3. Alpha Dex

Today has been a good day. Dozens of perky, tanned, long-limbed and eager new students arriving. They’re always so eager and ready to start their Assessment.

They’re always so keen to get to know me too. Like her this evening, the one tucked under the archway, she played a good game. Soaked to the skin I could see her pink bra clearly through her top. A very nice introduction, certainly memorable.

Making her blush gave me a little thrill of victory, but then she went and stole my leather jacket. She even rolled her eyes at me but when I got close enough I heard her breath catch.

So I'll give round one to the wet girl, the phrase making me grin all over again. I head back upstairs to my top floor penthouse chuckling at how she tricked me. Perhaps I'll see her again, perhaps someone else will.

Since turning eighteen five years ago, I have done as I please, the privilege of being the Alpha Prince. The Compound, where our best and brightest reside and learn, remains my playground.

Perhaps one day it will be time to get serious. But not yet.

Every year I see their hopeful faces as they head up the flights of stairs to my airy penthouse room, imagining they might be different to the rest. That perhaps, one magical day, with a flutter of their eyelashes, swiftly followed by furious passion, I might fall in love with them.

Or even more impossible, discover we're mates.

Not going to happen. Candidates are purely for fun, they’re not Luna material. Blame my genetic magnetism for making them flock my way. I don’t encourage them.

Not that much anyway. Like I say, they've started queuing at the door now.

Our pack is so shielded from the outside world that finding a mate-bond is a rare occurrence. Most people get to my age and settle with a love match.

My younger sister Rose is constantly griping at me. Apparently, I need to ‘mature’, ‘get a grip’ and accept my responsibilities. She’s just got spare-heir rage.

We all know my father, Alpha Fyrestone, is planning to throw Rose towards another pack as a marriage chip the instant she is required.

That is her future, a glorified chess piece waiting to be manoeuvred. Whereas I am at my leisure.

Our packhouse is in the centre of a grassy, tree-lined compound. It's an old four-storey white-walled building with terracotta roofing.

The rustic cobbled paths weave and interlink the various arched doorways. Many a time I’ve pressed against a panting girl, checking the coast is clear whilst I lift up her skirt.

So yes, Fyrestone, almost constantly hot, is surrounded by vivid fuchsia flowers, vines, olive and fruit trees. Shouldn’t it be paradise?

It’s not, I assure you. We are a relatively small pack, our safety guaranteed by the impenetrable rocky cliff faces that surrounds most of our borders.

Sheer, deathly drops, combined with the thickest, poisonous brambles means over three quarters of our territory is safe from attack, leaving us to nestle in the hot, dusty valley below.

Beyond our compound is the rest of the world, our seat at the table in the Conference of the Six.

Basically the five other packs that make-up our neighbours. Is this boring you? It bores me to fucking tears and it’s my life.

Once my father decides I am no longer an embarrassment it’s my show to run but I feel nothing.

Perhaps I am ready to grow up, for the honking, screeching racket of the arriving women did not inspire me to whip on my black leather jacket and introduce myself today. There is plenty of time for that.

They'll all be queuing up for their hike bus tomorrow, I'll cast my eye over them then and see who stands out.

The Candidates have twelve months to impress the lecturers and specialists into giving them an opportunity to progress.

Fail the Assessment and their role is mining, cleaning, lumberjacks, cooking, the essential servitude needed to keep us all functioning.

/When will we take our role then/ my wolf Alba, snarls as we study the rain.

A powerful, proud beast he is ready to assume command, yet held back by me. Unfortunately for Alba, his human tether much prefers the earthly pleasures of kissing soft lips and producing little moans of pleasure under my touch.

/That inherited charisma is meant to fill your warriors with faith, not just charm women/ Alba scolds. Wolves can be such killjoys.

Standing at the window I watch the rain pound the cobbled streets clean of dust and grime. /Perhaps it's a good omen to start the year with/ Alba remarks as I shrug and carry on.

Let’s see what this year brings.