Alpha Queen

by Callie Rose

  “I smelled the blood,” she says by ways of greeting, then her gaze slides past him to where Lawson dangles limply between Trystan and Ridge. “Bring him in.”

  Camilla’s wild gray hair is somewhat tamed today by a hair tie, and she’s dressed nicely in clean blue jeans and a pressed shirt—likely because she was at the meeting before Lawson showed up. She nods at me as I step into the cabin, her eyes folding into deep lines as she smiles, revealing slightly crooked front teeth.

  I get a wicked sense of deja vu as Ridge and Trystan carry Lawson into the same room where Dare was treated. It’s crazy to me that it wasn’t that long ago, when it feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.

  Camilla shoos both men away and bends over the wounded shifter, her hands moving quickly. She lifts his arms and legs, feels around his neck, and pokes at his torso with the first two fingers of both hands. I have no clue what she’s looking for, or even what any of that could tell her about the state of his injuries, but when she rises from her examination, her face says she knows more than most.

  Camilla looks at Ridge, answering the unspoken question on his face with a single look.

  Lawson isn’t going to make it.

  17

  Ridge

  The strain in the older woman’s face leaves little room for interpretation. I don’t have to ask her what Lawson’s condition is. I don’t have to say is he going to recover?

  Because the truth is clear in the stark look she gives me.

  Sable’s small hand alights on my arm, and I take an ounce of comfort in her presence as I glance down at my brother.

  My jaw clenches painfully. Yeah, Lawson and I didn’t exactly have a perfect relationship. In fact, it was pretty fucking shitty for the majority of our adult years. Sometimes, I felt like I almost hated my brother, which goes against every pack code regarding the sanctity of family.

  But looking at him now, dying and broken, I can’t muster any of that old hate. It seems fucking petty at this point, all the bickering, the fighting, the arguing. The day he challenged me and lost. The day he was tortured and gave up all the pack’s secrets. Despite all that he did wrong, I only feel sorrow.

  Lawson is the last of my family. When he’s gone… there’ll only be me.

  I reach for his hand. The last time I held it was probably almost twenty years ago, back when we were kids and neither of us gave a shit about the alpha position that one of us would one day inherit from our father. His hand is covered in dried, flaky blood, but I ignore it. I focus on the warmth of his palm and try to remember who we were before pack politics—and Lawson’s thirst for power—drove us apart.

  As if prompted by the feel of my hand in his, Lawson’s eyes open. He blinks several times, his eyes darting as if he’s trying to focus on his surroundings. He shakes his head, and his gaze finally finds me where I hover over him.

  “Ri-idge.” His voice is low, just as broken as his body. He squeezes my hand, but it’s such a small, quick movement, I have no clue whether it was on purpose or involuntary. “I didn’t… go to… them. To the wi-itches.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “They… c-caught me,” he says with a small gasp. His eyes close, and his other hand flutters to his torso. I don’t know what the spell did to him, but he’s clearly in pain. I try desperately not to think of his internal organs in some kind of soup, but it’s probably a more apt description than anything I could come up with. “After I escaped. I’m sorry—”

  “It’s all right,” I assure him, my voice cracking. “I forgive you.”

  I glance at Sable, who still has her hand resting on my arm in solidarity. She has tears in her eyes. She saw Lawson being tortured through Cleo’s eyes. I can’t imagine she isn’t haunted by the sight of it, especially right now, faced with his dying body.

  Lawson takes a deep, shuddering breath before speaking again. “I came to s-see… Everyone okay?”

  I nod. “Everyone’s okay. The witches came, and we fought. We sustained losses, but we won.”

  Pain tightens Lawson’s face, and I have a feeling it has nothing to do with his injuries. I decide not to tell him one of those we lost was his closest friend. Dying is enough of an indignity without knowing you killed your best friend before you went.

  “But we made it through,” I add before he can ask me who died, “because we joined forces with the East and West Packs.”

  The corners of his lips turn up in a small, half-smile that seems to take a lot more effort than it should. He closes his eyes. “G-good. That’s good. How it sh-ould be. Wolf shouldn’t fight wolf.”

  His fingers tighten in mine, and this time, I can tell it’s on purpose. An apology, I think, for challenging me.

  I guess only death can bring a man certain clarity.

  He opens his eyes again, and we lock gazes. Regret and pain swim in his bloodshot eyes, and I know those emotions are mirrored in my own. What could we have done together if we hadn’t been at odds for years? Who would we have become if we hadn’t fought for so long against one another? I’m lost in every damn what-if and could-have-been that my brain can conjure up.

  Lawson blinks as if his eyelids have become too heavy to keep open, and some of the light seems to have faded from his eyes when he finally focuses on me again. His breathing has gone ragged, raspy, like every inhale and exhale takes more and more energy out of him.

  He shakes his head as if to clear it and looks into my eyes, determination on his face. He’s holding death off, forcing it to wait just a little longer, so he can speak.

  “Wi-witches,” he gasps out. “They k… eep base on Wolfs...bane. Bi-ig bunker. Can’t see i-it unless you’re up it.”

  His voice dies out, and his eyes close again. This time, they stay closed, and his breathing slows. Grows even. Then stops entirely.

  His fingers loosen in mine.

  My brother is gone.

  18

  Sable

  A dozen emotions flow through the expression on Ridge’s face. No one moves or speaks for a long time, as Camilla’s wall clock audibly ticks away the seconds after Lawson’s death.

  I want to comfort my mate, but I don’t know how. I feel as useless and hopeless as the day Malcolm died, and during those days after when I couldn’t fix things for Archer. This kind of devastation from losing someone you love isn’t something I have experience with, since my parents died when I was a baby and all I ever had after that was Clint. God knows I didn’t really grieve his death at all.

  So I don’t know the right thing to say or do. I just stand at Ridge’s side, my hand on his arm, and give him the time he needs. We all do. A million hours could have passed in this space and time, but we don’t count them. Grief isn’t something you can measure or try to quantify. It just is.

  Finally, Ridge releases Lawson’s hand, laying it gently on his brother’s chest before he turns to look around the room at us. I don’t even recognize his face, it’s so hard, so completely lost to grief.

  “We need to tell the Elders,” he says. His voice is rough and strained, so that it sounds as if it’s painful for him to even speak. “We need to tell them about the bunker on Wolfsbane Mountain.”

  “A few weeks ago we didn’t even realize Wolfsbane Mountain exists,” Archer says, shaking his head.

  “The witches’ home base.” Trystan’s lip curls as he says the words. “We’ve never known where they hole up.”

  “Well, now we do, thanks to my brother,” Ridge says shortly. “We have a target to attack if we want to take the fight to them.”

  Archer takes a single step forward, and every gaze in the room turns to him. “We’ll take care of it. You… need a minute.”

  It isn’t a question, and Ridge doesn’t deny it. He just nods and looks back down at his brother’s body. Conversation closed.

  Trystan, Dare, and Archer file from the room, presumably to go meet with the elders about this new information. While Ridge stands staring down at Lawson, I process exactly what kn
owing about the bunker means.

  We know where the witches roost. We know where they sleep, where they plot. We know where Cleo’s base of power is.

  Despite Ridge’s grief, I feel a prickle of something that’s almost like hope. Could we actually beat them at their own game? I’ve been at Cleo’s mercy for days now, and the stress is weighing on me, making me feel like I’ll never come out of this alive. What if I can? What if we can storm this bunker, surprise them at their own game, and annihilate them? Cleo included.

  Ridge turns away from the body abruptly. “Camilla, can you see to his preparation?”

  The shifter woman nods. “Yes, Alpha Ridge, of course.”

  “Thank you.” He motions for me to follow him, and we leave the healer’s cabin in silence.

  Outside, in the warmth and quiet of the early evening, Ridge stops on the road and stands still as a cool mountain breeze races past us. His face is impassive, showing none of the emotions I know he has to be feeling right now. He doesn’t look like himself. He’s a shell, like the man I know is breaking inside.

  I take hold of his hand and tug him in the direction of Archer’s cabin. I may not know what to say to make him feel better, but taking care of him? That, I can do.

  He follows me, still silent and brooding, and I leave him to his thoughts without pressuring him to talk about them. Ridge is different from Archer—more reserved, more contained, more likely to keep everything inside even when it might hurt him to do so. I can’t pressure him, and I can’t force him to deal with his emotions any more than I can make his pain go away with a sigil and a spell.

  Archer’s house is quiet when we arrive, since the others are off with the elders discussing the new development. I guide Ridge into the foyer and then gently close the door behind us, internally debating whether I should try to feed him or just get him to lie down for a little while.

  Ridge halts just inside, his hands dangling at his sides and his shoulders slumped forward. I’ve just taken his elbow in my hand to walk him to the kitchen when he explodes.

  He turns out of my grasp and slams his fist into the wall. “Fuck!”

  Startled, I leap back and watch in horror as his punch goes right through the drywall. He rips his hand out, letting out a string of almost unintelligible curses as he stalks away from the hole in the wall. When he stops at the end of the short hall and turns to stalk back, I see that he has silent tears pouring down his face. He shakes with the effort of holding back his grief, pacing to the hole and then back to the end of the hall again with long, angry strides.

  “Ridge,” I say softly, reaching for him as he passes me.

  He brushes off my touch, but it’s almost as if he’s not even here. It’s not him brushing me away. It’s a shadow of him, barely conscious of anything but the floor beneath his feet. There’s blood running down his knuckles from the punch, and his entire body is rigid, his breathing harsh and shallow.

  I leave him pacing to get a wet rag in the kitchen. He’s still in the same place, walking the same pattern when I return, but this time, when I touch him, he finally pauses.

  I take his hand and press the rag against his cracked knuckles. He hisses in pain, and for a second, he seems to return to himself, before his grief builds that tough, angry exterior all over again.

  Before he can pull away again, before he can walk away, I lean in and kiss him. He needs to know I’m here. I’m right here with him, and no amount of pacing or cursing or punching the wall will change that.

  He doesn’t really kiss me back. His lips are hard, his entire body vibrating with tension and emotion. In response, I lean against his chest and let my lips melt against his to counteract his hardness with my softness.

  When he finally reacts, it happens so suddenly that it takes me by surprise.

  With a deep growl, he grabs my arms and yanks me onto my tiptoes, his kiss turning to fire. He whirls me around and shoves me against the wall next to the hole, deepening the kiss. His kiss is blazing hot and hungry, and within moments it’s so rough and wild I’ve forgotten everything except the feel of his body pressed against mine. This isn’t Ridge—not how he usually is, anyway. It’s as if his grief has made him out of control, nearly violent, just like the storm raging inside him.

  But I don’t try to tame the storm. I don’t try to hide from it. Instead, I meet it head on.

  My arms wrap around his neck, and I kiss him back as fiercely as he’s kissing me, arching against him to press our chests close together. My hands slide into the thick, dark strands of his hair as my heart beats out an erratic rhythm behind my ribs.

  He groans into my mouth, his large body caging me against the wall as he slides his hands over the dip of my waist and the swell of my hips. He moves them around to palm my ass, gripping me tight and hauling my lower body against his so that we’re touching from head to toe.

  One of his thighs slides between my legs, and when he drags me toward him again, my clit grinds over the steely muscles.

  I gasp into his mouth as sensation shoots through me, and he makes a sound I’ve never heard before in response. It’s almost a growl, but it comes from someplace so deep inside him that it might as well be a piece of his soul pouring from his lips. He works my clit against his leg again, his kisses becoming even more deep and forceful, his tongue invading my mouth hungrily.

  When I fist his hair at the roots, trying to anchor myself amid the torrent of sensations, he finally tears his lips away from mine.

  “Fuck. I can’t be gentle right now, little wolf,” he grunts. “I can’t—”

  “I don’t care.” I cut him off, shaking my head as my chest rises and falls quickly. It feels like I might never catch my breath. “I don’t need you to be gentle.” My hands move around to cup his face, cradling his strong jaw and feeling the muscles pulse beneath my palms. “I just need you to stay with me. Right here with me. Let me be here for you. Please. I love you, Ridge.”

  Something shifts in his honey eyes. The dark shadows in them lift momentarily, leaving just the breathtaking golden color, as if the sun has broken through the clouds on an overcast day. He gazes at me for a second, breathing just as hard as I am.

  Then, in one smooth movement, he lifts me off my feet. His hands grip my thighs with almost bruising force as he carries me to the bedroom.

  19

  Sable

  Ridge kicks the half-open door with his foot, barely even breaking stride as we enter the bedroom.

  He deposits me on the bed and is on me immediately, never letting our bodies separate as his lips claim mine over and over with kisses that make my pulse race. He’s devouring me with an entirely new kind of hunger, something I’ve never felt from him before, not even the first time he claimed me.

  It’s like he’s falling from a great height, plummeting through empty space, and the connection between us is the only tether that can save him. The only thing that can keep him from breaking when he hits the ground.

  Our clothes are gone almost as if they vanished into thin air, torn off and thrown to the side of the bed so quickly I might as well have used magic to do it. The second we’re both naked, Ridge settles his large frame between my legs, tension radiating from him as if he resents the few seconds we had to be apart.

  As if they caused him physical pain.

  He grunts inarticulate words as he kisses me, the sounds muffled as our lips and teeth and tongues clash. We’re both panting as he wrenches his mouth away from mine, trailing his hot, hungry lips down the column of my throat, across my collar bones, and over the swells of my breasts. His large hands knead and massage my breasts, pressing them together so he can draw one nipple into his mouth and then the other, lapping and sucking at them until zings of almost painful pleasure shoot through me.

  He moves lower still, traveling down my body and covering every inch of my exposed skin with kisses, licks, and bites. My nerve endings are all on fire, sending signals to my brain so fast that I can’t even process all of them. I squirm
on the mattress as he settles his broad shoulders between my legs and spreads my thighs with the same hard, demanding grip he had when he picked me up earlier.

  He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t tease me or start slow. He just buries his face between my legs and devours me.

  My thighs clench as sensation barrels through me, and he renews his hold on them, keeping them pressed wide open as his tongue moves over me, warm and wet and insatiable.

  I can’t move.

  I don’t want to.

  All I can do is clutch at the blankets and arch my back, giving up the fight to control the feelings surging through me. I just let them come, wave after wave as Ridge eats me out with no mercy.

  When I come on his face, wetness gushes from me, spilling down over my inner thighs and soaking the bottom half of his face. I can feel my cheeks flaming, but it’s not from embarrassment. It’s from the fire that seems to be raging inside me, unquenched even by the force of my orgasm.

  As Ridge laps up the sticky arousal between my legs, growling softly against my skin, I suck in deep breaths. A strange sense of pride rises up in me as my thundering heartbeat slows just a little.

  Just like I told him to, Ridge isn’t holding anything back.

  He’s always been the most careful with me, the most protective of all of my mates. It’s probably because he was the one who found me at the bottom of Devil’s Ditch, scratched and bruised and unconscious. He saw the terror in my eyes when I woke up the next morning and helped me through my panic attack when Lawson stormed into his house. He’s seen me at my absolute most vulnerable and fragile, and sometimes I wonder if he still sees that scared girl in me.

  But the way he’s touching me right now, the way he’s letting me be here for him—letting me help him carry the weight of his pain?