Dirty Alphas

by Alexa B. James

  It would be tantamount to confessing to our whole pack they’d been duped for two and a half years - and “surprise!”, the transfer of power was bogus all along. “Lending” my father my alpha status worked for exactly twenty full moons, a little over a year and a half, and then it had snapped back to me. I’d woken in New York, feeling the distant connections of my wolves.

  That had been my last night of freedom—the last night of shirking my duties off onto my father. Only when I’d returned home was I able to funnel my alpha connections through my father again—and it took great effort—like even that might stop working at some point. I haven’t tested leaving the area, but something in me knows that leaving will never work again.

  “I’ve been thinking about the way the Knights have gone about this, and...” My father pats my back, absently, before stepping back to his bookshelf. His fingers pass over the spines of several books before he mutters, “Oh, right.” Stepping over to the desk, he picks up the top book in one of many stacks of tomes that cover every available space in his cramped office. He thumbs through pages before his green eyes pass over the words. “While what the Knight brothers are doing is technically legal, there are ways the law could work on our side. If we could get an injunction from the North American—”

  “Dad,” I interrupt, “the NALC paved the way for this takeover. They know the Knight brothers are here—there’s no way they’ll help us.”

  “What do you want me to do, sweetheart? I’m doing my best here.”

  Rubbing his nose, my father slams closed his eyes. The droop of his shoulders and the exhaustion in his posture make him look like an old man. Similar to most fifty-something werewolves, my father only shows slight signs of aging in the shallow wrinkles carved across his forehead and around his eyes. But the many hard years he’s suffered might as well be truly weighing on his shoulders for how apparent they are.

  “I want you to answer my text messages, Dad. This is day four—and obviously, we need to communicate.” I gesture in a wide circle and almost knock into a bookshelf.

  My dad’s hand comes out to shield the bookshelf from my clumsiness, even though I’ve already dropped my offending arm. “I know—I’ve been heads down on this,” he says. “I’d rather not fight all three of them if I can possibly avoid it. I’d rather not kill those young men, and on top of that, I don’t even know how I’d begin to renegotiate relations with our surrounding packs if I killed all their alphas.”

  Grabbing his wrist, I take a steadying breath. “Dad, that’s not what’s happening here. I have a plan—it’s a shitty plan, but it’s a hell of a lot better than us all killing each other. I’m going to spend the next week and a half doing everything in my power to convince my wolf to submit to Darrel, and if not him, then his brother Aaron—but I think Darrel is a better fit. I’ll challenge him first, and if she submits—you and your wolf immediately do, too. It will look as if you’re submitting to save my life, and when the pack bonds pass to him, he won’t suspect that I held them.”

  A wrinkle puckers between my father’s brows, and he shuts his book before replacing it. “Scar, what if she doesn’t submit?”

  Swallowing hard, I say, “Then as soon as it’s over, you immediately submit. Same result—he’s none the wiser, and you three will be free to live your lives—”

  “No,” my father growls. “That is not an acceptable plan to me, Scar, and you well knew it before you brought it here. I will not lose you to this. That is final.” His hand slams down on one of his books, sending up a cloud of dust. “The solution is somewhere in here, and if I’m wrong and it’s not, we flee to Canada and across the Bering Strait. We will live our lives on the run if needs be. That’s all.”

  Pressing two fingers into my forehead to stop my brain from exploding, I whisper, “Dad.”

  “That is all, Scarlet Riley. I’ll see you at Sunday dinner. Please do as I asked earlier and talk to your sister about not stealing from her place of employment, and if possible, getting a job where she remains clothed at all times. Also, make sure to say hello to your mother on your way out.” He spins away from me, effectively closing me off from him and ending the conversation.

  Even knowing my father isn’t going to so much as acknowledge me now, I stand there for another full minute, hoping he’ll miraculously realize my plan is the only reasonable one. It’s an idle, stupid hope, though. Thinking he’ll consider a plan that could mean my death is irrational of me—but living on the run from the North American Lycanthropy Council for the rest of our lives? That’s even more irrational.

  “I should have just faced the tribunal,” I whisper, knowing my biggest mistake in all this isn’t that I killed Jacob and covered it up—it’s that I involved my father. Now, no matter what I do, it looks like he’ll share my fate.

  That’s on me.

  My father doesn’t respond, but his shoulders tense for a moment before he exhales a heavy breath and continues to focus on his book.

  When I head out into the pack-house, I find the usual suspects inside. Several teens sit at a long table, most of whom have open textbooks, but all their attentions are sucked into their respective smartphones. Just to keep business as usual, I lightly bop each one on the head as I pass, but only a few mumble complaints of, “Scar.” At the end of the table, my sister Zeezee dozes on her arms. That’s one tedious conversation evaded. Check.

  As I pass, I can’t help questioning why my parents think she’s an appropriate tutor for the high schoolers in our pack. What they’re thinking, I’ll never know, but I’m pretty sure it’s a punishment for her short career as a pole dancer—and her penchant for stealing from the register.

  In the next room over, my mother sits with some of the pack’s submissive wolves. Elsa sorts through clothing, evaluating stains and tears. Mark, her mate, is busy sewing a patch onto the knee of a child’s pair of torn jeans. The jeans I’m wearing now have a similar patch, though my tears are from work, not playing—as it should be. Next to the pair sit George and Freddie, who huddle close together while resoling and polishing several pairs of shoes.

  To one side, I’m relieved to find my mother in deep conversation. Sitting over the pack’s ledger, her hand presses a ballpoint pen into the paper, creating a growing circle of blue ink. She's completely oblivious to it though, as she presses a hand to her chest and nods slowly while listening to Megan, one of our pack's oldest wolves. Hope surges in me that I might just be able to get out of the house without having my mom insist on a blow-by-blow of my feelings. They barely notice my soft approach, and as I lean down to kiss the top of my mother’s head, Megan continues as if she doesn’t notice I’m even here.

  “He didn’t understand my need for closure,” she says.

  “No, he obviously didn’t,” my mother says as she reaches over to me without looking. She gives my arm one squeeze before her hands go back to her ledger.

  “We’d never been as compatible as I’d hoped we’d be.” Megan shakes her head before her hands continue weaving what looks like a winter hat.

  Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, I reach into my back pocket and pull out my folded paycheck, setting it down on my mother’s ledger.

  Absently, she scoots my check onto a short stack of variously sized checks, all the while not taking her attention from her conversation.

  As I shuffle away, a few of the pack members look up to shoot me a quick greeting before settling back into their work. Not until I’m fully outside do I breathe a sigh of relief that I didn’t have to have a conversation about my feelings with the one person who always seems to be able to wring them out of me.

  The moment of relief doesn’t last though, as I turn back to the pack-house. My parents were able to give these wolves two and a half years of peace and rest. Yeah, we ran out of money in the last few months. Yes, all of us who can work have to work two, sometimes three jobs. But wolves who hadn’t smiled in years learned how to again. Some of the wolves addicted to Ketamine and other drugs were
fully rehabilitated. Werewolves started families without constantly looking over their shoulders.

  Leaning against the outside wall of the house, I rub my forehead as hot tears prick my eyes.

  Shit...I’d successfully evaded my mother just to get all emotional alone outside.

  “Scar?”

  Looking up, I’m surprised to find Zane wandering up the front stoop toward me. His blond hair looks a little tousled, but in the artful way he likes it. Hopping up the last step, he closes in, stopping so we’re only inches apart.

  “I didn’t expect you to be here. Brenda, Mari, and the boys are heading off on patrol, and I thought I’d join them.”

  “Oh...okay,” I say. “You’ll be with them all night, then?”

  Aside from my family, Brenda and the others are our pack’s most dominant wolves. Zane often joins them even though he’s a mid-dominant. While I understand his drive to maintain and even climb in pack dominance—the fact that he’s a non-dominant healer was a big part of what attracted me to him in the first place.

  “I might be,” he says slowly as his hands come to rest on my hips. “What are you up to?”

  “Just dropped by to see my dad,” I say, swallowing hard.

  For just a second, I consider confessing how torn up I am inside right in this instant—confessing everything—but before I can get the words out, Zane leans in and kisses me.

  It starts as a gentle kiss, but his tongue pushes into my mouth, and I’m hit with sudden relief that I have an excuse not to open up about my feelings. That’s...that’s great. When I kiss Zane back harder, he immediately matches my intensity, pushing his body up the length of mine. His hands thread through my hair, and he pulls back to whisper.

  “I like it when you play hooky from work. I don’t need to go out on patrol. Wanna head back to my place for a while and keep doing this?”

  “Work?” I ask, confused for a moment since it’s probably seven or later. “It’s not…Thursday—crap!” Furiously, I wiggle away from him. “The shelter.”

  Zane almost seems like he won’t let me go for a second before he steps out of my path, and he sounds a little dazed as he asks, “What—you’re not skipping?”

  “I blanked!” I yell over my shoulder.

  The clock reads seven twenty-three when I jump into my car, and I don’t even fully close the door before I’m pulling out onto the street. I pull into the Arcata youth homeless shelter four minutes late and lose another minute wrestling my spare dance bag out of my trunk.

  When I manage to make it into the center, Mack and about twenty teenagers are already sitting around the space, stretching out their limbs and warming up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I breathe as the familiar feel of the worn wood floor seeps through my sneakers.

  “Take your time,” Mack calls as he leans into a stretch.

  As I cross over toward the bathroom, I peek over at the group. Many have managed to keep the dance clothes the outreach program we work for provided them with, while others wear ripped jeans and clothing deeply embedded with dirt. Several heads pop up as I pass, and I can’t help noticing two of the teens from last week are missing and new faces have replaced them. My stomach clenches a little at the sight—knowing I’ll probably never see the teens who vanish into the night again, but each week I get a little more used to it.

  It takes me only a minute to change, and when I reemerge, I call, “How is everyone doing today? You guys ready to do some review?”

  They hoot their approval and stand as two of the shelter workers emerge with their dinners, taking a seat at the couches that have been pushed to one wall.

  Mack and I start the teens off with a fifteen-minute warm-up routine, and then we review the choreography with them one more time.

  “Remember to contract with your whole core as you bring your arms forward,” I say, showing them with exaggerated motions. “You’re going to get more fluid movement while making it look as if you’re swimming through resistance. That’s what we’re looking for here. Each movement you make is a fight for survival, overcoming your past and looking toward the future.”

  “And don’t forget the emotion you put into each move. It’s just as important as the movement itself,” Mack says before he leads them into rolling to the ground into a side-seated position and extending their arms forward as if grasping for something just beyond their reach.

  When Mack moves, I swear it’s like watching pure poetry in motion. I don’t know if it’s fae magic or just him, but I literally can’t keep my eyes off the guy when he starts dancing. His lean muscles and firm ass don’t hurt either.

  Yep. I went there, I realize—when I really, really shouldn’t have. Seriously. What is wrong with me lately?

  As if Mack can tell what I’m thinking, he gives me a salacious, over-exaggerated wink. He chuckles and wraps an arm around me as we turn to face the teens—finding most of them gaping a little at Mack.

  “Okay, we’re going to split you up into groups of three, and each group will take turns showing us what you got,” Mack says. “Remember, we’re here to cheer each other on. This is not a competition.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see the entrance door open, but when I give the door my full attention, it’s closed and there’s no one there.

  You’re losing it, Scar.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I curse myself for letting the Knight brothers get to me like this. The fact that time is ticking down to their takeover is driving me a little crazy—I’m getting paranoid.

  For the next thirty minutes, we play “In Blood We Trust” by Elvira, while the kids take turns using our choreography to express themselves, to share the theme of the song they’re dancing to. It’s a song about surviving even when all the odds are stacked against you. Maybe I’m just a little over emotional today, but I find myself hoping these kids will take to heart the powerful lyrics and never give up despite the setbacks. Knowing I’ll probably only ever see them one more time after tonight, I need these human kids to feel this as truth. It’s something I’ve had to come to terms with over and over again since the day Jacob Knight almost raped and killed me.

  The energy in the room is practically buzzing as they finish their number. The kids high-five each other and grin like the troubles of the world have managed to drop away for the length of a song.

  “What are we learning for the rest of practice?” a kid named Jimmie asks, brushing a sweaty blond dreadlock out of his face. His dark gaze darts over to one of the newer girls before his attention focuses back on me.

  “Hey Mack, have we taught these guys the couples dances?” I call over, deciding to do the young guy a solid. Cat calls and whistles ensue, with a few boys and girls blushing an endearing shade of red.

  Mack lifts his head from where he’s been explaining something to a group of four boys and girls. A feigned considering expression falls over his features as his aquamarine eyes smile.

  “That's next on the agenda.”

  I raise my hand to get the group to settle down even though their reaction makes me grin. “We’ll show you the routine first, then we’ll start teaching you the moves.”

  Mack turns on the music to “Alluring Nightmares,” a slow, haunting melody about a man falling in love with a vampire nearly against his will. As the music starts, I stare into Mack’s mesmerizing eyes and let the emotions of the day wash away.

  “You okay?” he asks as we start moving. “You seem like something is bothering you.”

  Of course, I can’t hide anything from Mack—and I thought I was doing so well. I turn with my back to him. “Can we talk later, in private?”

  “Of course, Scar.”

  He comes up behind me and slowly wraps one arm around my waist, then his other hand comes around my front and gently caresses my skin from the top of my shoulder, over my clavicle, to the other shoulder before spinning me out. I follow his simple dance steps—keeping my gaze on his and letting my body feel his directions.

  We finis
h with me held in his arms, our foreheads gently resting against each other; there’s a moment of silence so profound, it seems like time itself is holding its breath on our behalf.

  Finally, the kids begin to cheer like crazy, and I blink in confusion.

  I clear my throat and pull away, tearing myself from this crazy field of gravity that seems to be drawing me ever closer to Mack’s field of orbit. I’m distracted momentarily by the front entrance closing, as if someone either just entered or left the building. I study the room, but none of my kids is gone, and the same two workers sit watching us. I don’t see any new faces in the room.

  My wolf emerges from her confines, at full attention. Her unease seeps through our bond, keeping me on high alert.

  “Scar, you okay?” Mack asks.

  “Uh…fine.” I give him a thumbs up.

  I push my paranoia to the side and focus on teaching the kids the first two eight-counts of choreography for the rest of class. Yet, my feeling of foreboding only grows.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aaron

  Crouching down on the forest floor, I hold my nose inches from the fern underbrush. Over the scent of dust and dander, I inhale the faintest trace of stale urine and body odor.

  “Crap,” I say, smacking the bush lightly. “We’re going the wrong way.”

  Halfway over a fallen log, Darrel lifts his head from where he’s been sniffing the bark in wolf form. Moonlight dances over his gray pelt and glints off his quicksilver eyes. With Darrel’s massive size and thick fur, he dwarfs the trunk. His wolf is so big, I’m surprised the redwood hasn’t cracked under his weight. Raising his head, Darrel’s muzzle scrunches up, revealing finger long fangs. With a violent motion, he sneezes.