Christmas with my Off-Limits Alpha (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

1. Ava Mooney

Ava Mooney

Chapter One

T he wind whips through my hair as I guide my motorcycle down the snow-dusted main street of Snowy Pines. The cold bites at my exposed skin, a sharp reminder of the life I left behind. Florida was a lot warmer, even in December.

Strings of twinkling lights crisscross overhead, casting a warm glow on the festive storefronts. Wreaths hang on every lamppost, their pine scent mingling with the crisp wintery air. A memory pops up, me about seven years old, following my brother Joe as he pulled the water wagon, stopping at every lamppost to spritz the fresh pine wreath with life-extending water.

Everyone’s tucked away preparing for the holiday festival, oblivious to the prodigal daughter’s return.

I downshift, the engine’s growl echoing off the silent buildings. It feels out of place, like I’m disturbing the peace. But I know better. The sound of a bike cruising by does not get a second glance in this town. Everybody rides. At least that’s how I remember it. Cars line the curb, blanketed in a dusting of snow. Garages are reserved for the motorcycles.

As I round the corner, my childhood home comes into view. My grip on the handlebars tightens. The two-story colonial looks exactly the same—white paint, green shutters, wraparound porch.

What’s different? Me?

I pull into the driveway beside Dad’s old truck, cutting the bike’s engine. The sudden silence is deafening. A few flakes of snow dust his truck’s windshield, but nowhere else. He’s been out this morning already. Or more likely called out during the night and just back.

It’s like looking at a postcard from my past. The house looms before me, unchanged yet alien. Same worn shingles. Same holiday lights etching an outline of the roof’s peaks that Dad grumbles about hanging every year. A warm glow seeps from the living room window, shadows barely visible shifting inside.

My eyes water as I stare, and more memories flood back.

Mom’s laughter, dancing and singing as we bake Christmas cookies. Dad’s stern face when I come home late. The day she told me about my Kitsuné heritage. The night he told me she was dead.

I shake my head, but it does not dislodge the thoughts. The picture is the same, but wrong. I’m looking at photos of a life that doesn’t belong to me, maybe never did.

I shouldn’t have come back.

Memories continue to sweep in. I can’t stop them. Mom’s laughter echos through these walls. The smell of her amazing poor man’s spice cake. Dad’s rare smile, before grief etched permanent lines around his eyes. Before he looked at me like I was a stranger. A threat.

The cheery decorations mock me. New lights mix with old to frame the porch, blinking merrily. A wreath hangs on the door, a bright red bow at its center. It’s too much. Too normal. Too happy.

Why does he continue to do it? He hates decorating the house.

The anxiety that’s been building since I rolled past the town line settles like a lead weight in my stomach.

This town never accepted me, I think bitterly. Then, a softer voice: Be honest, Ava. You never gave it a chance.

I reach up, twirling a lock of hair around my finger. An old habit. One I haven’t resorted to in many years. Is this what coming home after being banished is like? Feeling all that teen angst again?

My father’s face flashes in my mind—his disappointment, his fear after Mom died. The way he looked at me like I was a stranger. A monster.

My fingers brush against the fox tattoo on my wrist. It tingles, a reminder of the power that flows beneath my skin. The power he never understood. Never accepted.

The last time I stood here, we’d fought. Exchanged harsh words about my Kitsuné abilities, about my future. About how I was throwing away everything he’d worked for. How I was putting the family at risk.

“Do as I say or go.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memories away. But they cling, stubborn as the cold seeping through my leather jacket. I know it’s my power manifesting, but I don’t have control. God, I hope it stops soon.

A dog barks across the street, breaking the thrall. My eyes snap open.

If I leave now... I’ll never forgive myself.

Will he even want me here?

My fingers brush against the fox tattoo on my wrist. It tingles, a reminder of the power that flows beneath my skin. The power he never understood. Never accepted.

He never looked at me the same way after she died.

I swing my leg over the bike, my boots crunching in the frosted grass as I cross the lawn. One. Slow. Step. At. A. Time.

Will I want to stay?

Doubt and determination war within me. I’m not the same young girl who left Snowy Pines. I’m an adult now and I choose to be here. No more exile. I won’t be hidden away like a dirty secret anymore. I’m stronger now. In control—well, kinda sorta.

But as I stare at the home that both sheltered and stifled me, I’m not sure if I’m enough yet.

The front steps loom before me, each one a mountain to climb. My eyes lock onto the door, its familiar green paint chipped at the edges. The ornate antique latch my mother loved polished and gleaming.

My hand rises to knock, then falters. Old habits take over. I reach for the handle. Unlocked. A sliver of warmth escapes as I push it open a crack.

This is it. No more hiding, no more running. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. The cool air bites at the back of my neck, a stark contrast to the warmth embracing my face from the crack in the door.

The Sheriff sits at the kitchen table, his back to me. Dressed in his uniform. Crumpled. His holster, gun firmly latched in place, hangs from the back of the chair; he’s not been here long or it would be in the gun safe. A night call out, then.

Steam rises from the mug clutched in his hands. He hasn’t heard me. Hasn’t sensed me. I have a knack for not being noticed.

For a moment, I consider slipping away, avoiding this confrontation. But I can’t run anymore. I won’t run. I want answers.

I study his profile. Gray peppers his hair now. Has it really been that long? Or has worry aged him prematurely?

Does he think about me? About us?

A lump forms in my throat. What if he doesn’t want to talk? What if there’s nothing left to say?

I need to know... if there’s anything for me here.

“Ava. Is it you?”

Dad’s voice, rough and low, cuts through the silence like a knife. He puts his mug on the table but does not turn.

My heart stops, then lurches into overdrive. I’m caught, exposed, vulnerable. There’s no turning back now.

He knows it’s me.

The weight of his words pulls me back to the present. All the tension, the years of separation, the secrets surge forward, threatening to overwhelm me. This moment could go in any direction, and I’m not ready for the answer.

I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “Hi Daddy. I’m home.”

My voice sounds small, foreign to my own ears. I curl my fingers into fists, nails digging into my palms. The pain keeps me from bolting.

Silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken accusations and apologies. I fidget with the zipper of my jacket, searching for the right words.

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” There’s a hint of something in his tone. Hurt? Relief? I can’t tell.

“I wasn’t sure I would either.”

He takes a long sip of coffee, still not looking at me. “Why now?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with years of distance. I swallow hard, fighting the urge to flee.

Why am I here? To make amends? To prove myself? Or am I just running from something else?

I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. The truth is, I don’t know. I’m not the same girl who left Snowy Pines, but standing here, once more under my daddy’s scrutiny, I feel every bit as lost and confused as I did back then.

“I... I don’t know,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper.

Dad’s shoulders relax, his head drops for a moment, then he sits up straight, his back rigid, hard again.

Is he going to shut me out?

“Well.” His voice is gruff. “You’re here. Might’s well come in out of the cold while you figure it out.”

An invitation? A challenge? I can’t tell. I’m still frozen on the threshold, caught between the past and an uncertain future. The warmth of the house beckons, promising comfort and familiarity. But I know once I step inside, everything will change.

Am I ready?

He stands, turns at last to face me.

I push the door open, step across the threshold, and close the past inside with me as the door latch clicks gently.

Dad’s face is weathered. His eyes, gray and sharp as ever, scan me from head to toe. I fight the urge to squirm under his scrutiny.

“You look... different.” His tone is unreadable.

I force a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “It’s been a while.”

The understatement of the century. Years of unspoken words hang between us, heavy as the snow-laden clouds overhead.

Dad’s gaze lingers on my face, then drops to my hands. I realize I’m unconsciously rubbing my tattoo and quickly stop. His eyes narrow slightly.

“Why are you here, Ava?”

“I... I missed home.” It’s only part of the truth, but it’s all I can manage right now.

Dad’s grip tightens on his mug. “Home missed you too.”

His words punch a hole in my gut. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I won’t cry. Not now.

“Daddy, I…”

He cuts me off with a raised hand. “Not now, Ava. I have to sleep. We’ll talk later.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. As I turn to leave, reaching for the door latch once more, his voice stops me.

“Your room’s still there. Hasn’t changed.”

The lump in my throat grows. Invitation then, not challenge. A weight lifts, but only slightly. This welcome is better than I expected, not as warm and fuzzy as I might like, but the best he can do. And me, too.

“Thank you, Daddy. I’d like to stay awhile and… talk.”

Dad hasn’t moved, his silhouette a familiar shadow against the kitchen light.

We’ve both changed, I hope enough.

Breathing out a sigh, not realizing I’d been holding my breath, I slip off my backpack, dropping it on Mom’s rocker as I head for the kitchen. And a cup of his really excellent coffee.

I hope there’s a way forward for us. I want my family back.