Emma and Selma

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.