THE ALPHA'S NIGHT OF SIN

Elsa’s POVGetting back from the clinic was pure hell. Every step made me want to scream, like someone had shoved shards of glass into my bones. My legs shook like they didn’t belong to me anymore, my stomach throbbed, and between my thighs, it felt like fire had ripped me apart. I was barely stitched back together and already being forced to walk. The midwives kept offering to take the babies for me, but no. No one was touching them. They were mine. The only good thing left in this whole cursed mess.I held all three close against my chest, breathing in that newborn smell, milk and warmth and something so pure it made my eyes sting. Their little breaths puffed against my skin, tiny fists brushing my collarbone like they were holding on for dear life. Maybe they were. Maybe we all were.By the time I reached my chamber, I was half-dead on my feet. My knees nearly gave out when I lowered myself onto the bed. Every muscle screamed. My back, my legs, even my arms from holding the boys to

Riguel’s POV I am perfection incarnate. That’s the first truth anyone should know about me. The second is that perfection like mine was destined for the throne. Every she-wolf in the Northwest has desired me, even when they swore their loyalty to their weak little mates. Every male has envied me, their snarls, their whispers, their impotent rage only ever proved how much smaller they were compared to me. I never had to prove myself; the proof was in my blood, in my power, in the way eyes followed me when I entered a room.And now here I stand, in the aftermath of the greatest humiliation anyone has dared to stage. Elsa, my Elsa, thought she could ruin me before the entire supernatural community. She thought she could spit venom and strip me of my crown, as if words could undo what I am. I might have lost it now, but I will get it back. The sacred circle still stinks of the smoke and incense of the aborted ceremony. The gasps of the crowd echo in my skull. Their eyes, wide and full o

Elsa’s POVThe moment she stepped through that doorway, I knew.Didn’t need her name, didn’t need her voice, my body just knew. Every instinct screamed danger. My wolf, who’d been sleeping under the weight of normalcy, school runs, office coffee, human routine, suddenly clawed her way up, growling.And then the scent hit me. Pine. Earth. Buried beneath the sour perfume of the city. Blackwood.My pen slipped from my fingers. The papers in front of me blurred, and my stomach just… dropped. It couldn’t be.But it was.As she came closer, weaving between the desks, the air around me tightened. Those eyes. That posture. The way she moved like she was still waiting for someone to strike her.Miriam.My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I hid them under the desk, pretending I was fine, pretending I was Elsa Marin, paralegal, not the ghost of a Luna who ran in the night with her children. Three years. Three whole years of silence, and now my past had just walked into my office.“Elsa?” Marjorie’s

Elsa’s POVI still remember the way the Dhama Tech tower looked that morning, like it was trying to stab the clouds.Steel, glass, and ego.I stood there on the sidewalk, staring up until my neck hurt, wondering what the hell I was doing there. Forty-seven floors of power and polished deceit, and me… with my secondhand briefcase and nerves so tight they could snap.I told myself I belonged there. Whispered it like a prayer. “You’ve got this.”I didn’t believe it, of course. But I said it anyway.Inside my briefcase? Three legal pads, four pens, and one sleepless night’s worth of research on the Whitmore case, a whistleblower going up against Dhama Tech. They were destroying the man piece by piece, and we were supposed to stop them. Pro bono, naturally. Because the universe loves irony.Marcus, our lead attorney, had come down with pneumonia two days before the deposition.So Marjorie looked at me with that bright, fake confidence of hers and said, “You’ll be fine. Killian Hartley’s co

Elsa’s POVIt started with the Dhama Tech case.I thought it was going to be routine, a simple whistleblower suit. We’d protect the little guy, file the paperwork, settle maybe. But no. It blew up.Turns out the company was neck-deep in espionage, bribery, and all the kinds of filth people like Killian Hartley thrive on exposing. Suddenly, we weren’t handling a case. We were detonating a bomb.And me? I got caught in the blast.Three days after our first deposition, Killian dropped a stack of files on my desk that could have crushed me if it fell wrong.“I need you full-time on this,” he said. Just like that. No room for breath, no space to protest.So I said yes. I always do.After that, the office became my home.Sixteen-hour days. Coffee for breakfast. Silence for dinner. Drop the boys off at daycare, work till dark, run home, pretend to be a present mother for two hours, tuck them in, then sneak back to the office while Ms. Rodriguez, bless her heart, keeps my world from collapsin