Owned by the Alpha

by Sam Crescent

  Oh, Rafe. My favorite. No one else but my mom knew or cared that my favorite thing in this world was and still is blueberry pancakes and iced tea for breakfast.

  Screw leaving. I’m not letting this go to waste.

  I grab a plate and fork, pour some tea, and tuck in, allowing myself a few moments of unfettered, guilt-free, unbridled joy.

  And then I look at Rafe’s note again. It’s sitting there, in front of me.

  Love, R

  Since when does he sign with ‘love’? In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve yet to hear the word from his lips. I gave up, long ago. I’d always meant to tell him myself, but a persistent, prideful part of myself always insisted on waiting until he said it first.

  Honestly, I think it’s one of the reasons our fight got so out of hand years ago, and one of the reasons I hadn’t tried getting in touch with him before now. So what is this note? Some attempt at a profession of love? An apology?

  Does it matter, after last night?

  A memory of Rafe’s face flashes within my mind, the crestfallen, disappointed defeat in those hazel eyes of his just before I shut the door on him.

  A sharp tang of bitterness rises in me and it’s all I can do to finish breakfast. I scramble to clean up and leave, my earlier resolve returning with a vengeance.

  I grab my stuff and haul ass out the front door, and I don’t look back.

  ****

  I’m not prepared for what I see when I re-enter my father’s house. I walked into the kitchen, armed with a box of trash bags and a pair of gloves I had stashed in my car, but I’m not going to need them.

  The place is clean.

  I blink, then blink again, waiting for the mirage to disappear.

  I’m standing on waxed hardwood, smelling bleach and lemon cleaner, gaping in shock at the polished table and clutter-free countertops.

  And then I see the silhouette of a man, almost as tall and as broad as Rafe, pass by the doorway leading into the living room. A shriek of surprise escapes me and he freezes, his face too shadowed for me to see it.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” My voice is shaky, high, alien to me. But I persist. “Whoever you are, you get the hell out right now. I’m calling the police.”

  I pull my phone out of my back jeans pocket, ready to make good on my threat.

  “Corina. Wait.”

  He knows my name? My thumb hovers over my phone’s keypad.

  “It’s me, Weylin.”

  The man comes closer to me, revealing a familiar, easygoing smile that shows off his perfect teeth and a dimple in his cheek.

  “Channing is here, too. Rafe asked us to come over.”

  Rafe’s younger brothers. More Ulric boys. That’s all I need. We were all friends when we were kids, but Weylin and Channing are duplicates of Rafe, though a few years younger.

  I give a little wave, shifting my feet from one to the other before I jam my phone back into my pocket. “Hi Weylin,” I say, forcing a smile. What am I supposed to say to him? Hey, here I am again, the chick who dumped your brother and didn’t bother to send a single word to him for three years?

  “It’s nice to see you again, Corina,” he says, setting aside the roll of paper towels he’s holding so he can wrap his arms around my shoulders in a quick, friendly hug.

  And then I realize what he’s doing here, why he was holding paper towels, and why Rafe asked him to come by.

  “You guys are cleaning my house?”

  I know it’s a dumb question, because obviously, they are, but for the life of me I can hardly imagine anyone, let alone these young, insanely attractive men, spending their Saturday cleaning up this shit-box disaster for me, instead of doing something, anything else with their time off.

  He nods and shrugs, like it’s no big deal to him at all.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my throat suddenly gone so tight it’s all I can do to speak.

  “No worries,” he says, shrugging again. “We’re happy to help. Rafe told us you’re back and asked us to come out here and see what we could do for you.”

  Awkward tension starts to settle in. I know he’s got to be wondering what the hell is going on between his brother and me. God only knows what Rafe has told him.

  “He started in on this”—he gestures to my newly made-over kitchen—“pretty early last night. He had a lot of it done before we even got here.”

  I take Weylin’s hint. Rafe spent the entire night, while I was sleeping in his bed, cleaning up the disgusting mess my father left behind—in order, no doubt, to surprise me.

  “How did you get in?” I blurt, desperate to steer the topic of conversation away from Rafe.

  Weylin glances over his shoulder at the door leading down to the basement, his cheeks reddening. “The basement door outside wasn’t locked. Neither was the one in here. We fixed it though, put locks on both doors. No one—else—will break in.”

  I nod and try not to smile at his obvious discomfort. “I’m grateful, Weylin,” I admit, reaching out my hands, clasping his. “Thank you.”

  “What’s this, now?”

  I jump and let go of Weylin’s hands at the sound of another voice, an all-too-familiar voice, materializing from behind me.

  “You making a move on my Corina, little brother?”

  Rafe.

  Despite my current, constant state of confusion, of anger, guilt, regret, and resentment when I think of him, my heart does a happy little leap at the sight of his smile and the sound of his voice, saying ‘my Corina.’

  “It’s cool,” Weylin says, picking up the paper towel roll. “She was thanking me, is all.” Then he winks at me and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me alone with Rafe.

  I suddenly don’t know what to do with myself. This is not how I thought the day would go. I’m not armed with the right words, the right feelings for all of this.

  “I appreciate what you’ve done for me,” I manage, meeting his eyes without blinking. “And breakfast this morning was—”

  The thought of breakfast abruptly reminds me of his note to me and the way he signed it. Whatever I planned to say next freezes on my tongue. Should I mention it?

  “Was no problem at all,” he finishes for me.

  I exhale deeply, a sigh of relief.

  We’ll talk about it. We will. Just not yet.

  “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Ina.”

  His breath hitches when he says my name. His eyes are brimming with emotion, the hazel a bright, vivid amber in the morning light. What is it? What does he mean by this?

  I assume he’s referring to what he’s done here, staying up all night to give me a livable home. “I cannot tell you how much this means to me.”

  He nods, and somehow, I know, by the look in his eyes, that something is going unsaid from him. Something big. Maybe it’s the note? The big ‘I love you’?

  I don’t get the chance to find out. Channing, the middle Ulric brother, barrels into the kitchen and knocks me off my feet in a bear hug, spinning me around until I’m dizzy.

  “Hey, Corina!”

  No awkward silences with this brother, no way. Channing is a force of nature.

  He finally releases me, but then he stares me down, his gaze raking over my body. If he were anyone but Channing, I’d punch him.

  “You look amazing,” he says, glancing over at Rafe to make sure, I’m certain, that Rafe is watching. “Can’t believe you’re not married by now, Corina.”

  Rafe’s entire body tenses. No one but Channing is foolish enough to goad Rafe like this. “Yeah, um.” I hesitate, unsure of what to say. “How about you? Any wedding bells in your future?”

  A darkness passes over Channing’s eyes, and a hardness settles in his face. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. “No, not for me,” he answers, smiling again. “Rafe’s my boss now, he runs the shop since Dad and Mom retired and moved up to Alaska. Rafe runs us into the ground. These days, we don’t do much of anything, except work.”
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  Rafe’s glare intensifies. “Keep it up, man. You can find yourself without a job at all, if that’s what you’re gunning for.”

  Channing laughs and delivers a solid punch to Rafe’s arm while Rafe’s muscles bunch visibly under his skin. The man is a coiled spring and I feel a sudden stab of concern for Channing’s well-being if he doesn’t back off.

  “Later,” Channing says to me as he turns, and then walks out the front door, the aluminum shutting with a clang behind him.

  “What the hell was all that about?” I can’t help but ask. I know I haven’t lived here in years, but I don’t remember witnessing any conflict between Rafe and his brothers before.

  Rafe shrugs. “Channing didn’t take it well when Dad retired and made me alpha—”

  Alpha? “Made you what?”

  “I mean.” Rafe swallows visibly, like he’s choking. I grab a newly washed glass from the dish-drying rack, fill it with tap water, and hand it to him. He takes a quick sip and smiles at me. “I meant to say, Dad retired and put me in charge of the shop, making me my brothers’ boss.”

  “Oh.” I guess I can see why Channing would bristle at listening to Rafe’s orders. Rafe’s the eldest, sure, but unless he’s changed from what I remember, Channing doesn’t like to listen to anyone.

  “I’m sorry, Rafe.”

  And I am. Regardless of what’s transpired between us, and regardless of what lies ahead of us, I care about him and his family. How can I not? A pang of remorse rises within me, and I wish, with overwhelming intensity, that I could go back in time to the minute I stormed out on him years ago, and not leave. What if I would’ve tried harder to hear him out, tried harder to understand whatever it was he was attempting to communicate with me with his shapeshifting lie?

  Three years. Gone. Wasted.

  The thought makes my stomach lurch, flip, and finally settle, heavy as a stone.

  I close my eyes against the onslaught of discomfort.

  “Ina? Are you all right? You’re pale.”

  His hand rests gently on my forehead, his eyes wide with concern.

  I nod. “Yeah,” I lie. “Fine.”

  His hand moves to my cheeks, my neck. He checks my pulse. “Been a rough couple of days,” he says, his voice low and calming. “We’re pretty much done here. The rest of the house is in decent shape. I’ll get the guys out of here and you can settle in, get some rest.”

  He slides his hands into his pockets and I immediately miss the feel of his touch upon my skin.

  “Thank you, Rafe.”

  “Anytime, Ina.”

  He disappears into another room, calling for Weylin. I stand alone, trying to regain my composure, wondering how I’m going to live with myself for breaking his heart along with my own.

  Chapter Four

  The house is mine now. I’m so busy painting, shopping, and redecorating, an entire week passes and by the end of the week, I realize I’m only thinking about Rafe every thirty seconds instead of every five, like I did after he returned to his cabin last Saturday. If I keep this up, my life will get better. It has to.

  I buy chickens from the farm store in town. I set them up in the small coop next to the house so I can listen for trouble during the night. When I used to live here, wild animals sometimes ventured in too close after the sun went down. I remember there were a few times, when I was a kid, I’d wake up to the sound of shotgun blasts while my father killed whatever predators were hungry enough to try to eat our farm animals.

  His shotgun rests next to my bed, loaded, just in case. It’s the only possession of his I’ve decided to keep, other than this farm.

  It’s Sunday, eight days since I’ve seen Rafe, when he knocks on my door. I’m wearing an old cotton sundress, my mom’s hand-embroidered apron, and streaks of flour in my hair when I greet him. He smiles, his eyes bright gold today, watching me, as he leans inside the doorframe.

  You shouldn’t care what you look like, I remind myself. You ended whatever existed between you. Get over it.

  “I’m baking,” I say, making an effort to keep my voice neutral, unfeeling.

  “I see.”

  I hesitate, torn between letting him in and telling him I’m too busy for company. Let him in. You can do this. You’re neighbors, after all.

  “Come in and sit down?” I ask, putting on my best hostess face. “The first batch is out.”

  He enters the kitchen and slides down into one of the oak spindle chairs, stretching out his long, lean, blue jean-clad legs. “What are you baking?”

  “Lemon bars.” One of Mom’s famous recipes.

  “Hmmm,” he groans, the sound sending tingles all throughout my body.

  Focus, Corina.

  I retrieve a porcelain dessert plate and serve him one, sitting down in the chair across from him. We’ll have a nice little chat, two neighbors conversing, that’s all we are.

  “How was work this past week? Channing give you any trouble?”

  “The usual. Though I found it hard to concentrate all week.”

  “You did?” I’d hoped it was possible to shift the conversation away from us, but apparently Rafe has other plans.

  “Yes, Ina. I came over here today to talk about us—”

  “I bought chickens,” I blurt out.

  He’s narrowing his eyes at me, but at least he’s stopped talking. I feel like a horrible person. But I can’t, can’t talk to him. Not now. Not about us. I need more time to build myself up, to prepare.

  “That’s great Ina,” he says, his voice soft and tired-sounding, his gaze dropping to the lemon bar in his hand. “I know you always wanted to get things back the way they were before—”

  “Before my mom died and my father became a raging alcoholic?” There’s an edge to my tone, a bitter one, one Rafe doesn’t deserve, and though I know this, I can’t seem to contain it.

  He cringes and places the lemon bar back on its dainty plate.

  I don’t apologize. I know he’s making an effort with an attempt at meaningful conversation, but each time I think I’m in control again, each time I think my defenses are back in place, this man knocks them all to hell again and I don’t like it.

  “You don’t have to act like this with me, Ina. I’m not going to leave you, and I’m not going to turn against you like your dad did. Please stop punishing me.”

  “But you did. You turned against me when you lied.”

  I remember, as soon as the words are out of my mouth and I can’t take them back, that I had decided not to bring this up again, that I’d decided how stupid and sorry I truly am for leaving, for losing the years of the life I would’ve had with him if I’d stayed.

  And now it’s too late.

  He stands up, brushes his hands against his jeans, and leaves without another word.

  ****

  Rafe

  I’m lurking outside Corina’s window, trying not to feel ashamed for how desperate she’s made me. The lamp in her bedroom went off a while ago, and all has gone silent, save for the crickets chirping in the woods and the chickens clucking as they settle down in their coop for the night.

  I’ve decided to keep an eye on her, whether she likes it or not. If I do my job well, she’ll never know I’ve kept watch over her every night since she moved back in. Because of my shifter nature, I’m semi-nocturnal and don’t sleep much. I patrol, in my coyote form, around the perimeter of the farm, the house, and through the fields. Nothing should threaten her here, but I can’t get through each day without doing this at night. Knowing she’s safe keeps me going, and sometimes I think it may be the only thing keeping me going.

  I miss her.

  She’s killing me. If only she’d spend some time with me, give me the opportunity to show her once again, how much I love her, I know I can change her mind. Especially now, since I’ve given up convincing her of what I am, convincing her I didn’t lie to her, persuading her to give me another chance is my last and only choice.

  I pace and pace, dragging my cla
wed feet through the dewy grass, swishing my tail through headless dandelions stems. I wish shifting would change my heart and my mind as well as my body.

  I wish shifting would make me forget her.

  My feet take me further away from the house. I’m lost in my thoughts.

  And then I realize how far I’ve gone, that my prowling has taken me near the chicken coop.

  They sense me, immediately. The damn chickens know I’m here. They start squawking and flapping their wings, creating an uproar so loud, I know Corina can hear it from her bedroom.

  I start to move away from the coop, away from the damn birds and their screeching, which only seems to be growing in intensity.

  I’m not fast enough.

  Corina’s walking, quickly, toward me. There’s enough moonlight that I can see her face, grim and determined, her dark hair flying behind her, hear her rubber barn boots clomping with each racing step.

  Shit.

  She’s holding a shotgun, and by the way she’s swinging it toward me, she means business. I know what she sees. She sees a wild animal, a coyote, stalking around her chicken coop.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  This is it. Like it or not, I’m going to have to shift in front of her, or she’s going to kill me. God, I don’t want to. She left me for simply telling her what I am. What will she do when she sees what I am?

  Do it. Get it over with.

  I will myself to transform. I can feel my muscles starting to contract, preparing for the change, but it’s taking too long. I think a part of me is holding back, reluctant after so long, resisting the urge to transform in front of her. I raise my head, turning toward her.

  Now. Shift now.

  I can do this. I know I can do this. Maybe this will fix everything. Maybe she’ll finally believe me, finally stop hating me for a lie that wasn’t ever a lie at all. I open my eyes, confidently waiting for my body to cooperate.

  But then I see Corina, shotgun raised high, right in front of me, the barrel pointing directly at my chest, and I know it’s already too late.

  I try to dodge it, lowering myself to the ground.