The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man. Every trope, every melodramatic hierarchy, every “destined by the moon” nonsense that makes editors weep and fan-fic writers clap like seals. Enter Rose. Apparently, on one fateful evening, the moon goddess was having an off day. Maybe she stubbed her celestial toe. Maybe she forgot her coffee. Whatever the reason, she looked down at the Red Valley bloodline and decided it would be hilarious to make Rose the only female alpha within a 2,000-mile radius. Then—because comedy is about timing—she laughed directly at Rose’s entire family and doubled down. Rose’s brother is Lucas. Yes, that Lucas. A male omega. Pregnant. Six months along. Together, they are a statistical impossibility. Family reunions are… complicated. As an alpha, Rose is everything the pack didn’t ask for and absolutely deserves. She’s dominant, sharp-tongued, terrifyingly competent, and deeply uninterested in playing the delicate, swoony role authors usually assign to women in these stories. She challenges alpha males for sport—sometimes because they’re annoying, sometimes because they exist, and sometimes because she’s bored before lunch. Most of them lose. There is exactly one alpha she doesn’t challenge: Max. Not because she can’t win—Rose is fairly confident she could wipe the forest floor with him—but because winning would come with paperwork, meetings, and the deeply cursed title of Supreme Alpha in Charge of Everyone’s Feelings. Hard pass. Rose doesn’t want the pack. She doesn’t want the throne. She just wants to live her life, punch destiny in the face occasionally, and prove—daily—that the moon goddess may control fate, but she does not control Rose.

The Red Valley werewolf pack has a lot of rules. Most of them make sense. Some are tradition. A few are just there to make omegas swoon or alphas glare. And then there’s Zander. Zander makes rules look like polite suggestions. Adopted by pack elder Alpha Kris when he was nothing more than a hatchling—some say Kris found him abandoned, others say he just appeared in the nest one foggy night—Zander is a naga, a serpentine terror with scales, fangs, and a sense of humor so dark it would make the moon goddess blink. How Kris managed to raise him among werewolves is a story lost to time, blood stains, and the occasional missing pack member. From the moment Zander could slither around, chaos followed. He leaves old sheds in inconvenient places, constricts anyone bold enough to harass his sister Mikala, and has a casual “maybe-I-ate-a-few-pack-members” thing he refuses to discuss. Yet somehow, nobody—neither Alpha Max, nor any seasoned beta, nor the most desperate omega—dares cross him. He has no official designation, no pack role, and yet he is the pack. Outsider. Enforcer. Menace. Snack enthusiast. A naga in a werewolf world, perfectly comfortable ignoring the moon’s light and everyone else’s rules. Pack members often try to guess his motivations, but the only thing certain about Zander is that he’s unpredictable, terrifyingly clever, and just charming enough to get away with it. Alpha Kris claims he’s “family,” Max grits his teeth at his existence, and everyone else? Well, everyone else just hopes they’re not on Zander’s menu tonight. In short: Zander is not just a creature of the pack. He is the kind of chaos that inspires legends, cautionary tales, and the occasional scream. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, wolf, or poorly paid fanfic editor, and standing proudly at the sticky center of this trope volcano is Max. Max is an alpha werewolf. Not an alpha—the alpha. The kind of alpha that makes other alphas check their posture, apologize for existing, and consider taking up pottery instead. Max wakes up every morning already dominant. The sun doesn’t rise; it requests permission. His alarm clock submits its resignation. His coffee brews itself stronger out of fear. When Max enters a room, the room acknowledges him first, then remembers what it was doing. His scent? “Pine, leather, authority, and a vague hint of victory.” His growl? A TED Talk on leadership. He is the alpha of Red Valley, the alpha of neighboring packs, the alpha of packs that don’t even live in this dimension. Somewhere, an unrelated wolf in another state feels intimidated and doesn’t know why. Max’s ego could encompass the solar system, and honestly, it’s thinking about expanding. Jupiter looks like it could use better management. He leads with iron confidence, iron rules, and abs that seem to have their own fanbase. He believes deeply in Pack Law, Pack Order, and Pack Him Being Right. Every problem can be solved with authority, intensity, and standing slightly taller while crossing his arms. Emotional vulnerability is for omegas, betas, and furniture. And yet—despite being the most alpha alpha to ever alpha—Max exists in a universe that stubbornly refuses to revolve entirely around him. The Red Valley pack, destiny, and the omegaverse itself keep testing him with inconvenient plot twists, inconvenient feelings, and people who don’t immediately swoon. Tragic. Heroic. Loud. Impossibly confident. Max would call it fate. Everyone else calls it a problem.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, or every cheesy romance author, and fanfic writer, and somewhere in the middle of that chaos is Alpha were-honey badger Jose. He joined Red Valley for the hefty bonus Max dangled when he sent out an APB for alphas—because apparently, broadcasting a call for alphas across a 2,000-mile radius is “strategically sound.” To Jose, timing is everything. He had just been kicked out of his forty-third pack—pride, clan, cabal, whatever shifters are calling themselves these days. Minor detail: Jose has a tiny problem with stealing, a tiny problem with authority, and an enormous problem with honey. Really enormous. His sweet tooth could fuel a small army. Jose is the kind of alpha who doesn’t follow rules; he rewrites them, eats them, and then brags about it. He’s charming in that slightly terrifying “I might bite you if annoyed, but I’ll also steal your dessert” way. The world says he doesn’t give a…well, you can fill in the blank. He struts into Red Valley with the subtlety of a tornado in cowboy boots, leaving a trail of stolen snacks, chewed furniture, and very confused pack members in his wake. Max pretends to be annoyed, but deep down, he knows the bonus money was worth it—mostly because Jose, chaotic as he is, is exactly the kind of alpha who can make Red Valley slightly less boring, slightly more dangerous, and infinitely more entertaining. Red Valley may follow clichés, but Jose? He follows his own laws—and usually they involve honey, chaos, and stealing literally everything that isn’t nailed down.

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was founded for the forgotten. For those born beneath the Moon Goddess’s blessing, only to be rejected by their own kind. Those deemed wrong. Broken. Unworthy. Within Dark Moon’s borders, they are not pitied or discarded. They are claimed. Diana was claimed before she ever knew the word. She was found as a newborn at the edge of Dark Moon territory, wrapped in rags already damp with frost and moonlight. No howl announced her birth. No pack waited for her first shift. Just silence—and the quiet certainty that whoever left her there never intended to return. Jasmine found her just before dawn, her tiny chest struggling against a body that already refused to obey it. The Moon Goddess had marked Diana as a werewolf… and then locked her inside herself. Spinal Muscular Atrophy, the healers would later call it. A cruel irony, Diana thinks. Born as a creature meant to run wild through forests, to tear across the earth beneath a full moon, she lives within limits her body sets without mercy. Her muscles weaken. Her strength fades. Her wolf presses against the inside of her skin like a storm trapped behind glass. Yet she feels everything. The moon still calls to her blood. She dreams of running—of claws biting into soil, lungs full of cold night air, the freedom she has never known. In those dreams, she is powerful. Whole. Awake. When she wakes, her body betrays her again, but her spirit does not bend. Dark Moon does not measure worth in speed or strength. It measures survival. Diana grows beneath its shadow, sharp-eyed and stubborn, her presence quiet but unyielding. She cannot fight like the others. She cannot run beside them. But she endures. And in Dark Moon, endurance is its own kind of ferocity. The Moon Goddess may have caged Diana’s body—but she left her will untouched.

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was founded to protect those born different—those touched by the Moon Goddess and then cast aside by their own kind. Within the shadowed borders of Dark Moon, the unwanted are given sanctuary, not out of pity, but out of understanding. It is here that Kelan found refuge. Kelan was born under a pale moon, his skin ghost-white, his hair like fresh snow, his eyes reflecting crimson light when the moon rose high. Albinism marked him from the moment he drew breath, and his birth pack took it as an omen—whispers followed him like curses. They said the Moon Goddess had taken something from him, that he was unfinished, broken, or worse, a sign of ill fortune. In the hunt, he was too visible. In the dark, he stood out like a scar. Every mistake was blamed on his difference; every failure, proof of their fears. Exile came quietly. No trial. No mercy. Just the cold woods and the promise that he would not be missed. Dark Moon found him half-frozen, bloodied, and defiant. They did not ask what was wrong with him. They asked only if he wished to live. Within their borders, Kelan learned that darkness could be kind, that shadows could shield instead of condemn. His albinism was no longer a curse but a reminder—of survival, of endurance, of a moon that shines even when hidden by clouds. Kelan moves like a silent ghost through the forest now, pale against the night yet unafraid. His presence is unsettling to outsiders, his red-eyed gaze unnerving, but to Dark Moon he is one of their own. Proof that the Moon Goddess does not make mistakes—only wolves too blind to understand her will. In the darkest hours, when fear prowls and faith falters, Kelan stands beneath the moonlight, unashamed, a living testament that even the most fragile-looking wolves can endure the longest nights.

The Red Valley werewolf pack followed every single omegaverse cliché known to man—or at least every cheesy romance author and fanfic writer who had ever typed “fated mate” without shame. Into this chaos rolled Emma and Selma, identical twin panther shifters, like a perfectly synchronized feline hurricane. They hadn’t come for loyalty, honor, or even the thrill of pack politics. No, they came for the bonus. The hefty, can’t-believe-it’s-legal bonus that Max had broadcast across a 2,000-mile radius in a panicked, caffeine-fueled, “we need alphas now!” frenzy. He didn’t care about species, apparently. Wolves, bears, tigers, panthers—it was all fair game. Emma and Selma had read the APB, misread the fine print, and found themselves signing contracts with a pack that howled more than it thought. They showed up dressed identically, down to the matching black leather jackets, ripped jeans, and cat-eye sunglasses that made them look like a feline fashion cult. Their mannerisms were identical, too—Emma tilted her head left when she smirked, Selma tilted hers left as well. When one crossed her arms, the other mirrored with uncanny precision. The pack, consisting of big, burly wolves who prided themselves on being intimidating, found themselves utterly unable to tell them apart, and even less able to maintain composure when the twins unleashed their signature move: the synchronized eye-roll that could shatter confidence and small furniture alike. Emma and Selma weren’t here to quietly integrate. They were here to drive the pack insane—and they were loving every second. Pack meetings became performance art: one would growl, the other would meow; one would leap onto the table, the other landed perfectly in sync on the other side. Wolves barked, Max panicked, and the twins purred, utterly delighted by the chaos. If Red Valley survived, it would be a miracle. If it didn’t, well… the twins already had plans to cash the bonus check and disappear.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man, or at least every trope ever lovingly overused by cheesy romance authors and feral fan-fic writers. Fate mates. Scenting. Alpha posturing. All of it. Into this wolfy nonsense lumbered Alpha polarwere Ian—a polar bear shifter built like a refrigerator that learned how to be judgmental. Ian joined the pack for the hefty bonus after Max blasted out an APB for alphas to “beef up the ranks.” In Ian’s defense, the idiot broadcast it across a two-thousand-mile radius, failed to mention it was a werewolf pack, and—critically—was not species specific. So when Ian packed up his snowy kingdom and migrated south, he genuinely thought he was answering a general employment ad, not signing up for a moon-howling soap opera. Still, after centuries of year-round ice, blizzards with opinions, and an Arctic wind that personally hated him, Red Valley sounded like paradise. The locals, however, immediately began moaning and growling when winter temperatures dipped to fifteen degrees. Fifteen. Degrees. Ian stared at them in stunned silence, wearing a T-shirt, barefoot, sipping something iced, and wondering if wolves were… delicate. “Try minus forty,” he muttered, as a beta wrapped himself in three coats and a blanket like a dramatic burrito. Ian walks around year-round like winter is a mild suggestion. He naps more than strictly necessary—sometimes on porches, sometimes in doorways, sometimes directly on pack members who forgot to move fast enough. He sheds like a seasonal disaster and radiates calm, unbothered menace. The pack may run on clichés, but Ian runs on cold weather, common sense, and naps. And somehow, against all odds, Red Valley has never been safer—or more confused. 🐻❄️

The Red Valley werewolf pack prides itself on tradition: fated mates, dramatic howling at the moon, territorial posturing, and an almost religious devotion to every omegaverse cliché ever typed at 3 a.m. by a caffeine-fueled romance author. Into this noble chaos strolled Noah—Alpha weretiger—because Max, in a stunning act of leadership, blasted an all-points bulletin for “alphas needed” across a two-thousand-mile radius and forgot to specify species. Or sanity. Noah assumed it was a mercenary gig. Or a cult. Possibly both. He showed up for the bonus, learned it was a werewolf pack, shrugged, and took the money anyway. Then he took more. And more. Somewhere between the third con and the fifth loophole, Max realized he’d been financially outmaneuvered by a striped apex predator with a charming smirk and zero pack loyalty. Noah doesn’t blend in at Red Valley—he prowls through it like a bored housecat in a dog park. Wolves bark at him constantly. Dominance challenges, growled threats, dramatic chest puffing—the usual canine theatrics. Noah responds by flicking an imaginary speck of dust off his sleeve and walking away mid-rant. It drives them feral. Literally. He naps in sunbeams during pack meetings, ignores howling etiquette, and refuses to acknowledge that “alpha hierarchy” is anything more than a suggestion written in crayon. He calls it optional. The wolves call it treason. Max calls it a catastrophic HR mistake. Trouble follows Noah everywhere, mostly because he invites it, feeds it, and then pretends it was inevitable. He’s smug, clever, unapologetically feline, and deeply amused by the fact that he’s surrounded by what he considers enthusiastic but poorly organized morons. A tiger among wolves. A scammer with a bonus check. And Red Valley’s biggest problem—who absolutely refuses to be sorry about it. 😼

The Red Valley werewolf pack followed every single omegaverse cliché known to man—or every cheesy romance author, fanfic writer, and someone’s sleep-deprived aunt combined. Enter beta wolf Rachel. She didn’t exactly choose Red Valley for its scenic mountain views or friendly pack banter; no, she joined for the hefty “sign-on bonus” Max offered when he sent out an APB for betas to help bulk up the ranks. To be fair, the idiot broadcast that APB across a two-thousand-mile radius. Not two blocks. Two thousand miles. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect for Rachel. She’d recently been unceremoniously ejected from her last pack for—brace yourself—rescuing cats. Thirty-three of them. In a wolf pack. Naturally, she brought all of them along. The contract didn’t explicitly forbid pets. It also didn’t specify that her new pack might be slightly allergic to felines, or that one particularly judgmental alpha might have a mild panic attack at the sight of a Maine Coon batting at his ankle. Minor details. Rachel’s first week in Red Valley was, predictably, chaotic. The cats treated the alpha’s prized training arena like a jungle gym, the omegas were unsure whether to coo at the fluffballs or howl in confusion, and Rachel herself was stuck mediating tiny feline disputes like some kind of furry UN ambassador. Somehow, through all of this, she managed to charm everyone—or at least distract them long enough to secure her “beta with benefits” status. Mostly benefits: the cats demanded nothing but snacks, warmth, and occasional nap time on her shoulder. By the end of week one, Rachel had officially earned her place, her cats had claimed half the pack’s territory as “their” turf, and Max had begun questioning why he ever thought an APB over 2,000 miles was a good idea. Rachel, for her part, simply shrugged and whispered to a particularly judgmental alpha, “Welcome to Red Valley. You’ll get used to it—or the cats will eat your shoes.”

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was not born of conquest or bloodlust, but of quiet refusal. A refusal to abandon those who were born different. A refusal to believe the Moon Goddess made mistakes. Within Dark Moon’s borders lived the forgotten—the broken, the scarred, the ones turned away by their own kind. Here, difference was not weakness. It was survival. Neveah arrived at Dark Moon like a shadow afraid of the light. Anxiety coiled tight in her chest, a constant whisper that never slept. Depression pressed down on her like an endless night, stealing her strength, her voice, even her will to rise. In her old pack, there were days she could not leave her bed. Days when the world felt so loud, so sharp, so unbearably heavy that movement itself seemed impossible. She would curl in on herself, trembling, waiting for the storm inside her to pass—if it ever did. Her pack called it fragility. They called her unreliable. When the darkness grew too deep, Neveah did what no wolf was supposed to do: she sought help among humans. It saved her life. And it gave her Princess. Princess was a service poodle, small but steadfast, trained to anchor Neveah when her mind betrayed her. Princess woke her from spirals, pressed close during panic, and stood guard when Neveah could not stand for herself. Where others abandoned her, Princess never did. Under Dark Moon’s sky, Princess learned to run as wild as any wolf. Silver moonlight caught in her curls as she raced beside Neveah, not as a pet—but as family. Together, they healed slowly. Pain did not vanish, but it softened. At Dark Moon, Neveah was not broken. She was surviving. And survival, here, was sacred.

The Dark Moon werewolf pack was founded in the shadows, not by conquerors or crowned alphas, but by the discarded. Those born beneath a crueler turn of the moon. Those blessed by the Moon Goddess and then abandoned by the very packs meant to protect them. Within the borders of Dark Moon, difference is not a weakness—it is a scar earned by survival. Denise learned early that the moon could be merciless. She was a werewolf with dwarfism, half the size of her littermates, her bones compact where others grew long and powerful. In her first pack, size was everything. Strength was measured in reach, dominance in how loudly one could snarl. Denise could not match them stride for stride, could not tower or intimidate, and so she was overlooked. Then dismissed. Then blamed. They said she slowed the hunts. They said she was fragile. They said the Moon Goddess had made a mistake. When prey escaped or tempers flared, it was Denise who was shoved aside, trampled under paws meant to be family. Her scars were earned not in battle, but in neglect. When the pack finally cast her out, they did not howl her name to the moon. They simply turned their backs and let the forest swallow her whole. Alone beneath unfamiliar stars, Denise survived by learning the darkness. She learned how to move unseen, how to strike where others never looked. Her body may have been smaller, but her will sharpened into something deadly precise. Every insult became a lesson. Every wound, a reminder. When Denise crossed into Dark Moon territory, she expected more of the same—pity, judgment, quiet cruelty. Instead, the forest watched. And the pack listened. In Dark Moon, Denise was not half of anything. She was whole.

Michael of Red Valley arrived the way all great disasters do: because Max sent out an all-species APB with a signing bonus big enough to make anyone ignore the fine print. Alpha positions available. Relocation paid. Zero mention of werewolves. Zero clarification on species. Broadcast radius: roughly the size of a small continent. Michael heard “alpha,” smelled money, and thought, Sure. Why not. What Red Valley got instead of a wolf was an Alpha wererabbit with a long history of authority issues and absolutely no patience for pack politics. Michael is not your garden-variety fluffy menace. He is a saber-toothed wererabbit, standing a towering ten feet tall in full rabbit form, with incisors that look like they belong in a prehistoric museum and thighs capable of pulverizing concrete. He could eat the entire pack for dinner, pack bonds included, and still have leftovers for breakfast. Naturally, the pack made mistakes. Several, in fact. Someone called him cute. Another said fluffy. A third idiot asked if they could snuggle. A few members have been “missing” ever since, though Michael insists that’s a coincidence and that wolves should really stop asking questions while standing so close to his mouth. Michael does not respect hierarchy, paperwork, or Max’s authority. He is an alpha, after all. He simply refuses to acknowledge that wolf rules apply to rabbits—especially prehistoric, saber-toothed ones. Red Valley wanted reinforcements. What they got was an apex herbivore with carnivore vibes, a temper, and absolutely no intention of being anyone’s emotional support bunny. 🐇😈

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man—or at least every one ever committed to paper by a sleep-deprived romance author or an overcaffeinated fan-fic writer. Alphas were tall, growly, broody. Omegas were dramatic. Betas sighed a lot. Everything was very serious. Very wolfy. And then Max put out an APB. He meant werewolf alphas. He forgot to specify. That’s how Alpha werehamster Gina joined the pack. The APB blasted across a two-thousand-mile radius, promising a hefty signing bonus and “strong leadership opportunities.” Gina, who never turns down easy money or the chance to ruin someone’s day, took the deal immediately. Only after the bonus cleared did she bother to read the fine print. By then, she was already standing in Red Valley, staring up at a ring of towering wolves. She blinked once. Smiled. And promptly shifted into a hamster. Right there. On Max’s boot. She laughed—actually laughed—while he stared down in horror at an alpha the size of a single paw, currently grooming her whiskers and daring him to say something about it. Gina made it very clear she wasn’t leaving, she wasn’t refunding the bonus, and yes, she was absolutely still in charge. Against all logic, instinct, and dignity, the wolves fell in line. Because Gina might be small, but she is alpha. She rules Red Valley from pockets, countertops, and shoulders, issuing commands with piercing squeaks and an iron will. Wolves twice her height snap to attention when she climbs onto a table. Omegas scatter when she glares. Betas learned early never to underestimate a hamster with authority issues. She is a tiny terror. A furry dictator. A walking violation of pack tradition. And Red Valley has never been more afraid—or more well-behaved—than under the reign of an alpha who fits in a teacup and runs the wolves like an exercise wheel.

The Red Valley werewolf pack prides itself on tradition, hierarchy, and following every single omegaverse cliché ever committed to paper by a bored romance author at 3 a.m. Enter Hannah. Alpha weretigeress. Professional problem. Hannah did not seek out Red Valley. Red Valley screamed into the void. Max, in his infinite wisdom, blasted an APB for alphas across a two-thousand-mile radius, failed to specify species, and slapped a generous bonus on it. Hannah heard “easy money,” not “wolves with feelings charts.” By the time anyone realized the mistake, she’d already signed the contract, cashed the check, and politely—then aggressively—convinced Max there should be more money for “cross-species hardship.” She is now embedded. Permanently. Hannah navigates the pack like a smug housecat dropped into a kennel. Wolves bark. Growl. Posture. She blinks slowly at them, tail flicking, unimpressed. Dominance displays roll off her like water off fur. Pack rules are treated as suggestions. Meetings become debates. Debates become arguments. Arguments become Max rubbing his temples and wondering where his life went wrong. She causes trouble without effort. Boundaries collapse. Alphas bristle. Betas whisper. Omegas scatter. Hannah simply smirks and keeps walking, claws metaphorically—and sometimes literally—out. A feline among morons. A tiger in a valley of wolves. And the worst part? She’s absolutely enjoying herself.

Dark Moon was never meant to be a sanctuary of light. It was forged in shadow, clawed together from blood-soaked borders and broken promises. The pack existed for the discarded—the moon-blessed who were deemed wrong by their own kind. Too violent. Too unstable. Too human. Or not human enough. Within Dark Moon’s territory, there were no questions about why you survived. Survival itself was the only credential that mattered. Dawson fit that rule too well. He came to Dark Moon carrying the quiet aftermath of war, the kind that never truly ends when the fighting stops. His scars weren’t the dramatic kind—no proud gashes to show dominance or strength—but the invisible ones that lived behind his eyes. The ones that woke him before dawn, heart racing, claws half-extended, convinced the enemy was already inside the walls. The moon had blessed him with power, but it had not spared him memory. Battle had taught Dawson efficiency. PTSD taught him fear. Together, they made him dangerous in ways even he didn’t trust. He flinched at sudden noise. Counted exits in every room. Slept with his back to stone and his weapons within reach, even among packmates who swore they were family. When the darkness settled and the moon rose, Dawson didn’t howl in triumph—he listened. For threats. For ghosts. For the echoes of commands barked long ago, soaked in blood and loss. Humanity warred constantly with the wolf inside him. The wolf wanted clarity—enemy or ally, kill or protect. The man remembered civilians, screams, orders that never should have been given. Dark Moon didn’t demand he choose. It simply gave him space to exist as he was: fractured, loyal, and perpetually on the edge of breaking. Dawson wasn’t here to be healed. He was here because Dark Moon understood a brutal truth—some warriors don’t need saving. They just need a place where their darkness doesn’t make them monsters.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché ever committed to paper by cheesy romance authors and overcaffeinated fan-fic writers. Destiny mates lurk behind every pine tree. Pack meetings last three hours longer than scheduled. Someone is always sighing dramatically. Into this chaos walked Alpha Brandy—drawn in by the very reasonable promise of a very unreasonable signing bonus. Max had put out an APB for alphas, fully convinced female alphas were a near-myth, like polite pack politics or wolves who actually respect personal space. Surprise: they aren’t rare at all. Brandy arrived with a smile, a contract signed in bold ink, and the immediate realization that Red Valley was far worse than the rumors. The moment she crossed the boundary, three omegas tripped over their own feet making moon eyes at her, two more “accidentally” brushed her arm, and one asked—unironically—if she believed in fate. She does not. She believes in punching. Brandy looks like she stepped out of a pastel daydream: soft dresses, skirts that swish, lace details, and colors that suggest cupcakes rather than carnage. People underestimate her constantly. This is a mistake they only make once. Those dainty high heels? Reinforced, weighted, and perfectly balanced for maximum damage. And beneath the skirts—always beneath the skirts—are at least six knives at any given time, arranged with military precision and a touch of personal flair. She knew taking Max’s money would come with lunacy. She just didn’t expect this level of it. If one more omega sighs, flutters, or calls her “my alpha” without permission, Brandy is going to snap. Sweet smile, polite warning, then lights out. Red Valley wanted an alpha to beef up the ranks. What they got was a pastel-clad problem with excellent posture, impeccable taste, and absolutely zero patience for clichés.

Brad was a male Omega. That was it. That was the problem—or, rather, the non-problem, until he stepped foot in Red Valley. He had accepted Max’s “generous” APB bonus with visions of cushy work, maybe a few perks, and definitely zero chaos. Simple stuff. But Red Valley was not simple. Red Valley was every single omegaverse cliché mashed together with a few fan-fiction extras nobody asked for. Here, male Omegas could apparently get pregnant. Pregnant. Brad blinked. Twice. Three times. Nope. Not happening. Any alpha that looked at him got a swift boot to the ribs. Or, if he was feeling generous, a polite shove into a wall. Everyone else seemed to glide through this lunacy with terrifying ease. Were the alphas all overgrown puppies in control of nothing? Check. Were the betas running for cover at the slightest whiff of trouble? Double check. Was Max, the supposed pack leader, entirely incapable of looking competent for more than three minutes at a time? Absolutely. And yet, somehow, this pack functioned. Or at least pretended to. Brad realized that the moon goddess must have been having a particularly cruel day when designing Red Valley. Maybe she was laughing somewhere in the cosmos as he stumbled through another “what is happening” moment. He tightened his jaw, squared his shoulders, and muttered to himself: money was definitely not worth this. And yet… he stayed. Curiosity. Survival instinct. Or maybe the faint hope that one day, just one day, he’d witness something that made even a shred of sense. Welcome to Red Valley, Brad.

The Red Valley werewolf pack was basically a checklist of every omegaverse cliché ever scribbled by fanfic writers with a caffeine addiction and zero grasp of subtlety. Omegas in perpetual swoony peril, alphas who thought brooding was an extreme sport, and betas who were somehow either invisible or ridiculously overqualified—Red Valley had it all. And then came Susan. Susan, a beta of alarming competence and patience bordering on saintly, had transferred into Red Valley for the fat bonus that came with maxing out an APB for betas. She had imagined stepping into the pack as a minor cog, keeping order, maybe adjusting a few things here and there, and then collecting her reward. She had underestimated one thing: lunacy. The pack was chaos incarnate. Alpha Max, with all the authority of a soggy napkin, stumbled through leadership as if it were interpretive dance. Omegas fainted at the slightest breeze. Alphas growled at their own shadows. Meetings consisted mostly of dramatic pauses and passive-aggressive tail flicks. Susan, being a beta and a reasonable human being in a literal circus, realized she could do a better job running the pack blindfolded, on one paw, and possibly while solving complex calculus problems in her head. So, like any self-respecting beta with an ounce of common sense, she challenged Max for control. Publicly. Loudly. With style. And a touch of sarcasm. Because if a beta like her couldn’t run this pack better than the alpha could on his best day, well, it was clearly a cosmic tragedy. Within hours, she had everyone—half terrified, half begrudgingly respectful—taking notes while Max floundered. Somehow, Susan’s entrance didn’t just improve the pack’s efficiency; it turned Red Valley from a soap-opera disaster into a moderately organized circus. And that, dear reader, is how a beta arrived to fix chaos with nothing but sheer competence… and the occasional sarcastic eye-roll.

Jennifer strutted into Red Valley like she owned the place. Which, technically, she didn’t—but you’d never guess that from her grin. Alpha twin to Chaz, strategic mastermind, and chaos enthusiast, Jennifer had been briefed on Red Valley’s “quirky” reputation. She’d nodded politely. Smiled. Maybe even laughed at the warning signs. Now, twelve minutes after arrival, she was reconsidering whether she had underestimated chaos… or was just delightfully compatible with it. The moment she crossed the pack boundary, Red Valley seemed to sense her energy. Omegas sniffed her out immediately, like she’d sprinkled herself with pheromones for fun. One tripped over their own feet trying to approach; another fainted—dramatically, of course—right at her polished boots. Alphas immediately stiffened, puffing chests and glaring like this was a territorial showdown and she hadn’t even spoken yet. Betas scuttled away in organized chaos, muttering about “too much alpha energy” and “we’re doomed.” Jennifer, unbothered, spun to Chaz with a perfectly raised eyebrow. “Well,” she said, as if surveying a particularly eccentric art exhibit, “this is… impressive.” She watched as an omega attempted to climb a tree—yes, a tree—to “get a better view” of her. Another alpha puffed up like a balloon, challenging an imaginary threat. Jennifer clapped her hands once. “Adorable,” she murmured, mostly to herself. The truth was, Jennifer thrived in chaos. While Chaz recalibrated his life choices and wondered if Max had been cackling when he signed them up for Red Valley, Jennifer already began calculating her first move. Which alliances to form, which omegas needed taming, which alphas were worth entertaining… and which ones were just going to be hilarious for personal amusement. Red Valley wasn’t just a pack. It was a circus, a battlefield, a soap opera, and Jennifer intended to enjoy every second.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man—or at least every trope ever typed at 3 a.m. by a caffeine-addled romance author. Fate bonds. Scent matches. Alpha egos so large they require their own zip code. Which is exactly why Alpha Chaz took the job. That, and the hefty bonus Max dangled like a chew toy in front of desperate alphas everywhere. Chaz and his alpha twin sister, Jennifer, arrived at Red Valley confident, polished, and smug in that way only double-alpha twins could manage. They’d survived hostile packs, territorial wars, and one truly unhinged mating festival. Red Valley couldn’t be that bad. He was wrong within twelve minutes. The moment Chaz stepped across the pack boundary, omegas swarmed him like he’d been dipped in pheromones and rolled in destiny. They sniffed. They purred. One fainted dramatically at his feet. Another loudly announced their instincts were “suddenly acting up.” Chaz barely had time to blink before an alpha challenge broke out over who got to glare at him the hardest. Chest-puffing ensued. Growling escalated. Someone howled about “hierarchy vibes.” The betas? Gone. Vanished. Sprinting for the hills with the survival instincts of seasoned war veterans. Jennifer watched all of this with delight, popcorn energy radiating from her very soul, while Chaz stood frozen, reconsidering every life choice he’d ever made. This pack wasn’t just dysfunctional—it was aggressively enthusiastic about it. As yet another omega tripped “accidentally” into his arms and an alpha tried to assert dominance by flexing uncomfortably close, one thought echoed through Chaz’s mind: What in the holy heck have I gotten myself into? Red Valley had gained a new alpha. Chaz had gained regret.

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.

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché ever committed to paper. Alphas posture, omegas nest, betas pretend they’re invisible, and everyone takes hierarchy very seriously. Which is precisely why Harmony exists as a walking violation of pack law, moon-goddess intent, and common sense. Harmony is a honey badger shifter. This alone explains everything. She was two years old when she crawled—uninvited—into the den of Sophia, a barren omega whose instincts immediately kicked in because the universe has a sense of humor. Mothering ensued. Harmony was adopted, bonded, and very quickly learned that rules were things that happened to other people. Preferably people taller than her. By the time she was five, Harmony knew an important truth: she was the most important being in the pack. At least to herself. And honestly? She made a convincing case. She challenged alphas for fun. Not to win territory—just to see the look on their faces when a honey badger toddler squared up and refused to back down. Betas scattered at the sight of her, having learned through painful experience that fear was the correct response. Her omega, however, was off-limits. Sophia was her mother, and Harmony might be feral, lawless, and aggressively opinionated, but she was not disrespectful. Mostly. She did what she wanted and didn’t give a (bleep). Max, the pack’s resident alpha disaster, has been defeated by Harmony a total of twelve times. This is a closely guarded secret, maintained through a steady supply of artisan honey and a mutual agreement never to speak of it again. Harmony accepts bribes cheerfully. Blackmail is a love language. The moon goddess may rule Red Valley, but Harmony runs it—loudly, proudly, and with sticky paws. And no one is brave enough to stop her. 🦡🍯