Alpha Hunted

Chapter 1

Terence - 10 months prior

The stone tomb stood nearly four feet tall and six feet long. It was easily wide enough to have two corpses lying side by side. Which was fortunate since that’s how they were laid. Two on bottom, then one between, and then two more.

It sat on the top of three shallow steps and over the back, draping along the top, was the limp stone figure of a mourning angel. An angel weeping, sprawled over the top of the tomb that held my entire pack.

I was numb at this point. Beyond the time when I could feel anything at all. Deep sorrow. Crippling grief. The blinding pain of loss. It was all there. But on the outside, all I could do was stare. Stare as I had done every day for three hours a day, every day for the past two weeks. Stare at the stone resting place of my five packmates encased inside.

Anger. Denial. Bargaining. Depression. I was still flitting through them all.

I would never fall into acceptance. How could I when everyone I loved the most in the world had died, leaving me here alone?

I almost ignored the phone as it rang. I was in a hurry to leave. They’d gone without me while I finished some last-minute business so that we were free for the week to enjoy each other. More than two hours had already gone by, and I didn’t want to take any more time out.

The phone stopped and for some reason, I paused to glance at it. Why did I feel hollow and empty all of the sudden? I tried to catch my breath but there was nothing there.

There was… nothing there. Where was my…?

My phone rang again and this time I sprang for it. I swiped the button as I brought the unknown caller to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Andersen?”

I almost told the voice he had the wrong number. I was too distracted, reaching for bonds that I couldn’t find. Absently, I said, “Yes.”

“This is Officer Marks with the Roanak County Police Department. There’s been an accident, Mr. Andersen.”

I fell to my knees as tears immediately filled my eyes and I held my breath trying to keep the sobs in as he continued to speak.

“Your pack is in critical condition at Melview Hospital in Roanak. I need you to get here as soon as you are able.”

My body shook as my vision blurred, tears streaking down my face as I fell further to the ground. This time I couldn’t keep the sobs in. Because I knew, even if he wasn’t allowed to say over the phone, I knew by the hollow empty bonds – the remnants of which were starting to fade.

My pack wasn’t in critical condition. They were dead. All of them.

There was a stone terrace wall behind the grave that made the place feel more ominous than it was. It rose eight feet, holding back the ground from washing away and burying everything beneath it. Beyond it was another wide terrace of graves. I think my grandparents were on that tier.

The stone wall was made up of enormous blocks. There was moss and grass, even a few flowers, growing within the cracks. Along the base was a strip of lush greenery to brighten it up. Bringing more life into the resting place for the dead.

Periodically, there was a door in the wall. Once, when Miles and I were younger, we’d been wandering this same cemetery when there’d been a funeral in progress for a family with one of these crypts. We’d stopped to mourn with them. In doing so, we were granted permission to step inside.

We’d been mesmerized by the eerie silence and the bending hallways that continued to lead into the underground crypt. It was filled with darkness and, as a child, fear. I did what any alpha might. I wrapped my arm around my beta friend and hugged him to me, giving him comfort and shielding him from whatever might be hidden in the dark.

Miles and I had recounted the visit often. As we grew and continued to stroll through the cemetery, we’d often theorize what had been deeper in the dark. We knew it was likely more graves. But the part of us that enjoyed horror movies made all sorts of ideas pop to mind.

I’d briefly considered commissioning one of these crypts for my pack. Miles would have liked that. Though we’d never spoken of how we wanted to be buried since we were a fairly young pack, I was sure Miles would have brought this possibility up. He’d have been excited. He’d have made the idea sound like a quest into a lost crypt. He’d have designed it with medieval touches.

But we’d never gotten to the point in our lives where we thought to talk about death. It was too far away.

The house was large and airy with enormous windows in the walls and ceilings. We’d completely gutted the shell of this place when our pack became five with the possible addition of a sixth. There were five bedrooms, both private and connected. There was a wide-open floor plan on the bottom, broken up by furniture and décor opposed to walls.

There was a heated pool out back because Zack loved to swim. And there was an extensive garden with a stone walk and flowers in anticipation of adding an omega to our pack at some point. The soft, warm femininity filled us with hopes and dreams of a larger family. Children running around. There was room for a great playset and sand box.

But right now, it was outfitted with luxury and comfort for the five, almost six, of us.

Most of the décor was grays on the darker side of the color wheel. There was a lot of rough stone and smooth, modern lines. The large bathrooms were filled with the juxtaposition of smooth round edges of a large soaker tub and donut-like sinks. The sinks had been Foster’s addition. He was enamored with them.

There was a little bit of every one of us in each room. Not just the scents but little touches. Color pops and art. Books and technology.

Pictures. A lot of pictures.

Usually there were sounds of conversation. Laughter drifting through the rooms. Intimacy.

Now it was empty. My footsteps echoed. Their lingering scents deeply rooted into each wall, each cushion, each soft and hard surface made bile rise in my stomach.

They’d never be here again. I’d never see their living faces, hear their voices, meet their eyes.

Our once happy home was completely empty.

Spanning the grassy area in front of my pack’s tomb were more graves. Traditional gravestones. They were beautifully carved. Not only with the expected names and dates, but with images. Cherubs. Skulls. Gothic touches as well as softer flowers.

Many were filled with quotes or sayings. When Miles and I would walk the paths of the cemetery, we’d often wonder if the additional carvings were favorites of the dead or something from the living they left behind. Sometimes it was clear. Most of the time, it was not.

We had enjoyed this particular cemetery because it was large, filled with trails that snaked within the trees and through the avenues of graves. There was greenery, ponds, benches, and ducks everywhere. The flowers and the grass were well maintained.

It was peaceful and gave visitors the assurance that there was peace in death.

The tomb of my pack faced one of our favorite ponds. There were large gnarly trees around it, as if they were twisted and tormented as they grew. Our theories on them were not nearly as lighthearted as most of the other places within the cemetery. But the pond itself was almost magical. It felt like it was a window or portal into another place. The trees added to that feel. And the ducks that swam on its surface almost appeared ethereal because of it.

They would enjoy the view in death as we had in life.

I tried to stay in my room. It smelled the most like me and least of anyone else. It was too painful to be surrounded by them when they’d never be here again.

I couldn’t be here. I couldn’t stay. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house either. I couldn’t think of anything but my loss.

Once in a while, I’d hear Miles’s laughter echoing through the halls and I’d look up, expecting to see him round the corner into my doorway. He’d grin at me, ready to tell me what he was laughing about. Ready to crawl into my side and cuddle against me.

Miles wasn’t an omega but so much of his behaviors and instincts were the same. It made our longing for one all the stronger and yet, that pining was partially satisfied as we loved on Miles.

Sometimes, I’d hear the rich laughter of Foster from his room as he watched a movie. He was addicted to comedies. The dumber the better. But when I’d go to investigate, the room was empty. The laughter was only a phantom sound.

I’d turn at the deep laugh of Emery’s. He was a big man, and his laughter was just as big. It was such that when he laughed, everyone else was smiling, too. Whether we thought it was funny or amusing or not.

But I’d never find the source of their laughter except in the echoes of my memory. I wandered through my empty house, waiting to find Ronan on the couch with a book, or Zack in the kitchen making something.

Their laughter, their presence, it was only the ghosts of them left. I squeezed my eyes closed as the pain coursed through me.

I couldn’t bring myself to put my pack in a crypt. Or even in traditional graves. They were too cold and lonely.

My pack was very close. Had been. We had been very close. We enjoyed our time together more than our time apart. Four of us worked in the same complex and we rode to work together. We ate lunch together. We’d do the shopping after work together.

Date nights were always the six of us. We cooked together, hobbied together. More often than not, we slept piled into the same bed.

Sure, we took some time for ourselves on occasion. We each had likes that were all our own more than a shared one and we indulged in those interests solitarily.

But what my pack had was a strong, solid relationship in which we preferred each other to anything else.

Separate graves were not an option. For my pack, it meant we all needed to rest together.

They needed to rest together. Because they left me behind.

I dropped to my knees in front of the grave and rested my hand on the hard, cold surface. I hadn’t cried in days. A combination of exhaustion, misery, and probably a big dose of dehydration meant I was pretty dried up.

But I dropped and sobbed again, bowing my head as I tried to catch my breath. My body wracked with sobs, the pain of it making my head ache.

I should have been in the SUV with them. We were supposed to go together. But I wanted to finish some last-minute details at work so I could take the week off carefree. I’d told them to go without me. I told them I’d be right behind them.

And now they’re gone. They’re gone without me, leaving me alone and empty as I choked on my tears.

One of the best things about our house was the nest. It was in the loft space, having once been storage before we gutted the house down to its studs. The ceilings peaked into the roofline; each gable end filled with tinted windows. We controlled the amount of sunlight with technology we splurged on, giving us the ability to crank up the tint so much that it could appear night in the middle of a bright summer day.

Nothing was beyond the satisfaction of spoiling our omega. When we got one, anyway. For now, it was prep.

We kept the walls a light gray but covered them and the vaulted ceiling with panels of warm fabric and string lights that we had on a dimmer. The floor had plush carpeting, but you couldn’t see it. Covering it nearly wall to wall were cushions of all sizes. Pillows, blankets, throws.

It was cozy and made to feel smaller than it was. We kept it a decent size because we were already a pack of six without an omega. It would be difficult to fit six big guys in this room without making it a good size.

But we filled it with warmth and texture, closing it in with the feel of a nest. It was a great nest. One of the best I’d seen. Yes, I might have been biased but still, it was a great nest.

One that we never used. Sometimes one of us would peek in at it. We’d have it cleaned regularly, getting rid of the dust and making sure the fabrics stayed fresh and aired out. But it was never used. We never got the call that an omega was interested in us.

And now, it sat emptier still. The one room in the house that held no scent at all. I sat in it for a while, thinking maybe I needed to break from the assaulting scents of my pack, but that made the pain worse. Because the room was a symbol of our future. Of a deep hope and faith that one day we’d get a call from the Omega Registry that one was interested in our pack.

But the call never came. And the room sits emptier still, despite being filled with our broken dreams.

I couldn’t remember the last time I cried before the officer’s call. Was I six? Maybe seven?

I suppose the sobbing of a child is different from that of an adult. A child was fragile. Their emotions were new and unfamiliar. It was easy to make a child cry because they didn’t understand how to regulate and understand what they felt.

It wasn’t the same thing for an adult. And it was even more uncommon for an alpha.

But I think I’ve cried more in the past two weeks than I had my entire childhood combined. My jaw ached from it. My head throbbed. My throat hurt. My body ached from the constant tension. I could hardly breath from congestion and coughing to try and clear my chest.

Crying sucked. Feeling eyes on you with sympathy sucked. I wanted to turn around and rip them apart. I don’t want apologies. I don’t want compassion or empathy. Unless you can bring my pack back, I want nothing at all. No kindness. No company. No pity.

I rested my forehead on the cold stone by my hand, imagining that I could feel them on the other side with their hands pressed against it, too. Reaching for me like I was them. I held my breath as a new wave of sobs tried to break free. I forced myself to keep them in, to not give in to the uncontrollable bawling that I now spent all my miserable waking life doing.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I love you so much.”

I stared at the empty suitcases on my bed. I had three. There was nothing in any of them. I had a duffel bag on a chair and another bag on my dresser. But when I opened my closet, I just stared.

Wasn’t that Ronan’s favorite shirt?

That one was missing a button from when Zack ripped it off me.

When did Miles return that hoodie? He always wore it. Ah, yes. He returned it so it would become covered in my scent again.

I wore that one the last time I hugged Ronan. And that one when Foster and I went to the movies, holding hands like teenagers.

I shut the closet again. The question was, could I bear to take them? Or could I stand not to? Did I need that reminder? Would the reminder be of them or of their absence?

I wandered their rooms, opening their closets and running my hands along their clothing. Silent tears dripped down my cheeks. Throw them out or keep them? Bring them with me or leave them here? Which was harder? Which was the right thing to do?

My phone ringing made me jump. The house was so quiet now. Every little sound, every footstep of mine, every breath or sniffle, was magnified by its emptiness.

I left Emery’s room to find my phone, catching it before the call ended.

“Mr. Andersen?”

It took a lot not to snap at the voice. It was my fucking cell phone. Who else would be answering it when my entire pack was dead?

“Yes.”

“This is Rudy Stillwater. How are you?”

I gritted my teeth. If I was asked that one more time!

“Never been better,” I growled.

It wasn’t her fault. Knowing that didn’t appease my irritation.

“I understand,” she said, her voice quieter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ask.”

“Fine. What do you need?”

“There’s an offer on your house, Mr. Andersen.”

“Accept it.”

“You don’t want to hear what-”

“No. Just accept it. Rudy, I need someone to pack this place up and. And.” And do what? Do what with it? Bury it with them?

I closed my eyes, my face crumpling as I tried to hold it together.

“I’ll have it packed and stored until I hear otherwise, Mr. Andersen,” Rudy said gently. “Is there anything else you need?”

Nothing she could give me.

“A real estate agent on the east coast,” I answered.

There was a pause before she answered. “Any particular state?”

“No. I don’t care where. I just need to leave.”

“I understand. I’ll text you a couple names in a few minutes.”

“Just give me your best recommendation, Rudy. I don’t want choices.”

“Okay, Mr. Andersen. I’ll text you his name when we hang up.”

“Thank you.” I ended the call and Rudy Stillwater did just as she promised. My phone pinged a minute later with a text message from her. Drake Blain. And a phone number followed. Mid east coast.

I stared at my empty suitcases again.

I managed to pull myself together as the sun started to set. It was more likely that I simply ran out of tears. I couldn’t remember the last time I drank anything. Or ate anything.

I ran my fingers along the curvature of their names. Zack Andersen. Ronan Andersen. Miles Andersen. Foster Andersen. Emery Andersen. Various dates of birth. All with the same date of death.

I didn’t add any poetry or quotes. There weren’t even any other carvings. Miles and I loved the carvings on graves. We’d spent a lot of time admiring them. Commenting on them. Making a list of our favorites.

But when it came time to fashion the grave of my pack, I was a blank slate. As if I’d never thought of death. As if graves and the cemetery were a sudden, surprising step in life.

I was thankful now that I’d been present enough to state where I wanted their tomb and that I wanted them all together. I was pretty sure I spent a fortune with the whole get up. But since I’d been too distraught to think of the finer details elsewhere, this was the least I could do.

Maybe Miles would be disappointed.

I pulled myself to my feet, keeping my hand on the top, next to where the angel’s arm hung over. I wasn’t an angel, but I agreed with the grave designer who gave me this option. Because it was me. Not the angel, but the presence that would forever mourn over the bodies of the pack he lost.

Words wouldn’t come to my lips. I tried. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say but I found I couldn’t say anything. How do I tell them that I’m leaving? That I can’t bear to stay in our empty house without them? That without them, I can’t live at all?

I took a deep, burning breath, holding it in my lungs until it was forced out. My head throbbed. My eyes hurt from the constant onslaught of tears.

The only thing that I could say, I said again. Over and over. Meanwhile, my mind was filled with promises, broken and new.

“I love you,” I said again. “I will never stop loving you.”

I don’t know where I found the strength. Or maybe it was a weakness. But I pulled my hand from their tomb and turned. I walked, letting my feet carry me back to the car I rented.

I left the open suitcases on my bed. I packed the barest necessities in the duffel. Clothing that I never wore. I selected one item of each of theirs. One of their favorites. Or maybe they were my favorites.

I carefully tucked those items into sealed plastic bags and tucked them safely into my duffel before zipping it up. Still, I stood frozen.

The packers and movers would be here in the next day or so. Their orders were that everything outside of food gets packed. Everything. I didn’t want their judgment to decide if something should stay or go. Right down to their fucking underwear. It gets packed.

It might have been kinder to myself to have them go through it and choose just some items to keep. But they didn’t know my pack. How would they know what to choose? What if they chose wrong and I would forever be without something?

No. It all had to be packed and stored until I was strong enough to know what to do with it.

And in the meantime, I was moving to Ocean City, Maryland. I liquidated most of our west coast assets, selling the majority of our shares of anything that felt like it was remotely holding me here, and stuffed it all into several insured bank accounts. I kept a few of Zack’s businesses.

But the primary one I held onto happened to be in the city I was moving to. A juice bar, Juice Me. Conveniently, above it, was an empty studio apartment. I had Drake Blain hire a contractor and gut the place before remodeling it. Since I hadn’t needed his services in any other capacity, this felt like a fair trade. I’d still pay him a commission.

It should only take me a week to drive, but I was making short days of driving to assure that my apartment was done by the time I arrived.

I walked from room to room, running my hand along surfaces for the last time. I gathered as many memories as I could, storing them away. I buried my face in pillows and leaned my forehead against doors and walls. I stared out the window, looking down at our perfect yard. The perfect home we’d built.

With my duffel in hand, I walked out of our house for the last time.