*WINNER of Best Cliche Breaker for Undiscovered Werewolves*
"Underneath her skin was a wolf; all bite and snarl and nothing else."
The day Saoirse de Rais made her Alpha submit is the day she decided to run.
Traveling from city to city--state to sta...
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Bo Church was an Alpha; he wasn't born. Those didn't exist. But he trained to be what he is. He trained to be stern, demanding-but he knew when to be gentle with his kin, with his pack. He had to be the protector, the warrior. Bo Church was an Alpha. Was an Alpha. All of that was taken from him when Saoirse tackled him down to the ground and tore into his throat with her too human teeth. When he woke up that morning, the memory of their late night encounter stuck in his head, he felt the scar tingle, and as he ran his hand over the puckered scar he groaned, reminded that he didn't wake up an Alpha. He was a Luna.
Is a Luna, he groaned inwardly, shoving on a pair of loose sweats.
The Luna didn't exactly have a purpose. They existed for a reason, to guide the Alpha, as some sort of mentor. At one point in their great history they did. They had a great purpose-they were connected to the Alpha. They were the other half. Now they just acted like some Jiminy Cricket, offering sound advice and acting as a conscience. So, in a sense, nothing had changed. He'd still be in charge, he'd just be on the sidelines barking orders, and pretending that they were just suggestions.
He let out a low growl, running his hand over the five o'clock shadow that dusted over his jaw. Normally he shaved, but at the moment he wasn't in the mood to do much of anything except eat and grunt and impatiently wait for the two days to be over so he can be the Alpha again.
Bo moved his way through the trailer and toward the open bathroom door. Upon doing so, he watched her sleeping form-he watched the way she tossed and turned, unable to find a comfortable place in his bed (which is bullshit, considering how wonderfully he normally slept). This morning, there was a crick in his neck, and he had no clue had to handle it. Sure, he slept like a rock-but right now he felt like one. He made no effort with being quite. As far as he was concerned, as the current Alpha, the wilding ought to be up by now.
He brushed his teeth, ran a hand through his short to the scalp hair, and gave a smile that made mother's want to squish his cheeks.
He wasn't young; he wasn't old either. He was in between, and he'd call himself rugged when no one was looking. When people were looking-well, he'd still call himself rugged, but he would just be humble about it. He poked and prodded at his chest, grunting with each scar he found on his marred chest. The path to be the perfect Alpha wasn't an easy one. He'd gotten into so many fights with prospective Omegas, and he'd managed to beat every single one.
But the one scar that mattered the most was proof that he didn't beat all of them.
But, in his defense (as well as De Rais'), she didn't want to be an Alpha in the first place. She just didn't want to submit to him, despite the fact that he wasn't trying to hurt her, or humiliate her. All he wanted to do then, and still do now, was help her. There was no cure for being a wildling, but he hoped that making her accept him as her Alpha would help. But look what it did.
