The Feral Alpha King's Unwanted Guide

Harper Three meals a day. Patrol routes mapped in muscle memory. Lights out at ten. That was my life at Quarantine Camp 07, and honestly? I was thriving. People always looked at me funny when I said that. Like, sorry I wasn't out here chasing glory or trying to climb the ranks. I was E-class—bottom of the barrel, lowest clearance, basic rations, sharing a room with three girls competing for snoring world records. But my paycheck hit my sister's account every two weeks like clockwork, and nobody had tried to kill me yet. In this world, that counted as winning. Ever since the Red Howl broke out, "normal" became a luxury most people couldn't afford. The virus didn't touch us humans. Not directly. But the werewolves? It cranked their senses up to eleven, then ripped the dial clean off. Sight, smell, hearing—all magnified until their own heartbeat sounded like a war drum. Their rationality just... dissolved. One day they're talking to you, the next they're tearing through steel doors bare-handed, eyes blazing crimson, howling until their vocal cords shredded. The only fix anyone had found was the Survival Bond. One werewolf Sentinel, one human Guide. You touch the Mark on their collar, your energy syncs up, and boom—you're pair-mates. Their mind stabilizes, your brain gets a permanent migraine. Fair trade, apparently. Not every match worked, though. Compatibility was a thing. Most humans who volunteered were A or B-class, meaning they had strong abilities, good bloodlines, and the whole package. They got nice quarters, fresh food, and respect. And E-class? We got a mop and a patrol route. ________ Tuesday's shift was med-supply inventory. My least hated task—no walking in the rain, no scrubbing biohazard stains off concrete, just me and Priya counting boxes in a closet that smelled like rubbing alcohol. "Thirty-six… thirty-seven…" I marked the clipboard and shoved another crate of antiseptic onto the shelf. A bottle rolled off the edge. I caught it one-handed without looking up—my single skill after six months of this gig. "Did you hear?" Priya said from behind a tower of gauze packs. "Room 001 got a new resident." "Mm-hm." Thirty-eight. "Harper, I'm serious. They're saying he's different. Like, Alpha-bloodline different." I clicked my pen. "Alpha bloodline gets Alpha-class Guides. We get supply closets. Circle of life." I flipped the clipboard toward her. "Sign off on the count?" Priya scribbled her name, still buzzing. I didn't blame her. Gossip was the only entertainment in this place that didn't require clearance. But I'd learned early on that the less attention you attracted in Camp 07, the longer you lasted. Keep your head down, do your hours, eat your sad rations, call your sister. Rinse and repeat. We locked up and headed back toward the residential wing. Rounding the corner near B-block, we passed a cluster of upper-class Guides outside the lounge. One of them, tall and trust-fund pretty, flipped her hair like she was on camera. "If I matched with him, I'd jump straight to upper-class overnight," she said, barely concealing the tremble in her voice. "But I heard he's... intense." "Intense?" Her friend snorted. "Four Guides already tried today. Two are in medical. One quit on the spot." Hair-Flip Girl faltered for half a second before smoothing her expression. "Well. They obviously weren't strong enough." Priya tugged my sleeve, eyes wide. I tugged her forward. Alpha bloodline. Room 001. Whatever drama was unfolding up there, it had nothing to do with us. Then I took the shortcut through the east corridor. The metallic stench hit me before I saw anything. Blood, fresh and sharp, slicing through the sterile recycled air like a blade. My feet stopped before my brain caught up. Two medics rushed past, pushing a stretcher at a near-run. The woman on it wore a silver wristband. A-class. Her face was white as paper, uniform soaked through with red. She was conscious, barely, lips moving around words that wouldn't come. I pressed flat against the wall to let them pass, and my eyes drifted to the door they'd come from. 001. The reinforced steel was dented from the inside. Dented. This door was designed to hold a shifted werewolf in full frenzy, and something in there had buckled it like tin foil. Then—a sound. Low, bleeding through the metal. Not quite a growl. Not quite a voice. Something in between, raw and guttural, vibrating at a frequency that made my teeth ache and my vision blur at the edges. My body moved before I could think. I grabbed Priya's wrist and walked. We didn't stop until the sound faded behind two more sets of security doors. Priya didn't say a word the whole way back. Neither did I. That night, I lay in my bunk staring at the rabbit-shaped stain on the ceiling, replaying the sound in my head even though I didn't want to. The clock ticked past midnight before my eyes finally stayed shut. Stop thinking about it. Tomorrow's just another day, I told myself. ________ I almost believed it. Until 6:00 the next morning, when every alarm in the camp screamed to life at once. Fluorescents blazed to full brightness. Priya shot up, cracking her elbow on the bunk. My other roommates scrambled out like their sheets were on fire, and I nearly rolled off the edge. "ATTENTION. ALL PERSONNEL REPORT TO CENTRAL HALL IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. REPEAT: ALL PERSONNEL." The broadcast blared on loop, rattling the thin walls until I felt it in my molars. I groaned, pulling on my jacket. "Relax. Another safety drill. Some officer will yell at us, and we'll be back by breakfast." "It said all personnel." Priya stared at me, face pale, elbow forgotten. "Harper, they never call E-class to Central Hall." She was right. In the six months I'd been here, Central Hall summons were strictly for B-class and above. E-class got our orders through corridor bulletins and break-room printouts. We were background noise. Furniture. We didn't get summoned. I swallowed hard and opened the door. The corridors were already flooding with bodies. Guides of every rank poured toward the central building in a single, anxious current. I tried to slip toward the back of the crowd. Two armed guards stepped into my path, rifles held across their chests. "Central Hall. Everyone." "I'm E-class," I said, as if that were a shield. The guard didn't blink. "Everyone means everyone." My heart sank to somewhere around my knees. I let the tide carry me forward, through the reinforced double doors and into Central Hall, a vast, cold chamber I'd never once set foot in. Hundreds of Guides stood in ordered rows, shoulder to shoulder, the tension so thick you could chew on it. No one spoke. No one joked. Even the A-class Guides who usually carried themselves like they owned the place stood rigid, hands clenched at their sides. On the elevated platform at the far end, three officers stood behind a long metal table. Between them, projected on a holo-screen the size of a wall, glowed two words: MATCHING PROTOCOL — 001 My blood went cold. The dented door. The sound that made my teeth ache. The A-class woman on a stretcher, soaked in her own blood. I stood in the back row, small and invisible and absolutely terrified, whispering the only prayer I had left: Please. Not me.