Chapter 8 Alphas
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALPHAS
Jonen and Corric’s chattering petered out as Ridan ducked behind a band of trees, Peppercorn's soft muzzle huffing against his back as they snuck away. He waited until the incessant sound of Jonen’s giggling silenced before stepping back out.
Figures, he snorted. Too busy making eyes at each other to notice I’m gone.
If anyone were to ask, Ridan would say the sweet way they looked at each other was grating. Personally, he could admit to himself and to Peppercorn that he wanted to give them some alone time.
Ridan might have no thought of finding a mate for himself, but that didn’t mean he would stand in the way of others' happiness. Growing up side by side, sharing a nest and family, it made the three of them thick as thieves. So much so that Ridan knew the two were interested in each other before either of them did. It’s been a painful few years to watch them tiptoe around each other.
Maybe some time alone would be what they needed.
That, and he needed some time to himself.
Since his mother’s injuries, he’d been taking on more and more of her role.
Iylah had stopped the bleeding, but Chief Restrina was no better.
Her skin was still ghastly pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes.
She slept fitfully most of the day, limbs twitching in pain when she was awake.
The carefully sutured wounds were swollen and thick, the scent of illness permeating so thick Ridan had taken to sleeping outside.
Her duties weighed heavily on him. Ridan had never been one to second guess himself—his mother taught him to trust his instincts.
But now he found himself wondering ‘is this what she would do?’ or ‘am I making a mistake’ Just this morning Gustall wondered if they should double their trades with the Windy Cliff clan to ensure safety for their people should Kaledonea attack again.
Henroen thought they needed to place more patrols along the borders, but they didn’t have the warriors for it.
Which meant they would need to pull from the farmers and harvesters.
And with winter coming, that meant fewer stores they may need.
It occurred to Ridan—as he was staring at a group of alphas twice his age, with more experience in the dirt under their nails than he had in his whole life—that his mother’s legacy was more than the scars on her skin or the necklaces dangling from her neck.
She had been training him, true. They often went hunting and spent long days discussing just such problems. Hypotheticals that could come about between skinning rabbits and tracking Snap Jaw nests. But she had also let him lag behind. Allowing Ridan to have a childhood.
When he should have been sitting in meetings with her advisors, he was dropping snakes in Corric’s hair. When he should have been discussing farming seasons, he was wrestling Jonen blindfolded.
His childhood might cost his clan everything.
There was no guarantee he would be Chief after his mother.
The clans didn’t put as much stock in blood as the Walled City.
Sure, he was raised to be chief, and his clan liked him.
But he could just as easily be challenged.
If the challenger had the support of his people, and could defeat Ridan, he would lose his position.
The position that had been in his family for generations.
He touched his father’s sword at his hip. Its weight was almost as heavy as the expectations on his shoulders.
Ridan wandered further into the woods, enjoying the cool shadows slithering over his skin.
Far from the chatter of the clan, he could feel himself drifting off.
Chittering animals in the brush scurried away at his movements, knocking bushes into each other in a song that trumpeted his arrival.
He wasn’t trying to be quiet. Ridan didn’t think he could take true silence.
It would weigh just as heavily as the thoughts fighting for dominance in his mind.
Peppercorn seemed just as happy to meander, eyes half lidded and ears relaxed as she followed him, occasionally dropping her nose to snag a weed or an appealing piece of grass.
He knows that’s why Momma Sehleh suggested they collect herbs.
The shrewd beta woman knew he was at the end of his rope.
With her soft hands, she ushered him out, insisting she and Iylah needed fresh supplies.
It wasn’t very subtle, but Sehleh never needed to be. She always knew what was best for them.
As they walked, he felt a twinge of pain as he lifted his leg over a tall root. It was a stark reminder of three mornings ago when he fought the outsider.
Brune.
As strange as the alpha was, he could certainly throw a punch. There were several hits that knocked Ridan back, only pure pride keeping him standing when the world spun around him.
But he was also foolish. He swung without thinking and lacked any sense of self preservation.
When Ridan first saw him, it had been a blur from the corner of his eye.
He’d been ready to strike when he felt his presence.
A sense of peace, of safety. In that moment, Ridan had dropped his guards because he knew, without knowing, that his back was protected.
And then he turned. Bargrave’s blood dripped down his hands and his victory screamed loud enough to reach Artrax’s peak, and there he was. Surrounded by shattered wood, muscles bulging and pale blue eyes intense beneath a mop of dark hair. They’d shared a single look, and that was it.
Yet it clung to him. That feeling. Like the herb some of the old men smoked on festivals, heavy and addicting. It clung to him like a shadow he couldn’t lose. And he didn’t understand it.
Ridan knew trust. He trusted Jonen and Corric. He’d gone into countless fights with them at his side and never once worried. But that blur—that outsider—had felt different in a way Ridan couldn’t understand.
He hadn’t intentionally sought him out that morning. His plan was to get stronger with his father’s sword away from prying eyes, but he was there. A big man with his eyebrows scrunched and tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on things most pups knew.
One of the few memories of his father was of them sitting on a hill overlooking the herds of horses.
It was spring, and the mares were just beginning to give birth.
He’d giggled at the sight of young, knobby kneed foals finding their feet for the first time.
Their legs splaying every which way as they collapsed in a heap, battling gravity with a tenaciousness only the young possessed.
His father had nuzzled the top of his head, pointing out where the lead mare prowled, eagle eyed for predators coming from the nearby forest.
“You need to know when to fight and when to run, Ridan,” his father had said.
“Momma doesn’t run,” Ridan had babbled, convinced his mother was as strong as Artrax himself.
“She does,” his father assured him. “When she must. Sometimes the fight isn’t worth the pain.”
Ridan hadn’t believed him then, and he didn’t believe him now. There was no fight Ridan would run from, and this foreigner was no different.
So, he’d attacked him. He’d attacked the strange feelings the bastard brought up in him, tried to bleed out the things he didn’t understand. But all he’d managed to achieve was a sweaty brow and sore muscles.
Sometimes the fight isn’t worth the pain.
Ridan could now, begrudgingly admit, his father had been right.
It wasn’t as if he’d run from the alpha, he just avoided him.
Not that it was hard. Not with his additional responsibilities on top of his existing chores.
And if he’d spent an extra hour grooming Peppercorn until he could see himself in the sheen of her coat, that was between him and his mare.
It was difficult to get away from the gossip.
The foreign boys were all the clan could talk about.
Worse than when Corric came. He’d been so small then, weak and in desperate need of a home.
Everyone took one look at his delicate face and immediately decided he needed to be protected.
But these two were different. They’d been warriors who suddenly changed sides.
Rushed into battle to protect him. For no apparent reason.
Divine intervention his ass.
They made it farther into the woods, close to where the creek forked off and the razor fish liked to nest for the season. Maybe he could grab a few and convince Momma Sehleh to make some for dinner. It had been a while, and thinking of crunching through their small bones made his mouth water.
But when he got to the small creek, he wasn’t alone.
Standing just before the ford, where the creek wasn’t half a man wide, was the foreigner.
He was kneeling in the cold water, nearly naked as he used cupped hands to scrub himself clean.
Only wearing his underclothes—white linen nearly transparent as it clung to the man’s thighs—he shivered a little as he scrubbed his skin.
Ridan’s eyes traced the gooseflesh as it erupted along his muscles.
He was built well. Thick shouldered and waisted, there wasn’t a part of him that wasn’t big. Even his hair, a dark mane falling around his eyes with the wet tips sticking to his cheeks.
Even though he was alone, the man was smiling to himself. As if the trees and rocks were telling him the funniest of jokes. His teeth caught his lips, a jagged smile that had no right looking as if his lips were the dark of night, hiding the sun every time he closed them.
Bending forward, the man dunked his head in the shallow creek, trying to get his hair wet.
He apparently had no soap with him, content to clean himself with just water and fingertips.
When he sat up, his hair flopped into his eyes.
Water sluiced down his body, and Ridan found his gaze lingering inappropriately.