Rise of the Dark Alpha

~ ZEV ~

Zev clenched his jaw. This was going to be the easiest, but the most distasteful of the things he had to do in the coming days.

The pathetic mess of a Chimera that was the lowest wolf in the pack, cowered in front of him. His name was Grahm. He was a male who'd been one of the Poor Ones—made with a higher percentage of human DNA than wolf, but with the wrong gene exchange. And in his case, the already flawed recipe they'd written for him was founded on weak human DNA and low-level wolves. His body was weak, and his mind not much better.

Before, when he'd been Alpha, Zev had always gone out of his way to be kind to the poor soul. All the marks that should have made a wolf-warrior were there—the kid had the bright blue eyes rimmed in near-black. He moved with grace. But while all the other wolves came into their majority in their early teens, at eighteen, Grahm's arms were still narrower than a twelve-year-old's, his hips slight. He lacked the pure strength that was needed for respect among the wolves—and the mental sharpness that might have made up for any physical flaws.

He had always struggled to keep up with the others, but had found his place tending fires and food. He was a hard worker with an honest heart, accepted by the pack, though treated with minimal respect because of his position.

But Zev knew it wasn't his fault how he'd been made.

It also wasn't Zev's fault that Grahm was the lowest on the wolf hierarchy, and therefore he had no choice but to begin with him. Grahm had tried to ignore him when Zev caught him hauling water back for the washers, but he was too easily distracted, and too easily flustered.

Zev would apologize to him when he'd regained his rank.

He'd slammed the poor male up against a tree, tossing his bucket to the side and snarling the challenge as soon as Grahm's eyes met his own.

The poor thing shook like he might wet on himself.

"Submit," Zev growled at him, checking over his shoulder that they were out of sight of the those in the Trough. "I don't want to hurt you, Grahm, but I will if I must."

The male kept his chin down and hunched, lowering himself in front of Zev so that he was below Zev's chest. "I… I s-submit," he breathed. "Please don't hurt me, Zev. I have to help with the dinner tonight!"

Zev sighed and clapped his hand to the back of Grahm's neck. "Of course I won't hurt you, brother," he whispered. "But you must remain submitted, you understand?" When the boy nodded, he sighed again. "I'll walk you back to the fire."

He stepped back and turned, Grahm moving after him, head still down. He'd grown since Zev last saw him—his shoulders were thicker, as was his hair. But he was the same, sweet kid he had been.

"Does this mean I can talk to you now?" he whispered.

"Yes," Zev said. "I've forced you to see me. You can look at me."

"Great!" The kid raised his head, beaming. "I wanted to see you, but you were already cast out! Now we can talk!"

Zev nodded, but his eyes were on the trees ahead. Those gathered for the meal. No point telling Grahm that talking to Zev wouldn't help his standing among the pack. Few bullied Grahm anymore. At least, they hadn't under Zev's rule.

He made a mental note to check with Yhet about what had been happening under Xar.

He exchanged small talk with the boy until they broke through the trees and into the Trough clearing, then he set his teeth and watched. He wouldn't put it past those who were loyal to his brother to try and put an arrow in his back—accidentally, of course.

Talk at the tables near where he appeared came to a standstill, but no one looked up. Zev let them all feel his glare, warning them with his eyes and his scent that he was not to be pushed—or dismissed.

He walked the boy back to the fire, only to find Rori, the Firemaster, standing over the flames, glaring at them, his thick jaw twitching.

"Where have you been, Grahm!" he snapped, never letting his eyes fall on Zev. "Where's the water?"

"I… oh," the boy said, stopping and turning to look back where he'd come from. "I'll go get it."

"You will not! You'll do the carving. I'll go for the water," the older man snapped, snatching another bucket from the pile near the fire. "You keep your eyes on the meat, and serve anyone who comes. I don't have time for more mistakes!" Then he stormed off in the direction Zev and Grahm had come from.

The poor kid flinched, but rushed to the task of turning the meat. When a moment had passed, he glanced up at Zev with a half-smile. "I guess I better go back to work. It was good to see you."

"You're a good wolf, Grahm," Zev said quietly. He would have embraced him, but more of his scent on the kid was only going to hurt him further when he walked through the village tonight. They all had to know Zev was going to fight his way back. But they'd still punish any wolves that gave in. "I'll see you around, okay? And don't worry, I'm coming back. We'll get this all sorted out—"

He was turning away as he spoke, preparing to go in search of the next wolf, when he slammed into a thick, heavy body that grunted at the impact.

Zev whirled to find the massive Rayf, a wolf several steps up the rankings, standing in front of him, spitting curses and flicking the gravy off his tunic that had been plastered there when Zev ran into the plate the male was carrying and apparently flattened it against his stomach.

"What the hell were you—" Rayf's eyes snapped up to meet Zev's for a split second and the words died on his lips.

Zev smiled and flexed his hands. "Good to see you, too, Rayf."

"Well, fuck."

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