Claimed by the Alpha In the Supply Store
Local Supply Store #412- Episode 1
"Mine," Alpha Ryker Nightblood Moonfang growled alpha-ly, his twelve-pack abs trembling beneath the sacred tattoos of his lineage as the moon itself submitted respectfully to his dominance.
"Sir, this is a Tractor Supply."
Janice was already turning back to the shelf. He vibrated.
In 847 years, no woman had turned back to a shelf.
His wolf — ancient, terrible, the stuff of mountain legends — watched her heft a fifty-pound bag of Purina Layer Crumbles and said one word. One word that echoed through every chamber of his immortal soul.
She had scoliosis. The bag was heavy. He understood none of this.
"Can you hold this for me?" Janice asked.
She handed him the bag without looking at his face.
Finally, his wolf breathed reverently. She has seen the arms. Behold the arms. BEHOLD—
She was already at the register, digging for her rewards card.
He stood in aisle seven next to the deworming paste and held fifty pounds of chicken feed and activated The Smoulder. He had practiced The Smoulder on the moon itself. The moon had submitted. He deployed it now against the back of her head with his full supernatural force, one shoulder leaned against the shelving unit at the precise angle that best communicated destiny.
She punched in her phone number for the points.
"Did it go through? Sometimes it doesn't take the first time."
The Smoulder continued. Buffering.
"I'm just gonna run my card again."
Becca had worked this register for three years. Becca had seen things. Becca was chewing watermelon gum — had been chewing watermelon gum for six years, would continue to chew watermelon gum until she retired or the world ended, whichever came first — and she scanned the rewards card with the energy of a woman who had already decided how her Tuesday was going to go.
Six foot five of sacred supernatural destiny leaned against her shelving unit doing something with his face.
Greg from produce did that too. It didn't move the line.
Janice turned, looked at him, and picked up a juice and a box of graham crackers from the impulse display.
"And these too." She set them on the belt. "He looks like he needs a snack. Do you need a snack?"
He had survived 847 years. He had been blessed personally by the moon goddess Selunaria Bloodhowl, who had carved his destiny into the stars with her own sacred hands on a Thursday she would later describe as poorly spent. He was heir to a billion-dollar pack empire. Warriors wept at his approach. Territories fell silent. Lesser alphas had offered him everything — land, fealty, their finest—
She got the good juice, his wolf said quietly. The one with the little orange on the box.
The Smoulder softened. Involuntarily. Against all training.
Becca scanned the graham crackers without making eye contact.
"That'll be $4.79 for the snacks."
She was already chewing again. The gum was a metronome. The gum had witnessed things the sacred tattoos could not have prepared him for.
No one had ever offered him a snack before, the narration noted, in the tone it reserved for moments of great significance.
Which was incredible. Given the empire. Given the warriors. Given Selunaria's entire Thursday.
But this woman — holding her rewards card, utterly unbothered, already paid — had looked at him and thought: he seems like he could use some graham crackers.
Something cracked open in his ancient chest and he did not have a name for it.
His wolf had a name for it.
His wolf said: she bought us snacks.
Then Janice went back into her purse.
She knew she had it. She had printed it this morning. It was in here somewhere.
Alpha Ryker Nightblood Moonfang, destroyer of territories, stood holding the Layer Crumbles and watched her check the side pocket.
She is resourceful, his wolf observed, in the reverent tone it usually reserved for prophecy. She plans ahead. She printed the coupon before the journey.
She checked the other side pocket.
This female will see us through winter.
"Oh here it is! It was behind my Joann's card."
Becca scanned the coupon.
The total went down by seventy-five cents and something moved through Ryker's immortal soul that not even Selunaria Bloodhowl — still up there, still holding her pose, full moon deployed over the parking lot since Tuesday for optimal romantic lighting — had prepared him for.
She has the Joann's card too, his wolf whispered.
Up above, Selunaria adjusted her crown.
I blessed the sacred tattoos, she said to the void.
I made the abs, she continued.
I did TWELVE, she added, with feeling.
She watched him standing on the curb next to his blacked-out Range Rover that cost more than the heroine's apartment, holding Layer Crumbles, The Smoulder still technically engaged, vibrating with the full weight of destiny.
He did not have chickens.
Janice had taken the bag back.
Thanks, she had said. You're really strong.
Selunaria closed her eyes.
OKAY, she said, straightening. OKAY. WE GO AGAIN. WE KEEP TRYING.
Becca clocked out for her fifteen.
The gum was still watermelon.
Some things were eternal.
