The Wofless
989 Words
They still told stories about Alpha Jairo Alejandro Benitez, the wolf who rewrote tradition like it was a badly written soap opera. Alpha. Legend. And scandal magnet. Most alphas were predictable: take a luna, raise pups, protect the pack, grow gray hairs, and become grumpy. But not Jairo. He'd tossed out an Alpha’s daughter—an Alpha’s daughter—for a regular, no-rank she-wolf.
“Romantic,” some called it.
“Reckless,” said everyone else.
But what truly made Alpha Benitez infamous wasn’t his mate choices—it was Montserrat, his youngest daughter.
She was rumored to be woofless. No wolf. No mate. And that little detail made her wolf-world kryptonite. Every unmated male in a 300-mile radius had tried to see if she was "the one." Spoiler: she wasn’t. Over time, she became a curiosity, like a museum exhibit—"Observe the rare human-born daughter of an Alpha. Warning: do not feed."
Meanwhile, Abel Montenegro, 28 years old and still painfully unmated, was being poked awake by fate—or Cesar, his beta with terrible timing.
A knock. A yawn. A bleary stare.
“Can I help you?” Abel muttered, scratching his head like he was trying to dig out a thought.
“No disrespect, Alpha...” Cesar began.
“That’s how you know disrespect is coming,” Abel grumbled, turning to flop back onto the suspiciously stiff hotel bed.
“We’re expected at Alpha Benitez’s house tonight.”
Cesar walked in like he’d just stepped into a crime scene. The stale cigarette smell made his nose wrinkle so hard he might’ve sneezed his soul out.
Abel cracked one eye open. “Should I shower, or just go as a walking nicotine cloud?”
Cesar shrugged, smirking. “Could be your brand. Brooding Alpha: Eau de Cheap Tobacco.”
Back at Casa Benitez, Claudia, Jairo’s mate (in title only), was halfway to losing her mind and her patience. She’d dressed herself in her sharpest outfit and dragged poor Paloma, her daughter, into matching glory.
Claudia had a plan: make Paloma Luna. Preferably today.
Jairo? Missing.
She stormed into Montserrat’s room like a tropical storm in heels.
“Jairo!” she snapped. “Alpha Montenegro will be here in twenty minutes.”
Jairo blinked up from the floor where he and Montserrat had been laughing. Weird. Endearing. Concerning?
“Oh, is it noon already?” he murmured, rubbing his face. “Time flies when you’re... not emotionally dead inside.”
“Montserrat, change. And maybe shower,” he added with a wink.
“Why?” she deadpanned. “He’s coming for you, not me.”
“It’s customary,” Claudia cut in with a sneer, “for an Alpha’s entire family to greet a visiting Alpha.”
“Monty, please,” Jairo said gently.
Claudia and Jairo left. The door slammed.
“Still hate her,” Montserrat muttered.
“I heard that!” came Claudia’s voice through the wall.
“You were supposed to!” Montserrat yelled back, grinning.
In her bathroom, Montserrat poured eucalyptus crystals into the shower and let the steam wrap her in calm. She emerged fresh, towel-wrapped, and clueless about what to wear.
A knock.
“Who is it?”
“Paloma.”
“Enter if you dare,” Montserrat said dramatically.
Paloma walked in and immediately assessed the situation: chaos.
“Wear this,” she said, handing her a skater skirt and a baby-blue halter. “And for goddess’s sake, sneakers. Not the combat boots.”
Montserrat raised an eyebrow. “Fashion advice and sass? Are you okay?”
Paloma hesitated. Her walls cracked. “My mate doesn’t want me.”
Montserrat’s heart squeezed. “That’s... not true.” But she didn’t sound convinced, and Paloma knew it. They stood in silence, letting the heartbreak breathe between them.
The car pulled up to the Benitez estate. Abel Montenegro stepped out, hazel eyes scanning the perimeter like he expected a bear ambush. Beside him, Cesar nodded politely, already regretting his decision to skip breakfast.
Alpha Jairo welcomed them with the practiced smile of a man who’d rather be somewhere else—like in 2007 before his whole life exploded.
“My mate, Claudia,” he said through gritted teeth, as if the words themselves gave him indigestion.
“Cesar Montalvo, my Beta,” Abel introduced.
Jairo mind-linked his daughter. “The guests are here. Don’t make me send Claudia to fetch you.”
“Come on,” Montserrat whispered to Paloma. “Time to smile like nothing’s wrong.”
Paloma stood tall. Montserrat watched her go, then turned to find her shoes—only to receive her father’s message.
She bolted for the stairs, hair still damp, nearly collided with the railing, and—
Thud.
She slid down five steps with the grace of a sack of potatoes.
Jairo rushed over. “Are you—?”
“I’m good,” she wheezed, laughing through the pain. “My dignity, however, has perished.”
And then it happened.
A scent.
Blackburn and lavender.
Her head snapped up.
And there he was.
6’2. Hazel eyes. Brown hair. Trouble.
Her wolf stirred. Mate, Flower whispered, her voice awestruck.
Jairo helped her up just in time for the introductions.
“Alpha Montenegro,” he said, “my youngest daughter, Montserrat.”
Abel extended a hand.
Montserrat bowed. “Pleasure,” she said coolly.
Abel blinked. She didn’t touch him. Not even a sniff.
“Awkward,” she muttered to no one in particular, shooting her father a grin.
Jairo internally screamed.
Laura poked her head in. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Claudia clapped her hands. “Dining room, everyone!”
Laura rolled her eyes. “Yes, my queen. Lead the way.”
And with that, the room buzzed with tension, awkwardness, and something new—something dangerous.
Something very much like a mate bond waiting to explode.
- Writer
