Twenty-six dates. Twenty-six alphas. What could possibly go wrong?
Apparently everything.
My pack signed me up for “Alpha-Bet”—a matchmaking service where I’m supposed to meet one eligible alpha for every letter of the alphabet. I figured it’d be awkward, maybe hilarious, and at worst, mildly bitey.
Then Date A showed up.
I teach yoga, not anger management for feral men with eight-packs and boundary issues.
My “Full Moon Flow” class was supposed to be harmless—stretching, breathwork, maybe a little spiritual howling for the tourists. I didn’t expect the sexy guy in the back to actually grow fur mid-downward dog. One second he’s locked in Eye of the Tiger pose, the next he’s got claws, a tail, and absolutely no pants.
Now I’ve got a real, live werewolf in my studio—hot, cranky, and very naked. He says he’s “new to this shifting thing” and needs help staying grounded. I say he should stop staring at my hips like they’re his next full moon snack.
But when he offers to repay me with... bodywork?
Let’s just say my inner zen is officially screwed.
A is for Alec. Arrogant. Addictive. Alpha as hell. One smirk and my heat hit like a freight train. I ghosted him the next day. Panicked. Logical response, right?
Except now he’s showing up at every date. Staring down the competition. Growling. And claiming me like I’m already his prize at the end of this ridiculous alphabet soup.
And honestly? I’m starting to hope he never lets me finish the list.