Wrong Text, Right Alpha
Just clocked out.
My bestie, Chloe, texted. Begging me to go wild with her at a bar.
I collapsed onto my bed. Exhausted.
“No way. My legs are jelly. I can’t tonight.”
I splashed some water on my face and stared at my reflection. Pale. Drained.
Suddenly, I knew I needed a release.
Anything to forget my inhuman, tyrant werewolf boss.
I grabbed my phone again, ready to text Chloe.
I wanted to type: “My whole body aches. No energy for the bar. I desperately need a rough, deep-tissue massage session tonight.”
But my brain was fried. I just typed:
“Just need a rough, deep session tonight.”
Five minutes later, my screen lit up.
But it wasn't a message from Chloe. It was from my cold, untouchable A