Page 1 of Traded to the Alpha Wolf

Chapter 1 - Cade

The woods behind my house run right up to the deck, and I like it that way; the way the wild encroaches on my living space, reminding me it’s there before I’ve even had coffee. Most days, I wake before the sun and let the dark sit with me in the kitchen, all steel, wood cut from the forest outside, and sharp edges. The walls are from the old cedars, the countertops are poured concrete, and the lights are held in black frames. I don’t think it’s the kind of place anyone expects an alpha to live. Old pack houses are usually filled with memorabilia from all the leaders who have come before. I don’t hang the old hunting trophies or any of that old-world shit. I keep it clean. I keep it cold. I keep it mine.

I’ve been up earlier than usual, pacing the house, watching the last of the rain race down the windows. The air outside is thinner than it should be, the snowbanks holding on longer than the calendar says they should. The animals know it, too. The birds' calls are different, and the deer are more skittish than usual. I feel it when we hold the now weekly pack runs and when we do the increasing number of patrols. The forest speaks, and I hear the message loud and clear.

I crack and fry eggs, eating them standing, watching the woods for movement. My phone buzzes at five with a text from Rowan:Meeting at the mill 6 am sharp

No period, no signature. I let it vibrate itself into silence. ‘The mill’ makes it sound like we’re meeting in some kind of secluded, dead part of the forest when it’s actually one of the most popular diners in the Rocky Mountains and conveniently located for us all to reach just in time for breakfast.

At least Rowan still eats breakfast, I muse, given his recent revelations, and trying to ignore some of the stereotypes about his kind. He’s someone I’d almost call a friend, and the alliance is stronger because of him, even though some try to ignore that his blood is half something else, something older and darker. It was a shock to see the reality in front of my own eyes, but still, I respect a man who can own what he is. Last month in the chaos, Rowan spat his secret out to the whole alliance, and now everyone’s pretending they didn’t already know.

Doesn’t bother me. I’ve known he had vampire in him since the first day I smelled him, but I’m not the type to gossip. I don’t give a shit.

Most of the others are mated now, settled in ways I’ve never been interested in. Younger alphas, younger mates, building something softer than what I was raised for.

Not me.

I’ve seen what happens when you let something matter more than the pack. It makes you hesitate. Makes you weak in the moments that count.

And I don’t hesitate.

The eggs are gone before I know it, and the sun is still a whisper behind the clouds. I set the pan in the sink and wipe the counter with the precision of a surgeon, careful not to leave a single smear. You could eat off these floors. I never used to care about messes, but it feels like one of the only things I can control is where everything goes. In the last few months, the world’s gotten smaller and sharper. I haven’t slept through a night since the last attack, and I don’t trust the quiet between storms.

I’m already bracing myself for yet another meeting about intelligence gathering, research, and a lot more talking. It’s not that I don’t value the research. Willow has done amazing thingsin unlocking the power of volva magic and understanding what it means for the future of all shifters, particularly the role of omegas. So, I do respect the research, but the hunters aren’t pausing to talk. They’re fighting. And so should we.

Parking that thought, knowing I need to hear what’s said at the meeting first before I get riled up, I lock up and step out into the chill, the air so clean and cold it almost makes my eyes water. My truck throws up little clouds of exhaust, the headlights shining low and mean across the gravel as I pull out onto the main road. There are still branches and debris from the last storm in the road, and I take a little satisfaction in grinding my tires through the worst of it. The drive is all switchbacks and cliff edges, the kind of terrain only an idiot or a local would try before dawn. I don’t slow down.

The pass opens up just before the crossroads, and I can see the Mill’s big lot scattered with the usual suspects of heavy-duty pickups, most still caked in a layer of dirt from the trails. I spot Rowan’s old Jeep right away, parked next to Brook’s Ford. There are at least three more I recognize, which means everyone must have been up just as early as me. I doubt any of the alphas are sleeping well these days.

Rowan’s already out of his truck, standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of a coat that probably cost more than most people’s rent. He’s got that look about him, the one that reminds you he’s not exactly like the rest of us. The sun isn’t even over the mountains, but he catches the first light and turns it to something that looks more like silver as it glances off his face. The skin at his throat is so pale you can’t not notice it, and he moves with a kind of stealth that makes my wolf sit up and notice even though I know him. I don’t know how no one else clocked what he was for so long. Maybe they didn’t want to.

He catches my eye as I kill the engine and step over, boots crunching on the frozen grit. “Cade,” he says, voice like it’s been filtered through velvet as usual. “Glad you made it.”

“I always do,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I mean. I try to soften it. “How’s Willow?”

He doesn’t even try to hide the way his whole face lights up. “She’s…she’s getting stronger every day. And the baby…” He stops, like he can’t quite believe it’s real. “She’s perfect. It’s weird, isn’t it? To think even in the middle of all this, there’s good.”

I grunt in agreement, but I feel it in my chest. It’s not just Willow’s baby, either. In the last year or so, there have been a few new mate bonds and even new pups, which feels especially important given that all Rocky Mountains packs had suffered from a lack of fertility. As we learn more about the power of omegas, the tide seems to be turning. It’s as though the more the hunters want to tear us down, the more determined we’ve become to resist. I guess that’s how all species survive, but it feels like a fuck-you to the universe anyway, and I like that.

Inside the Mill, it’s all hot butter smell and the clatter of forks on ceramic. The six-top in the corner is already full, and as I walk in, every head at the table turns my way. I give them all a once-over, not because I don’t know them, but because it’s a habit that doesn’t die.

Rowan takes the seat at the head, because of course he does. He’s the de facto leader now, and no one resents it, not even Brooks, who’s made a career out of breaking balls. Brooks is already nursing a mug of black coffee and a notepad. Beside him, Kaiden is the picture of calm, but I know he’s just as pissed as I am about how little we’ve managed to move the needle against the hunters. Alder sits next to Rowan, gray at thetemples, sharp-eyed and even sharper-tongued, tapping a pen against the table as if itching to get to the agenda.

“Morning,” I say, dropping into the last empty chair and grabbing the menu, though I know I’ll just order the same thing I always do.

“Good, you’re all here. We’re all set,” Rowan declares, even though we’re the last ones in. “Let’s get right to it.”

Kaiden offers me a nod, subtle but genuine, and Brooks gives me a once-over and snorts. “Knew you’d be late, what with all the snow and your aversion to punctuality.”

“Shove it, Brooks,” I say, but there’s no anger in it. It’s the closest thing we have to affection.

Alder gets straight to the point. “The Order of Reclamation has taken three more packs out east. No survivors. They’re getting smarter; using drones, disabling comms, isolating the betas, even going after the young.”

“Pups?” Brooks leans forward, voice low. “They’re targeting the next generation?”

Alder nods. “That’s what the data says. Rowan’s got more.”

Rowan lays out a folder, slides it open, and pushes a photo across the table. “This is from Prague, two days ago. The Order’s not just killing; they’re sampling. Blood, tissue, bone. They’ve got a geneticist with them.”