Her Cold-Hearted Alpha

Twenty-one years ago…

It was the night of my thirteenth birthday. A day I should have spent chilling with my friends. The plan was to head down by the canyon, build a bonfire, and act like a bunch of idiots. But something wasn't right. I could feel it, a discordant hum deep in my bones. I’d bailed on them, claiming I wasn’t feeling great, and retreated to the confines of my room.

My emotions were a maelstrom, a chaotic force wreaking havoc within me, desperate for an outlet from the prison of my own body. The air itself felt too thick to breathe, charged with an energy that made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

“Alejandro, what's wrong?” my mom’s soft voice, a gentle melody against the storm in my head, asked from outside my closed door.

“Just leave me alone, please.” The word was a raw whisper, laced with a tremor I couldn't control. It was fear. I felt an abject, primal fear, because something inside me was changing, twisting into a shape I didn't recognize. I gripped the window ledge, my knuckles white, my gaze fixed on the stark, accusing face of the full moon.

“Leave him be. He isn't worth it,” my father’s voice cut through the air, as cold and sharp as splintered ice. He had always hated me. I’d spent my entire childhood trying to figure out why, a puzzle with no solution.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of terror and rage. I hated this feeling. It was as if something was screaming, clawing to be set free. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to find a center, a moment of calm, but it was no use. I could hear them all. Every voice in the entire house, amplified to an unbearable degree. The creak of the floorboards downstairs, the whisper of the wind against the eaves, my parents' footsteps as they walked away. And every poisonous word that left my dad's mouth.

“Ricardo… he’s a child. There must be something wrong,” Mom whispered as they entered their bedroom down the hall. Her concern was a dull balm on a gaping wound.

“He’s a disobedient mutt. There’s nothing wrong with him,” he scoffed. A fiery passion surged through me, so hot it felt like it could melt my bones. Mutt. The word echoed, laced with a venom that was all too familiar. Why? Why the hell did he hate me so much? My own pulse thundered in my ears, a roar that seemed to sync with the malevolent glow of the moon. It was always like this on a full moon, this restless, violent energy. I knew I was a werewolf, but this was different. This wasn't normal, and it wasn't like I even had a wolf yet. Not really.

“I’m not disobedient,” I whispered to the empty room, a futile defense against a lifelong prosecution. What did I ever do wrong? I tried so hard to live up to his impossible standards, but I was never, ever good enough.

“He’s a worthless piece of trash. That one is going to die young. Trust me.”

His words made my blood boil. It was no longer just anger; it was a consuming inferno. My fingernails, suddenly feeling sharp and hard, dug into the wooden window ledge, splintering the paint. A growl, low and guttural, tore from my throat, a sound I had never made before. I saw red, a crimson haze washing over my vision as I spun away from the window and faced the door. I was done. Done listening. Done cowering.

I yanked the door open and stormed down the hall toward my parents’ room. Each antagonizing remark that replayed in my mind fueled the inferno, my anger surging with every step. I didn't knock. I didn't even use the handle. I ripped their door open, the wood screaming in protest as I tore it clean off its hinges. It crashed to the floor with a deafening bang.

My mother screamed, her hand flying to her mouth. My father’s face was a mask of shocked disbelief.

“What the fuck is that…” he whispered, his gaze locked on me, his eyes wide with something I’d never seen in them before when he looked at me: fear. I glared back, a fresh wave of agonizing pain ripping through my entire body. It felt like my bones were simultaneously on fire and shattering into a thousand pieces from the inside out.

“I'm not trash! I'm not disobedient!” I growled, the words barely intelligible through the agony. My own voice was a monstrous baritone, unrecognizable. I couldn't understand what was happening, but I didn't care. Dad’s eyes widened further as he stumbled back, looking up at me. Up? I frowned through the pain. Why was he looking up at me? He was taller than me.

“You worthless mutt! How dare you! What the hell are you!?” Dad roared, trying to regain his footing, his Alpha command lashing out. But it never worked on me. He always hated that. It was the reason for so many beatings, his way of showing me he was still stronger, still in control. But why? Was it such a big deal?

“I am not worthless! Why do you hate me so much?!” I roared back, my voice breaking as my skeleton contorted, reshaping itself into something new and terrible.

“I told you he was a freak…” Dad whispered, his voice dripping with disgust and contempt. That was the final spark. The last thread of my humanity snapped. The red haze consumed everything, and I lunged.

It was a nightmare unfolding, a film I was forced to watch from behind my own eyes. I could see what was happening, but I wasn't in control. I saw my own hands—now black, furry paws tipped with long, wicked claws—tear into my father. I felt nothing but a strange, terrifying calm as his screams echoed and then fell silent. And then, suddenly, everything went black.

When I came to, I was standing naked in my parents’ bedroom. The gentle, summer-country-themed room was gone, replaced by a scene from a slaughterhouse. Shredded body parts littered the floor. Blood was everywhere—on the walls, the floor, the overturned bed. Claw marks, deep and savage, stained every inch of the room. The strong, coppery smell of it tarnished the air, thick and suffocating.

Horror, cold and absolute, washed over me. I stumbled back, my bare feet slipping in a warm puddle. I looked down at my hands. My human hands. They were covered in drying blood. I scanned the floor, my mind refusing to process the carnage. I remembered attacking Dad, but what about Mom? Where was she?

I rushed across the room, scrambling over the upturned bed. I stopped dead in my tracks. On the floor lay a hand, severed at the wrist. It was wearing a ring. Mom’s ring. Mom’s hand.

No…

How could I have…?

No. No. NO.

My heart thundered in my chest, a wild animal trapped in a cage of bone, and I wished I could reverse time, I wished I could die. I had done this. I had murdered my parents, and I had no idea how.

But one thing was sickeningly clear.

Dad was right. I was a freak. A freak of nature. Whatever I had turned into, it wasn't normal.

That was my first shift. The first time I had taken a life.

But it was far from the last.