Page 4 of Lunar's Ruined Alpha
“Yes, Alpha,” answers Cal. “I suppose that’s the tricky part.”
“It’s not tricky at all.” My father turns to clap a firm hand on my shoulder. “You’ll go smooth things over with Henry. No problem.”
That’s my role as the Alpha prince, after all. I’m the young diplomat, the one who needs to be showing my true leadership skills before I officially inherit the role as the Greenbriar Alpha.
It would be better, of course, if I had a princess—a future queen—at my side. A Luna to stand beside me. I might have had a chance at that once, but things beyond my control ripped my Mate away from me. I’ve tried to tell myself that it’s for the best, and that I was the one who rejected her, but there’s still a dull pain in my chest whenever I think about what could have been.
But now isn’t the time to think about Alina. Even allowing that name to dance on the periphery of my thoughts is recklessly distracting.
I turn my attention back to the conversation.
The Whiterose Pack are good people, or so I’ve heard. They take in a lot of wandering loners and shifters in need. I can’t imagine that overcoming this little dispute will be that difficult.
“Sure,” I answer. “I’ll take care of it. How ‘tricky’ can it be?”
West Pond, North Carolina, is like every other small town in the Appalachians. What once used to be a quaint little village is now a run-down point on a map, just a couple of miles off the highway, going nowhere. It’s not really the sort of place that you go to with any sense of purpose, but rather the type of town that you end up in accidentally.
Except for me, of course. Today, I’m here on official pack business.
I roll down Main Street in my pickup truck, elbow resting on the edge of the open window, and try to look as unthreatening as possible. It’s not easy when you’re six-foot-four and reek of Alpha energy.
A few curious faces turn toward me as I drive by, and several people pause on the cracked sidewalks to watch me with shrewd expressions. I don’t take it personally. It’s the sort of thing you’d expect in any southern small town, not just in shifter territory. Strangers driving unfamiliar vehicles tend to be guilty until proven innocent.
But these are the Whiteroses, and there’s nothing to be worried about. Like my father said, they’re good people.
I park in front of the diner where Henry Whiterose himself agreed to meet with me. With a quiet huff of laughter, I realize the place is literally called The Diner. A glance across the street tells me that the general store on the corner is also called The Store.
“Quirky folks,” I mutter to myself as I hop out of the cab.
The minute I step inside The Diner, time slows down a little bit. I expected it, so I take it in stride. I know that my scent is obvious. Bitter pine, mountain air, and rain-dampened earth. It’s the scent that all Greenbriars share, but mine is sharpened by the Alpha power running in my veins.
A couple dozen faces snap up to stare at me. An older couple perched on stools at the bar openly gape in my direction with their mouths hanging open, which is oddly flattering. I’m not that scary. There’s a young woman with wild curls leaning against the bar. She whips her head around toward me, but her blonde friend working behind the bar is turned in the other direction, heading toward a table at the back of the space.
I breathe in deeply. I pick up on the trademark Whiterose scent. Crawling vines. Cloying, summer-sweet petals in full bloom. Warm honey.
They smell exactly as pacifistic as they are. Allegedly.
The Alpha scent, sweeter and more obvious than the rest of the smells in the room, nudges my attention toward a well-positioned table in the corner by the windows. Henry Whiterose smiles the second we lock eyes and heaves his large, aging body out of his chair to greet me.
I lope toward him and clasp his outstretched arm. We grasp each other at the wrist, a traditional gesture of goodwill.
“I heard Ryland Greenbriar’s boy was a big, handsome kid. It’s good to meet you, son.”
I nod in thanks. “I appreciate the invitation, sir.”
Henry sort of collapses back into his chair. I politely ignore the clumsiness and take a seat across from him.
A second later, a girl who can’t be much older than eighteen comes scurrying over. She’s wide-eyed and trembling, barely keeping a hold on the notepad clutched in her hands.
“Wha—what can I get y-you?”
Henry offers her a patient smile. “Can you give me and Rowan a few minutes to chat first? Thanks, Caitlyn.”
The girl’s eyes get caught on me, snagging like a loose thread. She lets out an odd squeak, and I try my best to give her a friendly nod, but she turns tail and runs off instead of saying anything else.
“Don’t take it personally,” Henry informs me, nodding in the direction of her rapid retreat. “Poor thing’s been anxious as hell since she was a baby.”
I turn back to him to offer a generically polite response, but then I catch something strange lingering in the air.
