The Alpha's Reluctant Temptation

I felt the men’s frowns like heat on my fur. The older warriors looked uneasy. Even my father stiffened. Because this wasn’t just rare — it was unheard of. A black wolf meant a fighter, a leader in battle. And me? I wasn’t supposed to be either of those things.Margaux’s white wolf stepped toward me, her ice-blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly.For the first time in my life, every eye was on me when we all shifted back to our human form.But everyone acted like nothing had happened — like I hadn’t just turned centuries of Pack tradition on its head.But not Margaux.She was staring at me across the firelight, her blue eyes sharp and cold. The kind of look that could curdle milk. She hated sharing the spotlight, and tonight she hadn’t just shared it — she’d lost it.Meanwhile, we all shifted back to our human form, wore a new dress, then I walked and stood behind my brothers, Hamlet and Alex, the perfect little wall of blond-haired, broad-shouldered Whiteland men.And I knew exactly w

Meanwhile, at the Wolfgang Pack — a few hours earlierThe moon hung high above the treeline, its pale glow casting sharp shadows through the pack’s settlement. Hamlet and Alex moved with the deliberate quiet of men who knew their business was best done in the dark. The two slipped toward the healer’s hut, eyes darting over their shoulders as though even the wind might overhear.Inside, the air reeked of dried herbs, burning sage, and something darker — something that didn’t belong in a healer’s place unless the intent was far from healing.“We need it strong,” Hamlet murmured, his voice low, urgent. “Fast. Before they even know they’ve been touched.”The healer, an older she-wolf with more wrinkles than mercy, squinted at them. “You know what you’re asking for.”Alex’s lip curled. “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t.”Her gnarled fingers plucked jars from high shelves — crushed nightshade, powdered belladonna — before reaching for the deadliest jar of all. Wolfbane. Not the diluted stuf

Marigold POVAlpha Gregor wasn’t kidding when he said “let’s run for our lives.” His voice had that lethal edge—like the kind that said if we stay, we die… or worse.I’d caught most of his earlier conversation with that guy Zach—because hello, werewolf hearing is basically nature’s gift for eavesdropping—and what I heard made my stomach do backflips. The part about me awakening some “unheard-of-for-centuries warrior wolf” was enough to make me choke on my own spit. But then he dropped the Dark Wolf thing? Yeah, no. I’m not even sure what that means, but judging by Gregor’s pacing, it’s not a title people just hand out like candy.And now apparently, the most feared Alpha in America was… my babysitter?Great. Absolutely fantastic.Except one problem—I’m not Margaux.I’m just… me. Marigold. Low wolf. Nobody special. With trust issues.Which was absurd. I mean, me? I wasn’t special. I was barely above Omega rank in pack politics, the “don’t look at me or I’ll drop the tray” type. But ap

Several hour later.The rain had started up again—hard, fat drops hammering the cabin roof like nature’s own war drum. The fire in the hearth spat and hissed every time a draft shoved smoke into the room, the scent of uncooked rabbit meat still hanging thick in the air because someone—someone—couldn’t skin it properly without making a mess.That someone was now sitting cross-legged on the worn rug in front of me, Marigold’s hair a wild halo from where she’d been running her hands through it like a stubborn child.We’d been at this for an hour. An hour I could’ve spent sharpening blades or contacting my scouts, but no—here I was, trying to teach a woman how to pretend to be her own twin.“For the last time,” she said, her tone drenched in irritation, “why the hell would I love pretending to be Margaux? She was a fashionista. Yes, she had nice clothes. Yes, she loved to talk. But she had the brain of a worm. I can’t act stupid. I don’t know how to act like I don’t know what algebra is.”

By the time we stumbled into the little human town, we looked like we crawled out of a swamp. No shoes. Soaked clothes. Mud up to my calves. Hair plastered to my face. And, because the universe loves a dramatic punchline, Alpha “I’m Too Serious For Life” Gregor stomped into the shabby little inn like he was conquering a kingdom.We were supposed to be at the next safehouse. Nice, quiet, hidden from the world. Maybe with actual food and—gods forbid—dry socks. But no. According to Zach, our brilliant little tech wizard, the Black Fangs were already there, setting a damn welcome party with blades and wolfsbane cocktails.So here we were. In the middle of human territory. Looking like two beggars who got thrown out of a bar fight.Gregor stalked beside me, broad shoulders hunched into a coat that was at least two sizes too small. It pinched under his arms, and every time he moved, I swore I heard a stitch cry for help. The mighty Alpha of Midnight Pack looked like he borrowed his clothes