Alphas christmas heir, p.1
Alpha's Christmas Heir, page 1
Alpha’s Christmas Heir
He broke his omega’s heart once—he won’t lose his family again.
By Zack Sando
Contents
Chapter 1. Back to Hollyridge
Chapter 2. Sheriff in the Snow
Chapter 3. Unwanted Attention
Chapter 4. Protective Instincts
Chapter 5. Heat Memories, New Desire
Chapter 6. Facing the Ex
Chapter 7. Choosing His Pack
Chapter 8. Christmas Eve Birth
Chapter 9. The Name on the Certificate
Chapter 10. Heir & Home
Epilogue – Twelfth-Night Blessing
Copyright © 2025 Zack Sando
All Rights Reserved.
Chapter 1. Back to Hollyridge
Liam
The lines on the highway keep disappearing under the snow.
They were clean white stripes when I left the city. Now they’re just ghosts I’m chasing, fading in and out as the wind throws sheets of powder across the asphalt. My wipers squeal on the glass like they’re protesting too, fighting to keep up.
“Almost there,” I murmur, because talking to myself feels less pathetic if I pretend I’m talking to the pup. “Just a little farther, okay?”
My fingers are numb where they clamp around the steering wheel. I flex them one at a time, trying to get some feeling back, but they just ache. The knit of my oatmeal sweater pulls under my knuckles, stretched tight. I’ve had this sweater since my first year in the city; the elbows are thinning, and one cuff is unraveling, but it’s big and soft and it hides things.
Like the small, stubborn curve of my belly.
I shift in the seat to ease the pressure of the belt where it cuts across my bump. The metal clicks as I tug it a little higher. The sweater pulls tight for a second, and there it is—rounder than it was a few weeks ago, defiant under the wool, pressing up like a reminder.
Not that I need one. My back aches, my bladder is a disaster, and my entire life is now timed in weeks and what-ifs.
“Just until we’re safe,” I whisper, breath fogging up the inside of the car for a second. “That’s the deal, okay? We get through winter. We get you here safely. Then... then we figure everything else out.”
The radio hums low, some static-filled holiday song that sounds wrong in the car’s cold interior. Outside, the world is just black and white: dark trees, white snow, and the hazy glow of my headlights picking out the shoulder. Every so often, a reflective post flashes past, making me flinch like it’s a person standing too close.
I blink hard. My eyes burn, but I can’t tell if it’s from the wind-dried air or the way my brain keeps flashing back to the last party before I left.
Bright, polished floors. Glass walls reflecting the city lights. Omegas in sleek clothes with carefully calculated “softness,” laughing too loudly at things that weren’t funny. Betas flitting around with tablets and earpieces.
His scent everywhere.
Cold anise and metallic clove, sharp and clean like the air in a freezer. You didn’t notice it at first, because it was subtle, expensive, refined. But once you did, you couldn’t smell anything else.
“Liam.” His hand closing over my wrist too tight, fingers digging in just enough that I’d find faint marks the next day. His smile never slipped. Not once. “We agreed you wouldn’t drink while you’re carrying.”
I’d been holding a glass of sparkling water.
I swallow, throat tight, and the memory shatters. The snow pulls me back. The hum of my tires over the half-cleared road. The faint rattle from somewhere in the dash that the mechanic swore was “nothing urgent.”
I press my free hand over my belly, fingers spread. “He isn’t here,” I tell the pup. “He doesn’t get to be here. It’s just you and me. And... and the crazy idea of going back.”
Hollyridge.
The word has been a stone sitting in my chest from the moment it floated into my head like a desperate, ridiculous solution. The only place far enough, hidden enough, familiar enough to feel like more than a different cage.
Home.
Or what used to be home, before I ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction and swore I’d never look back.
The snow deepens. My old car groans as I coax it up the incline. The sign appears at the side of the road, half-buried in a drift:
WELCOME TO HOLLYRIDGE
Population 5,200
Please drive carefully—We like you alive.
There’s a tiny painted pine tree under the words, the green chipped but still bright. I huff out a laugh that isn’t really a laugh at all.
“You and me both,” I say, and drive past the sign.
* * *
By the time I turn onto my mother’s street, my shoulders feel like they’re made of stone. The houses look the same and different all at once. More paint, new roofs here and there, an extra wreath or two, but the bones are the same. Familiar porch steps. The weird tree that always looks dead until spring.
Our house—my house now, I guess—sits halfway down the block, a slightly sagging craftsman with a crooked front step and a porch that always seemed to creak at the exact wrong moment when I used to sneak out.
The front windows are dark. The snow has piled up against the porch railings. No wreath on the door this year. That hurts more than I expect.
I pull into the driveway and let the engine idle for a moment, my hands still locked around the wheel.
“Okay,” I whisper. “We made it. That’s something.”
The pup shifts under my palm when I rest it against my belly. I pretend it’s agreement and not just random movement.
The cold slams into me when I open the door. The air here smells different than the city. Sharper, cleaner. Pine and woodsmoke and something faintly sweet from the neighbor’s kitchen. I pull my scarf higher over my mouth and crunch through the snow to the front door.
The key sticks in the lock, like even the house is hesitating. Then it turns, and the door swings inward with a reluctant creak.
“Hi, Mom,” I say automatically, stepping into the darkness. My voice echoes back at me from the empty hall.
It smells like dust and cold air and a ghost of something softer. Lavender. Old books. Coffee.
Her.
It makes my chest ache, that thin thread of scent that somehow survived estate sales and real estate agents and months of no one opening this door.
I stand there too long, just breathing, as if I can pull all the pieces of her back out of the air and hold them against me like a shield.
Then a draft snakes under my sweater, and the pup kicks like they’re objecting. Right. Practical first. Grief later.
I fumble for the light switch. The hallway lamp flickers on with a tired, yellow glow, throwing long shadows over the covered furniture. The sheet over the coat rack looks like a ghost.
“Cozy,” I mutter, even though it isn’t. Not yet.
My boots squeak on the wood floor as I make my way down the hall to the bedroom that used to be hers. Or mine, when I was little. Or both, depending on which year we’re talking about. The memories layer over each other as I push the door open.
Inside, the bed frame is bare, mattress stripped. The dresser stands under a dust-covered mirror, the edges of the glass blurred with time. The window looks out over the side yard, where the birch tree lays thin shadows across the snow.
And at the foot of the bed, exactly where I remember it, sits the old quilt trunk.
It’s bigger than I remember. Or maybe I’m just taller. The wood is scratched and nicked, the brass latch dull, but the hand-painted pattern on the lid—little winter flowers and leaves—still shows, faded but determined.
I sink down on the edge of the bare mattress, feeling the springs complain, and reach for the latch. It sticks for a second, then jumps free with a click.
When I lift the lid, the smell of fabric and time washes over me. Under it, I catch the faintest trace of my mother’s scent, like she folded a piece of herself into every layer.
The quilts are stacked neatly, despite the years. Patchwork in winter colors: deep blues, soft greys, a few squares of red like berries in snow. My fingers sink into the top one; the fabric is smooth and worn, edges a little frayed.
Beside the stack sits a dented tin. I frown and pick it up—light, but not empty. The lid comes off with a pop.
Inside, index cards. Neatly labeled recipes in her looping handwriting. Soups, stews, cocoa mixes. And on top, tied together with a faded blue ribbon: a smaller stack with “For winter babies” scrawled across the first card, a little snowflake doodled in the corner.
My throat closes.
“Guess we’re on theme,” I croak, looking down at my belly.
The pup kicks right on cue.
I laugh once, a short, breathless thing that feels like it might turn into a sob if I let it. I blink hard and set the tin aside.
My fingers find the edge of the top quilt again. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But the bed looks so harsh and empty—just bare springs and a stained mattress. And my back aches, and my feet hurt, and I’ve been pretending I don’t want a nest, that I don’t need one, for months.
“Temporary,” I tell myself as I pull the quilt out and shake it gently open. The fabric billows, catching the light. Little squares of navy and cream and dark green.
I spread it over the mattress, smoothing it down with both hands. The room looks instantly less
It feels like the start of something. Which is exactly why my chest squeezes in panic.
“Temporary,” I say again, louder this time, yanking my hands back. “Just... just until the storm passes. Until you’re born. Then we’ll reassess.”
Like it’s a work contract. Like I can plan and renegotiate feelings on a schedule.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the quilt cool and soft under my palms, and let myself fold forward, elbows on my knees, hands cradling my face for a moment.
The house creaks in the silence. The heater kicks on with a reluctant whine. Somewhere in the pipes, something clanks.
I drag in a breath and let my hands fall.
“Okay,” I tell the pup. “Quilt now. Emotional breakdown later. We have things to do.”
* * *
Practicalities are ugly in the yellow light.
The kitchen looks smaller than I remember. Or maybe I’m just seeing it differently now, scanning it like a battlefield.
One cabinet door hangs a little off-kilter. When I open it, the hinge groans. Inside, there’s a half-empty box of tea gone stale, a jar of something unidentifiable, and a single chipped mug with faded blue flowers.
The pantry is worse. The realtor cleared out anything perishable; what’s left is one lonely can of tomatoes and a box of salt.
“Nope,” I say. “That’s not going to work.”
I scribble on the back of one of the realtor’s glossy flyers: groceries, cleaning supplies, more mugs, maybe. Nesting staples. If I start thinking of them as that, I’m going to freak myself out, so I label the list “Essentials” instead.
I find my prenatal vitamins buried in my duffel, the plastic bottle almost empty. I shake out one and swallow it with tap water that tastes faintly metallic but acceptable. Then I count how many are left. Not enough. Add that to the list too.
The more I write, the more the numbers start to hum in the back of my skull.
How much money I have left after first, last, and the deposit I walked away from in the city. How much winter costs. How much babies cost. How much it costs if the ex decides to drag me through court just to prove he can.
“You really came back with nothing but a pup and a box of regrets,” I mutter.
It’s meant to be a joke. It doesn’t land.
The shame hits in a wave, hot under my skin. I press my palm to the countertop, steadying myself, but my fingers tremble anyway. I fought so hard to make leaving look like a choice, not an escape. To walk out with my head high and my boxes neatly labeled, not stuffed in the back of a car under cover of night.
And here I am. Back where I started. Except this time, there’s a whole other person depending on me to get it right.
My other hand creeps to my belly, fingers flattening over the small mound. “I’m sorry,” I say, barely more than a breath. “I’m trying. I promise, I’m trying.”
There’s a flutter under my palm. A little roll, like someone turning over in their sleep. It’s still a new sensation, strange and alien and miraculous all at once. It catches me off guard every time.
I exhale shakily. The shame loosens its grip just a fraction.
“Okay,” I say again. “Point taken.”
I move through the rest of the house with the list in my hand. Broken cabinet, drafty window near the stairs, loose floorboard in the hallway that tries to trip me. I note them all, not because I can fix them today, but because writing them down feels like control.
The radio on the counter—old, plastic, probably older than I am—wheezes to life when I twist the knob. Static first, then a local announcer’s cheerful voice breaks through.
“...and for those just tuning in, the Hollyridge area is under a winter storm watch. Forecasters are predicting significant snowfall over the next forty-eight hours, with heavier bands arriving late tomorrow night into the following day...”
“Of course,” I mutter.
“Residents are advised to stock up on essentials and avoid unnecessary travel during the worst of the storm. In other news—”
I twist the knob down until the voice fades. The wind outside rattles the windowpane, like it’s trying to underline the forecast.
Forty-eight hours. That’s... not a lot of time.
I pick up my keys from the counter.
“Hardware store first,” I tell the pup, because talking makes it less overwhelming. “Space heater, weather stripping, maybe something for that window. Then groceries.”
And, because my brain is apparently a masochist, it quietly adds: And walking right into the heart of the town you abandoned and the people you left behind.
I ignore that part.
* * *
Hollyridge Main Street looks like someone bottled a snow globe and then smashed it open over real life.
Twinkle lights crisscross above the road, casting soft halos on the falling snow. Shop windows glow with warm light—bakeries, gift shops, the small bookstore that once hired me for a summer when I was sixteen. Wreaths hang on doors. A couple of kids in puffy coats race past, dragging a sled.
The Hearthlight Diner sits where it always has, all steamed-up windows and neon sign buzzing faintly. Even from across the street, I can make out the silhouettes of people in the booths, hunched over plates and mugs. The smell of bacon and coffee sneaks across the road and hooks into my chest.
I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that moment. My stomach twists, reminding me I never actually ate lunch. Or breakfast, really. I had caffeine-free tea and panic. Not exactly nutritious.
“We’ll come back,” I tell the pup, eyeing the diner wistfully. “Once we don’t look like we got dragged through a snowbank backward.”
Which, to be fair, I probably do. My hair always goes wavy when it’s damp; right now, it’s sticking out from under my beanie in curls that the city stylists would have smoothed and tamed. My cheeks are windburned. My scarf has a coffee stain on it from two days ago that I never got around to washing out.
I keep my head down as I cross toward the small hardware store, the bell over its door ringing when I push inside. The blast of heated air fogs my glasses instantly. I swipe them off, blinking.
“Help you find something?” a voice asks.
The man behind the counter is older, unfamiliar, with a friendly face and a flannel shirt I’m pretty sure my mother would’ve approved of. His gaze dips briefly to my belly—not lingering, just noting—and his expression turns quietly practical.
“Space heater,” I say. “And, um, I heard about the storm...”
He nods, already moving out from behind the counter. “You and the rest of town. We’ve got a decent selection left. You local?”
The question makes something in my chest stutter. I manage a crooked smile.
“Used to be,” I say. “I grew up here. Liam Vale.”
His eyebrows climb a little. “Vale as in Maggie Vale?”
“Yeah.” The word always feels smaller when I say it without her here to fill it out. “She was my mom.”
“Was,” he repeats, voice softening. “Sorry, kid. She made a mean apple pie.”
There’s a rush of warmth in my chest at that. I hadn’t realized anyone outside the house remembered.
“Thanks,” I say, rougher than I mean to.
He doesn’t push. Just points me toward the aisle with heaters, explains the differences between models in simple, straightforward terms, and helps me load a mid-range one onto a cart. We add weather stripping, a draft stopper for the bedroom door, and a basic tool kit because I left most of mine behind in the rush.
By the time I pay and wrestle everything back into the car, the light has shifted into that weird, early-winter twilight where it’s not quite day but not fully night. Streetlights flicker on, halos of orange in the blue-grey air.
My stomach growls as I slide behind the wheel. The diner’s sign glows across the street, the word HEARTHLIGHT flickering once, then steadying.
I stare through the windshield at it for a long beat.
“It’s just dinner,” I tell myself—and the pup. “People eat. You can’t live on prenatal vitamins and anxiety.”
I pull out of the hardware store lot, turn toward the small grocery store instead.
The warm glow of the diner follows me in the rearview mirror like an accusation.
