Chosen by the Ruthless Alpha

One

I hear a lot of myths from the human versions of werewolf stories.

They like to believe there is some pale, all-knowing Moon Goddess hanging over us. That she watches us from the sky with her silver hands folded neatly in her lap as she pairs every wolf with the other half of their soul. They say we spend our lives searching for this one perfect mate, this destined creature made of starlight and fate and whatever other nonsense humans use to make violence sound romantic.

That is not true For the most part.

There is no Moon Goddess we worship. There is no altar beneath the full moon where we kneel and beg for blessings. Most of us believe in whatever God is patient enough, or deranged enough, to listen to a bunch of giant, temperamental, shape-shifting wolves as they tear each other apart over borders, bloodlines, and rank.

True soulmates do exist, but they are so rare, they are nearly myth themselves. The last true pair had been over a century ago, and even then, half the packs still argued whether they were blessed or cursed because love that powerful tended to leave destruction in its wake.

Werewolves choose their mates the same way humans choose who they love, though our version comes with sharper teeth and more permanent consequences. A wolf chooses. A bond forms. A mark is given. Life continues, for better or worse.

The problem is that if an Alpha chooses you, choice becomes a courtesy no one bothers to offer.

And if an Alpha chooses a Charge, it causes the kind of problems packs bury beneath ceremony and law.

A Charge is not a mate, not a child, and not a soldier, though sometimes they feel like all three tangled together in one reckless, stubborn body. A Charge is a young wolf who has shown enough potential in physical strength, instinct, discipline, and strategy to be shaped into something valuable.

Every current and future Alpha, Luna, Beta, and Third in Command is assigned one, and the Charge becomes both a responsibility and a test. Protect them, train them, sharpen them into a weapon worthy of the pack. Prove you are capable of guarding one life before you are trusted with hundreds.

Fail, and everything you have trained for dies with them.

There are rules written into the bones of our kind. If a Charge is killed, their Protector is stripped of rank, stripped of title, stripped of pack. Exile follows before grief has even finished tearing through the body. There are no appeals, no second chances, no soft exceptions for wolves who tried their best.

A dead Charge means a failed Protector, and a failed Protector becomes a rogue.

Very few rogues survive long. Even fewer survive sane. That was why the White Wolf Pack took the system seriously. We had not lost many wolves to exile, which meant the pack had faith in its leaders, current and future alike.

Alpha Jon liked to say our structure was the reason we remained strong while other packs clawed themselves apart from the inside. The Elders repeated it at every council gathering. The warriors believed it because warriors liked rules that ended in blood. The civilians believed it because believing made them feel safe.

Some of them, however, were less confident in me. Not because I was weak or because I was untrained or because I had failed. It was because of my attitude.

Too cold-hearted, they said. Too detached. Too sharp around the edges to help lead an entire pack of werewolves who needed more than discipline from their Beta. They whispered that I had been born with a blade where my heart should have been, that I did not soften enough, smile enough, comfort enough. They said emotion mattered in leadership.

That was where they were wrong.

Emotions got in the way of a clear mind. They made wolves hesitate when hesitation meant death. They made people careless. They opened doors enemies were more than happy to walk through. Love, guilt, fear, grief. Each one could be used against you if someone knew where to press. And I had no intention of giving anyone that kind of power over me.

“Raven Steely!”

The shout cut through the damp morning air, bouncing between the trees lining the narrow road. I turned my head, lifting my sunglasses just enough to see into the shade beneath the thick canopy of oak and pine. A strand of black hair slipped loose from my ponytail and fell across my face, and I pushed it away with two fingers as Will Martin came stumbling out of the tree line like the woods themselves had decided to spit him back out.

Mud streaked one side of his jaw. Leaves clung to his blond hair. His shirt was damp with sweat from his morning run, and from the smug lift of his mouth, he knew exactly how ridiculous he looked and had chosen to be proud of it anyway.

“You know, Raven,” he said, dragging out my name like he had been inconvenienced by my existence, “sometimes I think you’re hard of hearing. I was calling you for a couple minutes. Are you sure you’re a werewolf?”

I lowered my sunglasses the rest of the way and slid off the hood of my black BMW, boots hitting the gravel with a soft crunch. “Yes, Will. I’m pretty sure.”

He stopped a few feet from the car, bending over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard in a way he would deny if anyone pointed it out. Sixteen years old, newly shifted, chosen by the Elders as a future high-ranking warrior, and still dramatic enough to act like a five-mile run was a punishment crafted specifically by demons.

“Get your sassy hide in the car,” I said, pulling open the driver’s side door, “or you’ll be late for school.”

Will’s expression collapsed instantly. He looked toward the road as though the high school waited at the end of it with fangs bared. “When you were assigned as my Protector, I was hoping you’d be cool.”

“I am cool.”

“You were cool.” He kicked at the front tire, then winced when his sneaker bounced uselessly off the rubber. “So far, you’ve lived up to expectations. Tackling me in front of warriors? Cool. Teaching me how to dislocate someone’s shoulder if they grab me wrong? Very cool. Threatening to throw Kyle into the creek because he called me pup in front of Jade? Legendary.” He paused beside the passenger door and crossed his arms, his face twisting into an imitation of deep disappointment. “But wanting me to get to school on time? I don’t know, Rave. I might have to ask Alpha Jon for a new Protector.”

A low growl slipped through my chest before I could stop it, and Will’s eyes brightened. He knew better. He also knew I would react anyway.

I moved before his grin had fully formed, planting one hand on the roof of the BMW and vaulting over it in a clean leap. His eyes widened just enough to make the whole thing worth it before I hit him square in the chest and drove him backward into the ditch beside the road. Mud and rainwater splashed up around us, cold droplets speckling my arms as we landed hard enough to knock the breath from him.

He wheezed beneath me, still laughing, because apparently the boy had no survival instincts whatsoever.

“Take that back,” I murmured, pinning him with one knee across his ribs.

He squirmed, trying to twist out from under me, but he was still too slow in human form. Strong for sixteen, yes. Promising, absolutely. But strength without control was just wasted energy, and Will had a habit of throwing his entire body into a fight like enthusiasm could replace technique.

“Take it back, pup,” I said, wrapping my hand loosely around his throat. Not tight enough to hurt him. Just enough to remind him who, exactly, had been assigned to keep him alive. “You are incredibly lucky you have me to drive your sixteen-year-old hide around because you still can’t pass your driver’s test. So if I am going to suffer through human traffic, human teenagers, and the entire suffocating nightmare that is high school all over again, you are going to get there on time. Got it?”

He blinked up at me, mud smeared across one cheek. “I feel like this is an abuse of power.”

I tightened my hand by the smallest degree and pressed more weight into his chest.

“Yes, ma’am,” he rushed out.

“Good.” I climbed to my feet, grabbed his hand, and hauled him up with enough force that he nearly stumbled into me. “You need to finish high school before you can finish advanced warrior training. Education is important.”

We stared at each other. His face went blank and mine did too.

For three whole seconds, the forest held its breath. Then Will burst out laughing so hard he had to brace himself on his knees again, and despite every disciplined bone in my body, a grin broke across my face before I could stop it.

It was probably one of the funniest lies I had told in months. Werewolves cared about human school only because blending in required it, and because Alpha Jon believed all future leaders needed to understand the world beyond our borders. I had graduated six years ago and still considered it one of the greatest battles of my life, mostly because I had not been allowed to threaten teachers when they annoyed me.