Connie and Zerica

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every omegaverse cliché ever committed to paper, screen, or poorly edited fan fiction. Omegas nest. Alphas brood. Betas manage spreadsheets. Connie, unfortunately for everyone, read the rulebook once and immediately set it on fire. Omega wolf Connie is done. Done with the hierarchy. Done with the hormones. Done with being told her biological destiny involves scented blankets, submissive sighing, and some Alpha named Brad who thinks “growling” counts as a personality. She is aggressively uninterested in mating, violently allergic to the word “bonded,” and has a deep, philosophical hatred of children. Sticky, shrieking, grabby little goblins. Frankly, a goblin would probably be cleaner. And quieter. And less likely to chew on furniture. So Connie does the unthinkable. She goes to a human doctor. Paperwork is signed. Charts are reviewed. And her uterus is respectfully yeeted into the cold void of space, never to menace her again. The pack howls. The elders faint. The Moon Goddess chokes on her tea. Free at last, Connie immediately adopts a toddler goblin. Her daughter, Zerica, is feral, sharp-toothed, and joyfully uncivilized. Connie could not be prouder. Zerica runs down werewolf pups on all fours, bites harder than they do, and refuses to be housebroken by anything short of brute force and snacks. When the pack complains, Connie just smiles and says, “She’s developing leadership skills.” Motherhood, it turns out, suits Connie perfectly—on her own terms, with a child who hisses at authority and eats bugs with enthusiasm. As for the incident with the pack leader? Connie doesn’t talk about it. The Alpha limps. The hierarchy was briefly rewritten. And no one, absolutely no one, tells Zerica bedtime stories about that night anymore.