. This is personal for him.

“Let’s go,” the lean one says.

His hand closes around my arm. Firm. Controlled.

They guide me toward the door.

I think about screaming. About fighting. About anything that might help.

What would I even say?

They are kidnapping me?

I am a werewolf?

These men are wolves?

We are outside before my thoughts finish.

Cold Montana air slams into me.

A van waits in the parking lot. Dark. Windowless. The back doors are open.

Silver chains hang inside.

My stomach drops.

Silver burns. Weakens. Stops shifting. Those chains are not just restraints. They are pain.

“Please,” I say before I can stop myself. “I did not do anything. My father”

“Your father ordered the slaughter of sixty three wolves,” the enforcer on my right snaps. “Men. Women. Children. Burned alive while they slept.”

“I was not there,” I say quickly. “I was at college. I did not know.”

“Shut up,” the lean one says. Not angry. Just tired. “Get in the van. Do not make this worse.”

I look at the chains. At the wolves around me.

I am out of options.

I could fight, but there are three of them and one of me, and I have not shifted in six years. I am weak. Slow. Rusted.

My wolf screams at me to try anyway.

I step into the van.

The doors slam shut behind me.

Darkness swallows everything.