Wildfire Rekindled

Chapter 1

GW

A sharp pang slices through my side as I blink into the dull gray of morning. My hand moves to the knife wound—still fresh, still burning. Should've healed by now. Human hunters hit the pack hard yesterday, part of a nationwide strike against supernaturals.

The ache in my chest is worse. Deeper. Permanent.

Once, mornings meant warmth—her warmth, her scent on the pillow, her breath against my skin.

Now, the bed is cold. The air is stale. She left three years ago. The sheets forgot her warmth, but my soul hasn't—some wounds never close.

The weight of it pins me to the mattress. Every breath feels like dragging a boulder uphill. Staying here would be easy. Let the ranch, the pack, the whole damn world take care of itself.

But I can't.

The room spins, nausea clawing at my stomach. Whiskey stings my tongue like regret.

Damn, how much did I drink last night? After the fight, I gave my cowboys the night off and unlocked the kegs of elvish beer. Phillip, my best friend, is gone. His mate, gone. His youngest boy. Gone. I drowned my grief in the fairy whiskey he gave me for my birthday.

A sharp knock slices through the silence. "Alpha," Luke's voice comes through the door, low and urgent. "You need to come downstairs."

My jaw tightens. Luke knows better than to wake me unless it's serious.

I sit up, every motion stiff, mechanical. My boots hit the floor with a thud. The weight of duty settles over me, heavier than the hangover.

By the time I reach the door, Luke's halfway down the hall. He turns when he hears me, his face grim. "We've got refugees crossing the northeast border."

I stop cold. Refugees. Already? Fuck.

"Survivors from the Oklahoma packs," Luke continues. "Women and pups."

The air leaves my lungs. Survivors. The word feels heavy. I don't have the capacity for this. Not today. But I'm Alpha. That's all that matters.

Without a word, I grab my hat off the rack and shove it on—Luke motions to the stairs. "Truck's out front," he mutters. I nod, my steps heavy, my purpose unwilling. But I move. I have to.

The truck hums beneath us as Luke drives, his grip tight on the wheel. Dust kicks up in a haze, streaking the windshield. I lean back, adjusting my hat over my eyes, the ache in my side pulsing with every bump. The leather seat creaks under me, the faint smell of motor oil and blood clinging to my clothes.

"Think they're from the Red River pack?" Luke asks, breaking the silence.

"Probably," I reply, my voice rough. "Hunters hit them hard. Made an example out of them."

Luke doesn't respond, but his jaw sets. He's thinking what I am—there'll be more. Strays crossing our borders, looking for protection I can't guarantee.

His face scrunches. "Owen's mindlinking me."

I reach out, linking with them both: Owen, report.

Owen's voice cuts through the connection, sharp and panicked: It's bad, Alpha. Rogues on the oil field. They're armed—trying to set the rigs on fire.

The words hit like a gut punch. Rogues on the field? The Lonestar wells are our lifeline. Without them, we're finished.

Luke glances at me, his face grim. "What's the call?"

I don't hesitate. "Pull over. I'll shift. You drive to the field."

He nods, spinning the wheel hard. The truck skids onto a side road, gravel spraying as we veer off course. When he slams the brakes, I'm already wrenching the door open.