Brandy

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.