Page 15 of The Reluctant Alpha

I headed toward the human campground, which was north of Phoenix’s pack toward my old one. When I got there, I saw Phoenix surrounded by numerous gammas. I was glad to see no human police were there, and I assumed Phoenix was gathering what info he could before he made an anonymous tip. Mid-week in March, the campground was mostly empty. Another month and it would be open full-time, but for now, the office was only manned on weekends, so at least we didn’t have to deal with that.

I pulled up to the campground, my truck's tires crunching over gravel as I parked beside Phoenix's vehicle. The scene was eerily quiet despite the cluster of shifters gathered around what I assumed was the crime scene. Five dead. The words echoed in my head as I climbed out, scanning the area for any sign of human authorities.

Phoenix spotted me immediately, breaking away from the group to meet me halfway. His expression was grim, jaw tight with tension.

"What happened?" I asked, keeping my voice low, searching for any animal scent and coming up blank, which made zero sense. Something had to have attacked them.

"Campers. Family of five." Phoenix ran a hand through his hair, a rare display of distress from the usually composed alpha. "Parents, two older people, possibly grandparents, and one teenager. Found by a gamma this morning."

I swallowed hard, but then the lack of a scent hit me. “Fuck.” The only beings that could attack without leaving scent were the silver-skins, but they were careful, clinical almost, and rarely killed.

Phoenix nodded once, knowing it had dawned on me. "It’s not like any attack I've ever seen. They weren't just killed, Bayer. They were..." He trailed off, glancing back at the scene. "Come and see for yourself."

I followed Phoenix then came to an abrupt stop.

"Holy shit," I breathed.

The family lay in what remained of their camper van, the door pulled off and lying broken six feet away, the awning in tatters, obviously shredded, as if by claws. But it wasn't the torn fabric that made my stomach churn—it was the bodies. They hadn't just been killed; they'd been savaged. Limbs bent at impossible angles, throats torn out, faces frozen in expressions of pure terror.

But the most disturbing part was the deliberate arrangement. They'd been positioned in a circle, heads pointing inward, hands reaching toward each other as if seeking comfort in their final moments. A grotesque mockery of family connection.

"This wasn't random," I said quietly, my bear stirring restlessly beneath my skin. "This was...artistic."

Phoenix nodded grimly. "Silver-skins don't hunt like this. They're efficient—clean kills if they do kill, minimal blood loss. And more importantly, they usually preserve their victims for multiple feedings, they don’t savage them. This is something else entirely."

I crouched down, careful not to disturb anything, and examined the wounds more closely. The throat tears were jagged, not the precise punctures of feeding. "These look like animal attacks, but there's no scent."

"Exactly." Phoenix's voice was tight. "No animal, no shifter, nothing."

I followed him to the center of the gamma circle. The scent of the victims had hit me first—blood, fear. But there was something else, something wrong about it. Too concentrated, too potent, too much. This wasn’t just feeding. This was slaughter for the sake of slaughter.

"Phoenix," I said slowly, "look at their clothes."

The alpha followed my gaze to the victims' attire. Despite the violence of the attack, their clothes were barely disturbed. No signs of struggle or a desperate attempt to flee. They'd been taken completely by surprise.

"They were killed in their sleep," Phoenix murmured, "then arranged like this afterward."

A cold feeling settled in my gut. "This is a message."

Phoenix's eyes met mine, and I saw the same conclusion in his expression. "For whom?"

I stood, surveying the scene once more. The camper van was positioned at the edge of the campground, isolated from the few other sites that might have been occupied this time of year. The killer had chosen well—privacy, minimal chance of interruption, close enough to pack lands to ensure we'd find it.

"Us," I said finally. "The bears, or the wolves, or both."

Phoenix nodded, already pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Simeon. We need to get this cleaned up before humans discover it. The last thing we need is a police investigation bringing attention to these lands."

As Phoenix stepped away to make the call, I circled the perimeter of the site, searching for any sign of the killer's approach or departure. Nothing. Not a footprint, not a broken twig. It was as if the attacker had materialized out of thin air. My bear stirred restlessly, sensing danger but unable to identify the source. I paused at the edge of the campsite, something catching my eye. A small, carved wooden figure, barely noticeable among the pine needles and debris. I picked it up carefully.

It was a bear. Crude but unmistakable, with deep gouges carved across its throat.

"Phoenix," I called, my voice steady despite the chill spreading through me.

He joined me, took one look at the carving, and his expression darkened. "This definitely isn't random."

"No," I agreed, turning the figure over in my palm. "This is personal."

Simeon arrived with a cleanup crew, and we worked methodically for the next two hours, removing all evidence of the supernatural nature of the attack. Phoenix made the anonymous call to the human authorities from a burner phone, giving just enough information to ensure the bodies would be found but there’d be nothing to connect back to us.