Destined for the Alpha

CHAPTER ONE The scent of wildflowers mingles with the earthy aroma of new life, and the Clear Creek pack hustles around me with an energy that could light up the dark side of the moon. Ribbons of every hue wrap around trees, and lanterns dangle from branches like low-hanging stars. Our Spring Festival is the brightest night of the year, a celebration of life and warmth after the chill of winter, but my heart can't seem to sync with the joyous rhythm around me. "Grace, hand me those garlands, please," Mary calls out, her voice slicing through the chatter like a clean blade. She’s the pack's unofficial decorator, her fur always dusted with glitter this time of year. I pass her the bundle of flowers, my fingers brushing against silky petals. I should be shifting tonight, feeling the earth beneath my paws instead of the soles of my boots, but the wolf inside me is silent, dormant. It's a night for our kind to revel in their true forms, yet here I am, locked in a human cage. "Hey, look, it's Little Grace! Still walking on two legs, I see?" A mocking voice reaches me from behind a nearby oak. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Derek, one of the younger wolves who never misses a chance to needle me about my inability to shift. "Maybe she just likes the view from down there," another chimes in, and a round of snickers follows. My cheeks burn, a wildfire of embarrassment and anger spreading fast. I’m twenty years old, and yet because of my short stature the cruel nickname has stuck. "Leave her alone," Mary snaps without looking at them, her focus still on the garlands. "Or you'll answer to Lucas." The snickers die out, replaced by a hushed reverence at the mention of the pack's Gamma. Lucas has always been a shield without even knowing it, his presence enough to scatter the mockery like leaves in the wind. But he's not here now, and I'm left wondering why my heart insists on fluttering at the mere mention of his name when I'm hardly worthy of being noticed by someone like him. "Thanks, Mary," I murmur, keeping my eyes on the ground, feeling small under the vastness of the festival lights. "Don't mention it," she replies softly, her tone suggesting she understands more than she lets on. "You're part of this pack, Grace. No matter what form you take." Her words are meant to comfort, but they settle into the empty spaces where my confidence should be. The pack may accept me, but acceptance isn't belonging. Not when I stand on the edge of the celebration, watching as others dance in their lupine grace, powerful and free. "Here, put this in your hair. It suits you," Mary says, handing me a sprig of jasmine before she strides away to tackle another tree. The delicate white flowers tremble as I pin them into my black hair, a stark contrast to the darkness of my locks, a beacon of what I lack. "Maybe next year, huh, Grace?" Derek's voice has lost its bite, replaced by something that almost sounds like pity. And somehow, that's worse. "Maybe," I reply, knowing in my bones that some things are wishes whispered to a moon that doesn't listen. I weave through the clusters of my packmates, their laughter a symphony that's both bitter and sweet to my ears. The Spring Festival is in full swing, the air rich with the scents of pine and blooming flowers, the ground vibrating with the thud of paws dancing to the rhythm of life itself. It's a celebration of rebirth, of nature's resilience, but within me, it only stirs a deep-seated longing for a part of myself that remains dormant. And then I see him—Lucas, standing on the outskirts of the dance, his tall frame bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. He’s watching the festivities with a softness in his eyes that makes my heart trip over itself. He's not laughing like the others or boasting of his strength. Lucas is calm, collected, the steady force that holds the fabric of our pack together as the Gamma. "Grace," he calls out, his voice carrying over the din, and my name in his mouth sounds like a sacred thing, a whispered secret that only we share. "Hey, Lucas," I respond, trying to keep my voice steady, to mask the tremble of emotions that threaten to betray me. His smile, warm and genuine, reaches his eyes, and for a moment, I allow myself to bask in the light of his attention. "Enjoying the festival?" he asks, stepping closer. There's a hint of concern in his tone, as if he knows that enjoyment is a word that doesn't quite fit me tonight. "Trying to," I admit, tucking a stray strand of black hair behind my ear, the jasmine Mary gave me brushing against my fingertips. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" "Nothing compared to you," he says softly, and the sincerity in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I laugh, a short burst of disbelief coloring the sound. "You don't have to say things like that, Lucas. I know what I am—a wolf that can't even shift." "Grace, look at me," he insists, and I do, finding myself caught in the depths of his gaze. "You are more than what you can or can't do. You're kind, brave, and you care about this pack more than some of those who can shift ever will." "Kindness doesn't win battles," I murmur, my eyes dropping to the earth beneath us, where the shadows play hide and seek with the last rays of daylight. "Maybe not," he concedes, tilting my chin up so I'm facing him again, "but it wins hearts. And that's what really keeps a pack together." I want to believe him, to let his words wash over me and cleanse away the doubt, but the weight of unworthiness is a heavy cloak around my shoulders. He's the epitome of what a pack member should be—strong, confident, respected. How could someone like me ever stand by his side? "Lucas, I—I shouldn't—" I start, but he shakes his head, cutting me off. "Grace, you belong here just as much as any of us," he says firmly. "Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise." "Even if I can never stand beside you as an equal?" The question hangs between us, fragile as the petals of the jasmine in my hair. "Especially then," he replies, and there's a promise in his words, a vow that takes root in the barren field of my self-worth. "Because you've always been my equal, Grace. In every way that truly matters." A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry. Lucas stands before me, a beacon of belief in a sea of doubts. And though I yearn to reach for him, to close the distance that separates our two worlds, fear shackles my feet to the ground. "Thank you, Lucas," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the heartbeat of the festival. "For seeing me." His hand finds mine, a gentle but firm grip that speaks of solidarity, of shared secrets, and unspoken dreams. "Always, Grace," he says, and in his eyes, I see something that looks a lot like hope. "Always."