Center of the Iris

I know, I’m supposed to be a male, and strong, and dutiful. But the alpha-to-be, what a pain my ass! Gavin, the all-around guy, the football player, pride of the pack, you know the type. But wow, what a jerk!

Last week, he knocked back a couple of shots with his buddies, ran down a few mailboxes with his ’64 Chevelle, and because his pop is the Alpha, nothing, not even a scratch of words, was even thought to be said to him.

Two days ago, he backed over a fire hydrant with his dad’s company bulldozer. Sure, the little pups had a great time in this sweltering heat. But do you think nary an eye was blinked or crossed?

Not a chance.

Then there’s me. I’m physically what you would call the class nerd. I prefer my books, my study time. I’m an introvert, as they call it. Am I physically fit? Sure, for what it’s worth. I can definitely hold my own. But I’m short, only 5’7”. I have hair the color of spicy mustard. I wear glasses because my allergies screw with my contacts too much. I feel like there’s a hunch growing on my shoulder every time I get up in the morning. But I’m not weak. Far from it.

I prefer to train in the depths of the woods behind the village. I prefer to do it alone, to work with the make-shift dummies I built from my father’s old workshop. My wolf loves the seclusion, the ability to just show off on his own. When we shift, his deep auburn coat reflects the sun rays dancing in the trees.

Then the worst I knew would come did. I had tried to fake sick. I tried to pretend I had this massive college essay I needed to write. Anything.

But the hunt. The first hunt to call out the true strength of the new alphas and betas of the pack.

Because, in the long run, only the strong survive the hunt