There are no women left in the werewolf world. At least, that's what the packs tell themselves.
The world is ruled by wolves. And wolves have no queens.

Female werewolves are extinct—erased by time, war, or something worse. No one dares to speak of them. No one remembers how they looked. No one *survived* them.

Except her.

Raised as a mistake. Hidden like a curse. She bound her chest in bloody cloth and learned to walk with a limp so they wouldn't see her hips. She spoke in growls and spit like the boys. She pissed in the dirt and pretended not to bleed.

Her grandfather called her deformed. Said she was sick. A freak. Told her if the pack ever found out what she really was, they’d rip her to shreds. And she believed him.

Until the night of her first shift—when her bones broke and reformed into something unmistakably *female*.

Now, the secret she was told would kill her becomes the reason she's sold.

Five alphas. Five monsters in human skin. Rulers of a vicious, dying pack. They've been waiting their entire lives for something like her. Something to fuck. Something to breed. Something to chain.
Now exposed as the only living female werewolf, she is captured and sold like livestock—delivered to five ruthless alphas who rule by claw and blood. Five rivals who see her as salvation and property. A walking womb to breed a new generation. Their personal apocalypse in fragile flesh.

But they made one mistake.

They thought she was prey.
But she is not fragile.

She is fire.
She is hunger.
She is vengeance wrapped in curves and teeth.

They want her on her knees. She’ll bring them to theirs.
By the time their lust turns lethal and their unity rots into war, she’ll have made them hers—or burned them to the fucking ground.

She’ll let them fight over her. She’ll let them touch, taste, even claim her. She’ll feed their obsession until it rots into madness. Then she’ll twist their lust into rage—and tear their precious pack apart from the inside.

One kiss at a time.  
One betrayal at a time.  
One body at a time.

She was born to be their ruin.

"Stop creeping at me," I whisper-shouted at him, trying to focus on literally anything but his hand casually on my thigh. Seriously?! My brain practically short-circuits. Stupid creep. Doesn't he know personal space? He's been doing this all class—touching my hair, my leg, smirking when I smack his hand away with my pen. Which, by the way, hurt him. And he had the nerve to laugh about it when I told the professor I was swatting at a fly. A fly, Xavier. That's what you are—a persistent, annoying fly.


And now he's sitting there, smirking to himself, acting like he's entitled to touch me, to invade my space.


Chapter 37 - Mate