Divorce: The High Alpha's Greatest Mistake

Eudora Whitlock POV

"Take your clothes off the floor and put this on," Leighton Ashford's voice cuts through the dim light of the primary chamber, cold and stripped of any heat.

Eudora's hands tremble as she pulls the silk tunic over her head, her skin still burning from where his mark refused to take. The sharp scent of rut, white sage, and lingering sweat fills the heavy air of the Silvermoon Grand Lodge. Beyond the frosted glass of the adjoining bath, the roar of water mask the silence between them. Her legs ache, her thighs bruised purple from the sheer, merciless force of his hips crashing against hers moments ago. He had mated with her like a beast driven by dark instincts, taking her body until she cried out, yet his wolf had remained completely silent, locked away behind an icy wall.

She bends down, her spine stiffening with pain as she gathers the discarded linens from the stone floor. She clears the remnants of their intimate heat, opening the heavy timber lattice to let the freezing mountain breeze sweep out the scent of their junction. For two years, she lived as his shadow. Leighton Ashford is the High Alpha of the Frostmere Dominion, master of Ashford Moon Holdings, a wolf whose whisper commands entire packs across the continent. She is just an Omega born without a prestigious bloodline, elevated to his side through a sudden, unexpected decree. She spends every waking moment caring for his den, tending to his daily routine, ensuring that the ruthless High Alpha has a peaceful sanctuary to return to.

The bath stops running. Leighton steps out, wrapping a heavy dark robe around his broad chest. Golden skin, carved muscle, and wet dark hair frame a face that looks like it was sculpted by ancient gods.

"I cleared the sheets," Eudora says softly, her voice barely carrying across the rug. "You should rest. The pack council meets at dawn."

Leighton does not look at her. He walks directly to the heavy ironwood desk, pulls a thick parchment document from the top drawer, and tosses it onto the leather mattress between them.

"Sign it," he says, his tone completely flat.

Eudora reaches out, her small fingers touching the rough edge of the paper. "What is this, Leighton?"

He does not answer. Instead, he sparks a flint, lighting a dark leaf cigar. Heavy grey smoke curls around his jawline, masking his amber eyes behind a shifting cloud.

Eudora unfolds the parchment. The bold black ink at the top of the hide pierces her eyes like a silver blade.

SEVERANCE OF PACK BOND AND DIVORCE OF CONSORT

The air leaves her lungs in a sickening rush. Her vision blurs. The blood drains from her face so fast her head spins, and the parchment slips from her fingers, fluttering down to the fur rug near her bare feet.

"You want... to sever our bond?" Eudora whispers, her voice breaking on the last word. "A divorce?"

Just ten minutes ago, his mouth was on her neck. His hands were gripping her waist, thrusting into her with a violent, consuming passion that made her believe, even for a second, that he belonged to her. Now he stands three feet away, smoking casually, tossing away their marriage like dirt off his boots.

"Yes," Leighton says, exhaling a thin stream of grey smoke toward the ceiling.

"Why?" She takes a step back, her back hitting the cold wooden post of the canopy bed. "Why now? What did I do wrong?"

She had loved him with every breath in her body. When he brought her into the Frostmere Dominion, every elder in the pack had sneered at her lowborn blood. Yet Leighton had stood before the Great Oak, named her his Alpha Consort, and forced the entire pack to bow. He took her to the Silverfang Market Hall, bought her rare jewels, solved the territorial disputes tearing her mother’s small clan apart, and returned to their bed every night without fail. She thought she was living a fairy tale written by the Moon Goddess.

Leighton turns his amber gaze onto her. The golden light in his eyes is completely dead.

"Sybil Hargrove has returned from the Northern Wastes," Leighton says, his voice devoid of any hesitation. "My true Fated Mate is back. I love her, Eudora. Not you."

A physical tear seems to rip through Eudora’s chest. The bedpost digs into her spine, but she barely feels it. She looks into the eyes of the High Alpha, searching for a single trace of the man who held her through the freezing winters, but there is nothing left. Only an Alpha standing over an Omega who has outlived her purpose.

Eudora digs her fingernails into the wooden bedside table, pressing so hard the pine splinters slice deep beneath her skin. Droplets of red blood pool on the polished surface, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the roaring void inside her soul.

She swallows the burning metallic taste in her throat, looks him straight in the eyes, and nods once.

"Alright," Eudora says softly.

Leighton pulls a heavy silver signet ring from his pocket and sets it on the table beside her bleeding hand. "Sign the parchment tonight. The Moon-Bond Attorney, Percival Sloane, will arrive at the Silvermoon Grand Lodge before the sun rises to seal the papers. You will leave for the Northmoon Estates by midday."

He turns his back on her, walking toward the outer balcony without another word.

Eudora kneels on the floor, her knees hitting the hard stone. She picks up the iron quill resting beside the inkwell, her hand trembling violently as she hovers the tip over the signature line reserved for the Alpha Consort. Before the ink can touch the hide, a deafening horn blasts across the courtyard of the lodge—three long, agonizing notes signaling an emergency call from the Alpha Matriarch.

A guard slams the heavy chamber doors open without knocking, his face pale as chalk. "High Alpha! The Moon-Bond Attorney was just ambushed on Southmoon Road! They found his carriage destroyed, and he left a final message written in blood with your name on it!"