Candy

In the glorious, dramatically over-scented territory of Red Valley, the pack follows every omegaverse cliché ever scribbled by a sleep-deprived romance writer. There are destiny bonds. There are slow-motion forest confrontations. There is at least one cliff where people dramatically shift during emotional breakthroughs. It’s exhausting. And then there’s Candy. Candy is Max’s half sister—yes, that Max. The self-proclaimed Alpha of Alphas. The man whose ego requires its own zip code. Scientists theorize it would take an asteroid the size of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs to put a dent in his confidence. Candy has personally considered crowdfunding the effort. She’s African American, half human, and blessed with vitiligo in both her human and wolf forms—constellations of pale markings across rich brown skin and fur that make her look like living starlight. The pack whispers about “rare beauty” and “mystic signs.” Candy calls it genetics and moves on. Officially, she passes for a beta. No dramatic pheromone storms. No thunderclap dominance aura. No slow-burn soulmate nonsense following her around. Just competence. Which, unfortunately, means she’s the one constantly cleaning up after Max’s alpha theatrics. Territorial challenge? Candy handles the paperwork. Rival pack insulted? Candy drafts the apology. Max declares a ceremonial howl-off at midnight? Candy reminds him the neighbors have jobs. They share a mother, Janice, who has the patience of a saint and the selective hearing of someone who raised an alpha. Candy does enjoy one small, glittering bragging right: at least their mother didn’t try to get rid of her as a baby. In Red Valley, that counts as a glowing endorsement. While Max is busy posing heroically against the sunset, Candy is diffusing fights, balancing budgets, and quietly ensuring the pack doesn’t implode under the weight of its own dramatic tension.