BOUGHT BY THE WRONG ALPHA

Zero one two. I don’t flinch. Flinching is the one thing I’ve learned to control over the last six months. The rest are still a work in progress. Two wolves make their way towards the line. Dressed in dark suits. I hold my breath. I wasn’t supposed to be here. But I’m here anyway. I volunteered for this. The first man stops in front of me while the second one is at my side. I hold still. The one in front of me takes a deep inhale of my scent. Raises his eyebrows a bit. Exhales. Steps back. They move away unconvincingly. I try to keep my head straight. My suppressants probably threw them off. The girl in front of me is constantly digging at her hem every thirty seconds. She doesn’t know she’s doing it. Her legs are shaking. And I cannot tell her. We’re not supposed to talk despite being twenty-three of us standing in this line. Even if I was to talk, what would I say? “Excuse me, you’re shaking?” The main lights roll towards the center stage now. The wolves have retreated to their seats. Everybody is looking at the auctioneer in her dark heels and red dress. “388, please step forward.” She reads. The young woman in front of me moves forward. She’s still shaking but not so visibly. The room does something the moment she moves. Like a forward pull. Interest accumulating. The auctioneer looks at her paper, then at her. Then to the wolves. “Jayna, 22, fertility score 80.” The bids start flying in faster than I can keep track of. “50.” “55,” “65,” “65 and 3 cents,” Then one final one, “75.” No one seems to counter for a moment. The woman raises her gavel and hits on the wooden podium. “Sold!” Two men appear by the side of the young woman, escort her to her buyer. I am next. “389, please step forward.” I breathe in. And out. Begin to move. The hall is not looking pulled forward this time. “Kyra Whitlord, 23, fertility score…” She looks at me, then closely at her paper. “Zero.” The whole hall throws a loud gasp. So heavy I could almost feel the weight pressing down. Zero means infertile. Zero means I cannot be bought. The whole mission hinges on being bought. Fifteen years ago, there was a plague that hit one of the most powerful packs in our region. It wiped out most of the female werewolves in the land. The elders had to take steps to end the reproduction pandemic. They came up with an agreement(The Accords) with neighbouring communities: Give us your women and we’ll protect them and in exchange, they reproduce for us. The women were called Doves. Then one day, the wolves stopped honouring it. They came into our lands, took our women forcefully, killed our livestock, encroached on our lands and claimed them as territory. It was total c*****e. Lives were lost. Loved ones were gone. My mother bled to death right in front of me. And the only name I heard that day was “Lucien.” I took a vow. Infiltrate IronClaw pack by any means possible, get as close as I can to Lucien, kill him. My real name is Harper Stone. The Accords just restarted. This is their first auction. But if I cannot be bought, then I cannot enter. “Send her to labour camp” “Of what use is this one?” The murmurs start coming in. And fast. Labor camp is the place they keep Doves to do the most menial and dirty works. I had thought everything through. My mom had gave me suppressants since I was seven. I never knew why, but I kept taking them. She said it’d help mask my scents from wolves. It worked, except now it has flattened my score to zero. “Anyone?” The woman’s voice brings me back to consciousness. I begin to count the exits. There’s two of them. One opposite me and the other adjacent to me. I try to move but my legs feel so feeble right now. I’m just realizing I’ve been shaking since. More and more murmurs begin to flood the hall. The woman lifts her gavel. Just as she’s about to connect its head to the wooden podium - “Two fifty.” A voice. Deep and masculine. Growling from the back. Everyone turns to see who said that. “Sold!” The woman says hurriedly, slamming her gavel immediately on the podium. Within a few seconds, some men appear beside me. The man signals for me to be brought outside. I follow the men. Outside, the cold is much worse. It’s biting into my skin through the Dove fabric. We walk until we stand beside the man outside. In the light I can see him much clearer. Dark curly hair, broad chest. He doesn’t know. But I know. “Sorry, please can I use the bathroom quickly?” I ask, fingers mixed between each other. Head down slightly. The man turns to me. Shocked as to what kind of request that was. Especially coming from a Dove. “Okay. But be fast, the storm is brewing ahead.” I nod once. The men escort me to the bathroom. They stand outside when we reach. I close the door. Turn on the tap. Look for my dagger. It’s exactly where I kept it. Being a hunter for many years teaches you to always have a sharp blade around incase things go south. I take it out slowly. Place it in the sheath around my inner thigh. Adjust my dress and turn off the tap. When we walk back outside, the man is talking to another man. They’re both wearing same jackets. The other man hands him a key. It’s a key to a bike. The man that bought me rolls one in front of me. Puts on his helmet and hands me one. “Here, take this.” He says as he stretches his hand toward me. “I am Lucien Veyr.”