Laverne

Omega Laverne arrived at Red Valley with all the subtlety of a fireworks display in a library. The “hefty bonus” was nice and all, but she hadn’t counted on the sheer absurdity of what passed for pack culture here. Within two hours, she’d already started a one-wolf rebellion, and honestly, she wasn’t even trying. It was just… instinct. In her old pack, omegas weren’t cowering, sappy, nesting machines—they were strategists, fighters, diplomats, occasional chaos-wranglers, and sometimes all three at once. Nesting? Pup-bearing? Cute. Cute, she thought, as she watched a young omega clutch a blanket like it was a life raft and sigh dramatically about “her maternal destiny.” Oh heck no. Laverne wasn’t interested in waiting for some overly dramatic “bonding moment” with a swooning alpha, either. She didn’t need a chest-rubbing, slow-burning, stormy-eyed romance to feel fulfilled; she needed common sense, a plan, and maybe a snack. Which, coincidentally, she was about to steal from the communal kitchen because apparently, the pack also believed omegas were polite enough to ask first. By the time the pack elders realized that Laverne wasn’t just different, she had already drafted a list of reforms: more agency for omegas, less swooning over every alpha sneeze, and a mandatory “don’t treat omegas like fragile porcelain” workshop. And Max, the alpha who’d lured her with that “bonus,” was now desperately trying to remember if he’d ever signed anything that allowed this much chaos. Two hours in, and Red Valley had discovered the true terror of having an omega with opinions—and Laverne was just getting started.