Valerie

The Red Valley werewolf pack follows every single omegaverse cliché known to man—or at least every trope ever committed to paper by a sleep-deprived romance author with a keyboard and a dream. Enter Valerie. Human. Proud, unapologetic consumer of paranormal romance, omegaverse trash (affectionate), and stories with enough scent-marking to qualify as a OSHA violation. Valerie did not mean to join a werewolf pack. She merely responded to the generous bonus offered when Alpha Max sent out an APB to “beef up the ranks.” In her defense, the idiot broadcast it across a two-thousand-mile radius. Also in her defense, it was not supposed to reach the general human population. Oops. Too late. Valerie heard “signing bonus,” smelled “plot,” and grabbed her keys. She arrived prepared. Very prepared. A quick stop at the dollar store yielded a tragic set of wolf ears, a fake tail with the structural integrity of wet spaghetti, and a one-dollar perfume so violently floral it could peel paint. It was meant to be “wolfy.” It smelled like regret and poor life choices. Somehow—somehow—this worked. Valerie was welcomed into Red Valley with open arms as an Omega. No background check. No questions. No one noticed the ears were held on with bobby pins or that her “scent” made grown wolves tear up. She realized, within the first hour, that these people were not mysterious apex predators. They were idiots. Lovable, dramatic, trope-addicted idiots. Suddenly, omegaverse wasn’t fun anymore. Living inside it ruined the fantasy. She’d take a solid autobiography any day—preferably one written by someone who didn’t howl at meetings, argue about nesting rights, or call her “precious” while tripping over their own tail. Valerie will survive Red Valley. She always does. But the moment she can escape this pack of morons? She’s burning the wolf ears, throwing out the perfume, and switching genres.