Claimed By My Exiled Alphas (Hollow Haven)

Chapter 1

Talia

My old Chevy’s engine coughed as I crested Bear Ridge, and I held my breath until it settled back into its usual wheeze.

Breaking down on a mountain road wasn’t exactly how I wanted to announce my return to Hollow Haven, especially when half my worldly possessions were stuffed into the backseat and the other half were rattling around in the tiny U-Haul trailer I was attempting to tow behind me.

The valley spread out below me like something from my childhood memories, but sharper now, more detailed than the soft edged recollections I’d been carrying for fifteen years.

Pine forests rolled down the mountainsides in waves of green, broken by the silver thread of Hollow Creek and the neat grid of streets that made up the only town I’d ever called home.

The thought surged into the front of my mind, but I didn’t push it away.

Three months ago, I’d been Executive Chef Talia Quinn of Aurelius, commanding a kitchen worth more than most people’s houses and earning reviews from food critics claiming my food was “transcendent.” Now I was unemployed, blacklisted, and driving a dying Chevy toward the one place that might remember me as something other than a scandal.

The cottage sat at the end of Birch Lane, exactly where the property management company had promised it would be.

Small, yellow with white trim, and surrounded by a garden that had clearly been loved once but was now growing wild around the edges.

The front porch sagged slightly on one side, giving the whole place a lopsided, welcoming smile.

I sat in the car for a long moment after killing the engine, just breathing.

The silence felt enormous after months of Chicago traffic and restaurant chaos.

No horns, no shouting, no constant hum of industrial refrigeration.

Just wind in the pine trees and a bird I couldn’t identify calling from somewhere nearby.

The cottage keys were exactly where promised, tucked under the ceramic toad beside the front steps. My hands shook only a little as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Hardwood floors throughout, a living room with a stone fireplace that looked like it had been built by someone who actually knew how to lay stones instead of just making them look pretty.

The kitchen was small but well designed, with enough counter space for serious cooking and a gas range that gleamed and had hopefully been recently serviced.

Most importantly, it was quiet. No neighbors shouting through thin walls, no delivery trucks at dawn, no customers demanding modifications to dishes they’d ordered specifically because they were perfect as written.

I could breathe here.

The U-Haul held everything that mattered to me now.

Two suitcases of clothes, a box of books, and three carefully packed boxes of kitchen equipment.

It barely took any time to unload it. My knife roll went on the counter first, then the digital scale that had cost me a week’s salary when I was a line cook but had earned its keep a thousand times over.

My grandmother’s cast iron skillet came out next, still seasoned to a perfect black shine after forty years of use.

Each piece of equipment had its place, its purpose, its story.

The immersion circulator I’d saved for six months to buy, the mandoline that had taken the tip of my ring finger the first week I owned it, the pasta machine that had belonged to my first mentor at culinary school.

I arranged them with the same careful precision I’d used setting up stations in every professional kitchen I’d ever worked, muscle memory guiding my hands even when my mind wanted to spiral into panic.

By the time I finished unpacking, the cottage felt less like a rental and more like possibility.

My stomach growled, reminding me that I’d been living on gas station coffee and protein bars for the better part of two days.

The refrigerator held the basics I’d requested, eggs, butter, milk, and a loaf of bread that looked homemade.

There was also a mason jar of what looked like fresh strawberry preserves with a handwritten note stuck to the lid.

“Welcome home, dear. These are from my garden. Mrs. Anderson next door”

The kindness of it made my throat tight. In Chicago, I’d lived in the same apartment building for three years without learning half my neighbors’ names. Here, someone I’d never met had left me preserves made from berries she’d grown herself.

I cracked three eggs into a bowl and whisked them until they were pale yellow and smooth.

The butter hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle, and I adjusted the heat by sound as much as sight, waiting for that perfect moment when the foam subsided but before it started to brown.

Eggs were simple, but simple didn’t mean easy.

Perfect eggs required attention, patience, and the kind of intuitive understanding of heat and timing that separated real cooks from people who just followed recipes.

The first bite transported me. Not to any restaurant where I’d worked, not to culinary school but to my grandmother’s kitchen where this had all begun.

And now I was here, in this moment, this choice, this new beginning.

The eggs were exactly as they should be, creamy, rich, tasting like eggs instead of whatever I could do to make them impressive.

Food for the sake of nourishment and pleasure instead of critics and profit margins.

I was halfway through my impromptu meal when footsteps on the gravel drive made me freeze. The rental company hadn’t mentioned anyone else having reason to come by, and Mrs. Anderson’s note suggested she lived next door, not here.

I moved to the window and peered through the curtains, expecting to see a delivery truck or maybe a solicitor.

Instead, a man in what looked like a park service uniform was walking up the drive, clipboard in hand.

He was tall, broad shouldered, and moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from spending most of his time outdoors.

Something about the way he carried himself tugged at a memory I couldn’t quite place.

He climbed the porch steps and knocked with the kind of authoritative rap that suggested official business. I set down my fork and smoothed my travel wrinkled shirt, wishing I’d thought to change clothes before settling in to eat.

“Hello there.” His voice carried easily through the door, warm and faintly amused. “I can smell something amazing coming from in there, so I know someone’s home. I’m Jace Maddox with the park service. Wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and go over some fire safety protocols.”

Jace Maddox. The name hit me like cold water, bringing with it a flood of summer memories I’d thought I’d buried.

Jace with the scraped knees and endless questions, who’d followed me around one memorable summer when he was eight and I was eleven.

He’d cried when his family’s vacation ended, and I’d promised to write letters I never sent.

I opened the door with the chain still latched, needing to see his face to be sure.

Twenty years had been kind to Jace Maddox.

The skinny kid with freckles and perpetual grass stains had grown into a man who looked like he belonged on outdoor magazine covers.

Sun streaked brown hair, eyes the color of winter pine trees, and a smile that crinkled at the corners from years of squinting at distant horizons.

“Ms. Quinn, right?” He held up his clipboard, then paused, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t suppose you remember me. Jace Maddox? I used to spend summers here when we were kids. You taught me how to identify deer tracks by the creek one year.”

The memory surfaced complete and perfect.

A younger Jace crouched beside the muddy bank, his face serious with concentration as I showed him the difference between whitetail and mule deer prints.

He’d been fascinated by everything in those woods, collecting pine cones and smooth stones and asking questions faster than I could answer them.

“Jace.” I fumbled with the chain latch, suddenly aware that I was blocking the door like I expected him to force his way inside. “My God. Look at you.”

“Had to grow up eventually.” His grin was the same slightly crooked smile I remembered, just sized up for an adult face. “Though I have to say, you look exactly like you did that summer, just...”

“Just older and more tired?” I supplied, stepping back to let him onto the porch.

“I was going to say more yourself, if that makes sense.” He tucked his clipboard under his arm, his attention completely focused on my face in a way that was both flattering and slightly unnerving. “Like you grew into exactly who you were supposed to be.”

Heat crept up my neck at the compliment. This was dangerous territory, nostalgia and kind words from an attractive man who remembered me fondly. I’d come here to rebuild my life, not to fall into old patterns with new people.

“So you’re with the park service now?” I asked, changing the subject before I could do something stupid like invite him inside for coffee. “That suits you. You always loved being outdoors.”

“Still do.” He gestured toward the tree line beyond the cottage, where I could just make out the beginning of a hiking trail.

“I patrol the watershed areas mostly, work with the wildlife management folks. It’s good work, like reading a book where the story changes every day, but the characters stay consistent. ”

The nature metaphor made me smile despite myself. That was pure Jace, seeing the world in terms of patterns and relationships, finding stories in animal behavior and seasonal changes.

“Speaking of which,” he continued, pulling out his clipboard, “I wanted to go over some fire restrictions while they’re still in effect. We’ve had a dry summer, and the forest is basically kindling right now. Nothing too complicated, just some common sense precautions.”

He ran through the list with the easy competence of someone who’d given this speech dozens of times but still cared enough to make sure I understood each point.

No outdoor burning except in designated fire rings, clear any vegetation within ten feet of the cottage, keep a hose connected and ready during high danger days.

“The good news is we’re expecting rain by the end of the week,” he said, making a note on his clipboard. “Once that hits, restrictions should ease up. But until then, we’re all being careful as a cat stalking through dry leaves.”

“I understand.” I found myself relaxing into the familiar rhythm of his speech, the easy way he mixed practical information with those nature focused metaphors that had always been his trademark. “I grew up here, remember? I know how fast fires can move.”

“Course you do.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. Occupational hazard, I sometimes forget not everyone’s a city transplant who’s never seen a pine tree before.”

“Are there many of those?”

“More than you’d think. Hollow Haven’s been discovered by the remote work crowd. Good for the local economy, not always great for people who don’t realize that living in nature means adapting to natures’ rules.”

There was something in his tone that suggested personal experience with difficult newcomers, but I didn’t want to pry. I was the newcomer here, even if I had childhood history with the place.

“Well, I appreciate you stopping by,” I said, meaning it more than he could know. “And I promise to be careful with fire safety.”

“I know you will be.” He started to turn away, then paused. “I don’t suppose... would you be interested in seeing how the old trails have held up? I do regular patrol walks, and it might be nice to have company who remembers what this place used to be like.”

The invitation was casual, friendly, the kind of thing old friends might do to reconnect. But there was something in his eyes, a warmth that suggested his interest might not be entirely platonic. My pulse quickened in response, and I felt the familiar tug of attraction before I could stop myself.

This was exactly what I couldn’t afford. Complications with attractive men, even ones I’d known as children. Especially ones I’d known as children, who might think they knew me better than they actually did.

“Maybe,” I said carefully. “I’m still settling in, figuring out my routine here.”

“Of course.” If he was disappointed, he hid it well. “Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind. And if you need anything, anything at all, just call the ranger station. We’re here to help.”

I watched him walk back to his truck, noting the confident set of his shoulders and the way he moved like someone who belonged exactly where he was. When he reached the driver’s side, he turned and waved, and I found myself raising my hand in response.

The cottage felt different when I closed the door behind me. Not empty, exactly, but expectant. Like the space was waiting to see what I’d make of this second chance at the life I’d thought I wanted.

I returned to my abandoned eggs, now cold but still delicious enough to finish.

Outside the kitchen window, the garden beckoned with late season tomatoes still clinging to their vines and herbs that had gone wild but still held their fragrance.

Maybe I could clean up the beds, plant something for spring.

Maybe I could find my way back to the woman who’d once believed that cooking was about nourishment and joy instead of survival and reputation.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke from someone’s fireplace.

But underneath those familiar mountain smells was something else, something that made my omega instincts stir restlessly.

Multiple scents, actually, complex and appealing in ways that made me think of safety and strength and all the things I’d told myself I didn’t need.

I pushed the thought away and focused on washing my dishes. I’d come here to heal, to rebuild, to figure out who Talia Quinn was when she wasn’t performing for critics or trying to please men who couldn’t be pleased.

Romance, especially the complicated, biology driven kind my instincts seemed to crave, was the last thing I needed.

Even if the mountain air carried promises I wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge, and even if my childhood friend had grown up to be exactly the kind of man who might make me forget why I’d sworn off alphas entirely.

The cottage settled around me with small creaks and sighs, like an old house learning the weight and rhythms of its new occupant. Through the window, the mountains stood eternal and patient, keeping their promises of sanctuary and second chances.

For tonight, that was enough.