Oops, I Fainted on the Alpha King

Three Things I'm Embarrassed About.

First, I'm a sixteen-year-old virgin.

I know. Gasp. Clutch your pearls. Roll your eyes so hard your brain gets motion sickness. But yes. A virgin. At sixteen. In the human world, maybe that earns me a gold star and a conservative grandmother who beams proudly at me over lemon bars. But in our world? The werewolf world? Being a sixteen-year-old virgin is like being a banana in a world of wolves that only eat steak. Confusing. Unwanted. And frankly, kinda mushy around the edges.

The thing is, werewolves are supposed to be these primal, sexual creatures. All heat and hunger and midnight howls that sound suspiciously like porn soundtracks. The pack teens my age? They've been hooking up since they were fourteen. Sometimes younger. I've walked in on more naked butts than a janitor at a nudist colony, and let me tell you, the mental scarring is real. There's this unspoken rule that by sixteen, you should have at least experimented. Made out with someone at a bonfire. Felt up a beta's son behind the training grounds. Done something that proves you're not completely hopeless at the whole "being a werewolf" thing.

But me? The closest I've come to sexual experience is that time I accidentally brushed hands with Tommy Martinez while reaching for the same piece of cornbread at dinner. And even that was awkward because I immediately dropped the bread and ran away like I'd been electrocuted.

Second, I'm crushing on the Alpha. I KNOW.

How painfully typical of me, right? If there were a self-help group for pathetic omegas with delusions of grandeur, I'd be the president. Or at least the secretary with neat handwriting and too many spreadsheets titled "Wedding Ideas: Just in Case." But in my defense, have you seen him? Alpha Kael. Six feet and forever of sun-kissed skin, midnight eyes, and a jawline sharp enough to emotionally wound me from across the field. And in two hours, I turn seventeen. Which means... my mate bond could snap into place any second now.

Kael doesn't just walk—he prowls. Like every step is calculated to make ovaries explode in a three-mile radius. His voice is this deep, rumbly thing that makes my knees forget they're supposed to hold me upright. And when he smiles? Sweet Moon Goddess, when he smiles, it's like the sun decided to personally bless his face. I've seen grown female wolves literally swoon. Actually swoon. Like Victorian ladies with corsets too tight, except these are modern werewolves who could bench press a small car.

I've been harboring this crush since I was fourteen and he was seventeen, all broody and magnificent and completely out of my league. Back then, he was just the future Alpha. Now? He's the Alpha Alpha. The guy who makes pack decisions with the kind of calm confidence that makes me want to write his name in my diary with little hearts.

I've already practiced my reaction in the mirror. It involves a perfect gasp, a single tear, and a whisper of, "You feel it too, don't you?"

The practicing happens every morning while I'm getting ready for another day of grunt work. I stand in front of the cracked mirror in my tiny bathroom, imagining the moment when our eyes meet and the mate bond snaps into place. I've rehearsed at least forty-seven different scenarios, ranging from "casual encounter in the hallway" to "dramatic rescue during pack emergency."

In my favorite fantasy, I'm not wearing my usual outfit of stained clothes and exhaustion. Instead, I'm in something flowy and ethereal, like those omega heroines in the romance novels I steal from the pack library. My hair is doing that thing where it catches the light perfectly, and I smell like wildflowers instead of industrial-strength cleaning products.

Third, I'm the pack's omega.

Not in the cool rebellious, lone-wolf kinda way. Nope. I'm the clean-the-toilets, scrub-the-period-stains, fetch-the-bloody-latte-with-goat-milk omega. I'm the girl who once got stuck cleaning poop on the toilet sink. Not in. On. Why? Because someone thought it'd be funny to squat like a barbarian and leave a gift. Spoiler: It wasn't funny. It was deeply traumatic and deeply unsanitary.

Being the pack's omega means I'm everyone's personal servant. I wake up at four-thirty every morning—not by choice, but because my body has been trained to respond to the pack's needs before my own. By five, I'm already in the communal kitchens, preparing breakfast for sixty-three wolves who all have different dietary preferences and the collective table manners of feral hyenas.

The Beta's wife likes her eggs over easy but not too runny. The Gamma's husband wants his bacon crispy but not burnt. The pack children want their pancakes shaped like animals, but only specific animals, and Goddess help me if I make a wolf pancake that looks more like a deformed cat. I've been yelled at for less.

After breakfast, it's cleaning duty. Bathrooms first, because apparently werewolves are just as gross as humans when it comes to personal hygiene. I've seen things that would make a medical examiner quit his job. Hair in places hair shouldn't be. Smells that could be classified as biological warfare.

But I tell myself every night: "Julia, when you become Luna, you'll never clean a sink again."

Today is The Day.

The Day with capital letters, fireworks, and the overwhelming scent of werewolf sweat because the Eastern Regional Games start in four hours. Ten packs. One massive championship. And this year, the king himself is coming to our packlands to watch the games because—drumroll—we're hosting.

The energy in the air is different today. It's electric, like the moment before a thunderstorm when every hair on your body stands up and you can taste the lightning. The pack house has been buzzing with activity for weeks, but today it's reached a fever pitch that's making my wolf pace anxiously under my skin.

For the first time in, like, forever. We spent the whole year building a fancy new stadium. Real concrete. Real turf. And even those weird mist machines that are completely useless but make everything feel dramatic.

The stadium is actually impressive, even I have to admit. It's this massive structure that can hold thousands of spectators, with a field that's so green it looks fake, perfectly manicured and marked with white lines that practically glow in the sunlight. Those mist machines are Alpha Kael's pride and joy, positioned around the field and activated during dramatic moments. The mist itself is infused with subtle scents that are supposed to enhance the spectator experience. Pine for strength. Lavender for calm. Something called "victory blend" that smells like cedar and triumph.

If that wasn't enough pressure, the final winning team rules all the eastern packs for the year. Total dominance. Total bragging rights. Total chaos. And Alpha Kael? He's captain of our team. Obviously. Because perfection is exhausting, apparently, and he refuses to give the rest of us a break.

As for me?

I spent the whole morning mopping floors, scrubbing the gym showers, cleaning dried blood out of the Beta's daughter's sheets ("Sorry, Julia, my cycle came early. Again." GIRL, DO YOU BLEED IN Morse code?), and yes—picking up mystery vomit that smelled like it had made direct eye contact with death.

The morning started at four-thirty, same as always, but today felt different. The air was charged with anticipation and anxiety, making my wolf restless before I was even fully awake. The floors were worse than usual because everyone had been tracking mud and grass through the hallways as they prepared for the games. I filled my mop bucket with water so hot it made my hands red and raw, added enough pine-scented cleaner to strip paint, and got to work.

The gym showers were a special kind of disgusting. The pack's training team had been using the facilities for early morning workouts, and the drain was clogged with hair and soap scum, the tiles covered in a film that made my skin crawl. I scrubbed until my shoulders ached, using a brush with bristles stiff enough to remove paint.

The Beta's daughter's sheets were a whole different nightmare. Sophia is nineteen, beautiful, and blessed with a menstrual cycle that seems to have a personal vendetta against me. The stains were extensive—not just spots, but sprawling patterns that suggested she'd been doing acrobatics in her sleep. I soaked the sheets in cold water and hydrogen peroxide, scrubbed them by hand, and ran them through the washing machine twice.

By the time I collapse into bed, it feels like I've lived three lives.

I wake up to the sound of the pack horn.

The horn is this ancient thing made from an actual horn—like, from a real animal that died centuries ago. When blown, it produces a sound that’s primal and haunting, something that reaches into your chest and grabs your wolf by the throat.

It's loud, dramatic, and unnecessarily phallic, like everything else in the werewolf world. I bolt upright and scream a little because my dream involved Alpha Kael whispering “mate” while holding a baseball bat like a bouquet of roses. I think I might need therapy. Or a priest.

The scream Is involuntary, a startled yelp that comes from somewhere deep in my chest. My heart is racing, my skin is covered in goosebumps, and there’s a moment of complete disorientation where I can’t remember where I am or what day it is. Then it all comes flooding back. The games. My birthday. The possibility that today might be the day my entire life changes.

I throw on my cleanest oversized hoodie (it has a bleach stain in the shape of a potato), jeans that no longer have visible holes, and sneakers that are only mildly crusty. Because today isn’t just the day of the games. It's the day I turn seventeen. And my wolf is pacing under my skin like she’s eaten six espressos and a dream.

The hoodie Is gray and soft from countless washings, with a hood that I can pull up to hide my face when I’m feeling particularly invisible. The bleach stain is from a cleaning accident last month, and now it looks like a potato, or maybe a deformed star. The jeans are my best pair, which isn’t saying much—too big in the waist and too short in the legs, but clean and relatively hole-free.

My wolf is definitely more active than usual. She’s pacing in tight circles under my skin, her energy bleeding into mine and making me feel jittery and restless. It’s like having a caged animal in my chest, something wild and primal that wants to run and hunt and howl at the moon.

We’re going to feel our mate today. I know it.

The certainty hits me like a physical blow. It’s not hope or wishful thinking—it’s knowledge, deep and instinctual, that something fundamental is about to change. My wolf knows it too. She’s practically vibrating with anticipation.

I skip breakfast because anxiety has taken up all the space in my stomach, and head to the stadium, which is already vibrating with energy. Wolves are everywhere. Some in human form, some not. Vendors are selling meat on sticks. Kids are howling like they’re auditioning for a horror film. Music blasts from hidden speakers, and banners flap in the summer breeze.

The walk to the stadium takes me through the heart of our territory, and the energy is palpable. It’s like electricity in the air, making my skin tingle and my wolf pace faster. The smells are overwhelming—cooking food, werewolf musk, leather, and something that might be fear or excitement or both.

Kids are running around like they’ve been injected with pure sugar, their high-pitched voices adding to the chaos. Some have shifted into their wolf forms, chasing each other in circles and yapping like puppies. The music is heavy enough to feel in your chest, and banners in our pack’s black and gold colors flutter everywhere.

And then I see him.

Alpha Kael.

The sight of him stops me in my tracks. He’s standing near the team entrance, surrounded by his players and looking absolutely magnificent in the morning sunlight.

Wearing the official pack baseball uniform. Black and gold. Tight jersey. Sleeves rolled. Muscles that probably have their own Instagram account. He’s laughing with his team, tossing a ball from hand to hand, radiating testosterone and superiority.

The uniform fits him like It was custom-made, which it probably was. The black fabric stretches across his chest and shoulders, emphasizing the breadth of his frame and the power in his movements. The gold trim catches the light, making him look like he’s been touched by the sun itself. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are corded with muscle and marked with small scars from training accidents.

The baseball he's tossing moves in a lazy arc from hand to hand, and I find myself hypnotized by the simple motion. His reflexes are perfect, his timing flawless. He’s laughing at something one of his teammates said, and the sound carries across the distance between us like a physical touch.

I perch on the stands, trying to look casual and mysterious. But my leg is bouncing like a meth squirrel and I’ve got sweat dripping down places sweat should never go.

I find a spot about halfway up the stands, where I can see the field clearly but hopefully blend into the crowd. The metal bleachers are already warm from the sun, and I can feel the heat through my jeans as I sit down. My right leg starts bouncing the moment I sit down, an involuntary nervous habit that makes the entire bench shake.

The sweat situation Is becoming critical. It’s not just normal perspiration—it’s the kind of full-body panic sweat that soaks through clothes and makes you smell like fear and desperation. I can feel it trickling down my back, pooling in places that should remain dry.

Please, Moon Goddess. Make this happen.

The prayer is desperate and heartfelt, directed at the ancient deity who supposedly watches over werewolves and grants us our mate bonds. I close my eyes and send up a silent plea for divine intervention. Please let today be the day. Please let the mate bond snap into place. Please let him look at me and see something worth wanting.

The opening ceremony Is a blur of lights, fur, and cheerleaders who look like they drink protein shakes made of hopes and broken dreams. I keep scanning the field for Alpha Kael. The teams line up. Our pack’s team is playing first, against the Ridgecrest wolves. Big, bulky brutes with bad attitudes and worse fashion.