The story the alpha had designed for me and made me repeat ad nauseam was pretty straightforward.
I was a Rogue Wolf who had escaped my little pack five years ago when it was destroyed by the turf wars in Portland Oregon. El Alfa had met me a year ago when I was working as a barista in Los Angeles and we had fallen madly in love, the end.
It was less the romance, a plausible story since those small herds of less than forty Wolves are always being enlarged or destroyed by the guerrillas between herds, always one trying to impose itself on the other and, although I had not met any, I knew very well that Rogue Wolves are quite common, going around until they find a pack. There were even some, although they were the strangest and most unusual who enjoyed their solitude and did not affiliate
