Breed Me, Alpha King

The long wooden table practically groaned under the weight of the feast the pack had prepared for their Alpha's breakfast. Golden brown waffles stacked a foot high, glistening with maple syrup. Plump strawberries nestled in clouds of whipped cream. Crispy bacon strips crisscrossed like an edible lattice atop fluffy scrambled eggs. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee perfumed the air, though honestly? It smelled a bit burnt.

Yet despite this feast, Alpha Magnus sat alone at the head of the table, His blonde head bent over his phone. He was too busy crushing candies on his phone, his long fingers deftly maneuvering level 352. At 110 years old (though he looked a crisp 27), Magnus had seen it all: wars, betrayals, and enough breakfast platters to feed a small nation. None of it interested him anymore. Well, Maybe the bacon still did, a little. His tattoo, hidden beneath the high neckline of his shirt, stirred faintly, as if even it were bored.

Magnus' tattoo wasn't the only thing that kept others at bay. Like all Alphas, he emitted pheromones that made even the boldest werewolves uneasy. People either respected him or ran from him. There was no in between. Though sometimes he wondered if they ran because they were scared, or just because he was... difficult to be around.

That, combined with his reputation for ruthlessness, meant his section of the twenty-foot-long table remained a no-man's-land. The first five chairs on either side of him were perpetually empty. Which was fine. Really. He preferred it that way.

Beta Remus entered the hall and sniffed appreciatively. His black eagle tattoo peeked out from the collar of his shirt. In a pinch, he could release the inky bird and it would take flight, providing reconnaissance from above. Each pack member's tattoo, received upon turning sixteen, transformed into a unique animal providing a unique gift. Only one wolf could claim each creature.

No one in the pack knew his spiritual animal—not even his Beta. While most sixteen-year-olds reveled in the ceremony of choosing their magical tattoos, displaying them proudly on their upper chests, Magnus had kept his tattoo a secret. The tattoo artist who had etched it decades ago was long dead, and the mystery only fueled the pack's fear of him. Alphas with visible tattoos were terrifying enough, their animals able to burst into life during battle. But an Alpha whose tattoo was a mystery? That was a whole other level of menace, Or maybe they just thought he was weird. Hard to tell sometimes.

Remus's gaze flicked to Magnus, still engrossed in his phone, oblivious to his presence in the room. What secrets lay hidden beneath his clothes? For over 90 years, through battles and wars, Magnus had never once revealed his spirit guide, his tattoo. Not even to Remus, his most trusted confidant. It remained an enticing mystery, much like the man himself.

Magnus allowed himself a small smirk as he sensed Remus studying him. Let them wonder, let them guess. None had come close to the truth. His power lay cloaked in shadows, until the time was right. For now, breakfast awaited. Still ignoring the world, he reached for the nearest plate of bacon and began to eat. The bacon was good. Really good, actually.

Cathy burst into the dining hall like a firework in a library. Her outfit alone was an affront to the pack's muted, practical wardrobe: orange stockings that could blind a wolf, a matching orange dress that flared dramatically, and green shoes so garish they looked radioactive. The whole ensemble should have been illegal.

Trailing behind her were three werewolf friends, who were visibly more aware of pack dynamics than Cathy who'd just arrived this morning. They tried to steer her to a safe corner of the table, whispering urgently, but Cathy was oblivious. Completely, utterly oblivious.

"I'm telling you; these werewolf customs are fascinating!" Cathy exclaimed, her voice carrying across the room. "I mean, magical tattoos that turn into animals? How cool is that?"

Her friends exchanged nervous glances, their eyes darting between Cathy and the brooding Alpha at the head of the table. They tried to shush her, but Cathy was on a roll. A freight train of enthusiasm.

"…and I told Mom, if we're starting over, we might as well do it somewhere interesting. Werewolves! Can you believe it? I mean, vampires would've been way cooler, but this is—" She paused, frowning slightly. Actually, maybe werewolves were cooler. She hadn't decided yet.

Her friends hissed and elbowed her, one of them nodding toward Magnus. "Cathy. Stop. He's looking at you."

She turned casually to face her friends, holding the door open for them to pile in.

"And the whole'ruthless Alpha'thing," she continued, making air quotes with her fingers. "I don't buy it. I mean, look at him!" She gestured towards Magnus, who had finally looked up from his phone, one eyebrow raised in amusement. Or annoyance. Hard to tell.

The pack members held their breath, waiting for the Alpha's reaction. To their surprise, Magnus's lips twitched, fighting back a smile. There was something refreshing about this human girl's lack of fear, her willingness to speak her mind. Even if it might get her killed.

Magnus leaned back in his chair, his piercing blue eyes fixed on her, curiosity faintly stirring behind the lenses of his glasses. Yes, glasses. Because apparently even supernatural predators needed vision correction.

Cathy blinked. This was the Alpha? She had expected someone hulking, brooding, maybe with a scar or two for effect. Instead, he looked like a hot university professor who had accidentally wandered into the wrong meeting. His blonde hair was a little too long, his frame tall and slender rather than brutish. Disappointing, really. Or... not disappointing? She wasn't sure.

And he was wearing glasses. Glasses!!For crying out loud.

"Is that him?" Cathy whispered disappointedly to her friends, who were already inching away. "That's the big bad Alpha? He looks like he should be grading essays, not terrorizing a pack."

Magnus' lips twitched—a micro-expression that could almost be mistaken for amusement. Almost. He tilted his head, watching her with the sort of interest one might reserve for a particularly bold squirrel. Or a particularly stupid one.

"Cathy," one of her friends hissed, glancing between her and Magnus like someone watching a fuse burn. "He heard you."

Cathy's carefree grin faltered. "Oh. Right. Werewolf hearing." Shit.

Her friends quickly ran to fight over the last two chairs available near the door, on the opposite end of the table, twenty feet away from their Alpha. Smart friends. Really, really smart friends.

For a moment, she looked genuinely alarmed, as if realizing she might have just signed her own death warrant, But then, her gaze drifted to the table, scanning for an empty seat. There weren't any—not unless she wanted to sit in one of the forbidden chairs near Magnus. Which she absolutely did not want to do. Except... maybe she did?

The room was silent, every pack member holding their breath as they watched Cathy's next move. No one dared to meet Magnus' eyes, let alone challenge him. Yet here was this human—this pale creature—standing frozen in indecision.

Magnus cocked his head further, intrigued. What would she do? Would she run? Would she cry? Would she—

"Well," Cathy said finally, with a shrug that bordered on defiance, jogging the length of the table to the only available sits, "guess I'm sitting here."

And before anyone could stop her, she plopped herself into the chair directly to Magnus' right.

The collective gasp that followed was deafening. No one in the pack had dared sit near the Alpha in decades. Even Beta Remus preferred a healthy distance. This girl was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.

Every eye in the room darted between Cathy and Magnus, waiting for the inevitable explosion. But Magnus didn't move. He simply stared at her, his lips pressing into a line that might have been annoyance—or maybe something else entirely. Confusion? Interest? Indigestion?

Cathy, however, seemed unfazed. She turned to Magnus, sticking out a hand. "Hi, I'm Cathy. New here. Moved this morning, my mother and I are running away from my abusive dad. I mean if we'd known that werewolf packs do offer refuge to people in situations like us, we would've made the move a long time ago, before mama lost her teeth and legs. Thanks anyway. We'd probably be dead if you didn't have psychologist that help abuse victims that want to disappear, disappear. OH… love your glasses, by the way."

For the first time in decades, Magnus was speechless. Completely, utterly speechless.

The pack braced themselves for an explosion, but it didn't come. Magnus simply stared at her; his expression unreadable. She was bold, dangerously so, and something about her made the tattoo stir again. Cathy, oblivious to the tension, gave him a bright smile. The kind of smile that could probably light up a room. Or blind someone.

Magnus leaned forward slightly; his voice low but carrying across the room. "Do you always dress like a vegetable, or is this a special occasion?"

Cathy looked like a carrot – a loud, unapologetic carrot. With bad fashion sense.

Cathy was surprised when he'got'it. People usually didn't understand the statement she was trying to make with her clothes. Or maybe they understood and just thought it was stupid.

The pack froze. Cathy, however, burst out laughing. "Oh, you can talk! For a second there, I thought you were mute. And for your information, carrots are great. They improve your eyesight—maybe you should try eating more of them."

The pack collectively held their breath, but Magnus' lips twitched again. This time, it almost resembled a smile. Almost.