Werewolf
Bruce and Ruby
166
Bruce was an alpha, technically—broad shoulders, commanding presence, excellent howl—but he lacked Max’s beloved narcissism. He found it inefficient. While Max practiced speeches in reflective puddles, Bruce explored. Ruins, abandoned labs, cursed vaults, and, occasionally, dragon dens. Overgrown lizards, honestly. Dragons just sat on their hoards, glaring possessively at gold they never spent. Bruce, a visionary, believed wealth should circulate. Preferably into his den.
His den, as it happened, looked less like a traditional alpha lair and more like a tech startup after a garage sale. Stolen tablets. Glowing orbs repurposed as mood lighting. A fridge that spoke in three languages and judged him silently. Bruce considered this progress.
Then came the last raid.
Timing, as fate enjoyed proving, was not his strong suit.
Bruce slipped into a ruby-strewn cavern just as an egg cracked. Out popped Dragon Ruby—tiny, furious, and immediately convinced Bruce was hers. She imprinted with all the enthusiasm of a heat-seeking missile. Her parents took one look, shrugged, said “tough luck,” and punted him out of the den with the hatchling tucked under his arm.
Now Bruce had a problem. A fire-breathing, blanket-eating, nest-incinerating problem.
Was she a daughter? A pet? A cursed consequence of theft? He wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that no omega wanted to court an alpha whose child used throw pillows as kindling. Ruby chewed cables, set alarms on fire, and considered everything a snack.
At the last full moon gathering, Ruby set three omegas and ten betas on fire. Accidentally. Mostly.
Bruce was banned from gatherings indefinitely.
Max smirked. The omegas fled. And Bruce went home, sighing, as Ruby curled up in his den and lit it like a cozy, flaming nightlight.
Explorer. Thief. Alpha.
Single dad to a dragon.
Werewolf
