The Alpha's Regret The Enemy's Claim

The moon chose me for him, but he said my name like it was a mistake.

I stood in the center of the Iron-Claw Collective's pack hall with three hundred wolves watching, the air thick with the scent of pine and old blood. Torches flickered along the stone walls, casting shadows that jumped and danced across the faces of the pack. My hands were steady, but my heart was not.

Ezekiel Cross stood across from me, tall and broad-shouldered, his silver-gray hair cropped short and his gray eyes cold and distant. He looked everywhere except at me.

I had spent twenty-two years being invisible, twenty-two years being useful, twenty-two years watching people look through me like I was part of the furniture. And now the moon had chosen me for him.

Elara Fritz.

The name echoed through the hall, but it didn't sound like him. It sounded rehearsed, hollow, like he had practiced this moment alone in his chambers.

I waited. The bond pulled at my chest, a tug I had felt from the moment I walked in—the warmth, the certainty that he was mine.

But his face said otherwise.

"Elara Fritz," he said again, louder this time. "The moon has declared you my mate."

I took a breath, small and unnoticed.

"But I reject you."

The words landed like a physical blow. Someone gasped. A few people murmured. I did not move.

"Step forward," he said, his voice clipped and official. "Step forward and accept the rejection."

I did not step forward.

Three hundred wolves stared at me, their eyes on my skin, their judgment soaking into me like cold water. The healer's daughter. The Beta-rank nobody. The girl who had always been useful but never chosen.

I had spent twenty-two years being useful, twenty-two years being invisible, twenty-two years watching people look through me like I was nothing.

I did not step forward. I turned around.

Someone said my name—I think it was Ezekiel—but I did not stop walking. I pushed through the crowd, and wolves parted for me like water. I could feel their shock, their curiosity, their pity, their whispers against my skin.

She's not even crying.

She must have known this was coming.

She's a nobody. Of course he rejected her.

The words cut deeper than I wanted to admit, but I had learned long ago that crying did not change anything. My mother had cried when they took her away. I had cried when they told me she was never coming back. Crying did not save her. Crying did not save me.

I did not stop walking.

The doors of the pack hall were heavy oak, bound in iron. I pushed them open with both hands. The night air hit my face, cold and clean, and the moon was full overhead, high and white and indifferent. She had chosen me. She had given me to a man who had looked at me like I was nothing.

He said my name like it was a mistake.

I walked.

The Iron-Claw territory stretched out in front of me—forest and shadow and open fields. I knew every path, every stream, every hidden clearing. I had grown up here, trained here, healed wolves here with my hands, stitching wounds and grinding roots while they thanked my father instead of me.

I kept walking.

My father was back in the hall. I had seen his face when Ezekiel spoke, pale and terrified and old. He had known this was coming. He had known and he had not told me. He had been suppressing my power my whole life, trying to protect me, and I had never known.

I kept walking.

The forest swallowed me, trees looming tall and dark, the ground soft with fallen leaves. I could hear the pack hall behind me, faint now, muffled by distance.

I had nowhere to go. I knew that. I knew I was walking into nothing. I had no pack now, no status, no home. I had my hands and my training and a power I had never fully understood.

And I had a mate bond that was supposed to tie me to Ezekiel—but it did not feel like his anymore.

I stopped walking.

The forest was quiet. Too quiet. No birds, no wind, just the sound of my own breathing.

What was that?

I closed my eyes. The bond was still there—the one with Ezekiel—but it felt different, duller, like a pulled thread slowly unraveling.

And there was something else. Another thread, another scent, another pull.

I opened my eyes.

The scent was wrong. It did not belong to my pack. It belonged to the other side—the Night-Stalker Syndicate. The enemy.

I should have turned back. I should have run. A lone wolf crossing into enemy territory at night was suicide.

But I kept walking.

The scent got stronger, pulling at me like a hook in my chest. I followed it through the trees, over a stream, up a rocky slope.

And then I saw him.

He was tall and lean and athletic, with dark messy hair and sharp amber eyes that seemed to glow in the moonlight. He wore a heavy black leather coat, and he smelled like ozone and wet slate.

He was beautiful and ruthless-looking, the kind of face that made you want to run and stay at the same time.

I stopped walking. He did not move. We stared at each other across the border line.

A Night-Stalker wolf. The enemy Alpha. I had seen his face in reports, in sketches, in the whispers of my pack. I knew his name.

Xavia.

He tilted his head. "You're Elara Fritz."

It was not a question. He knew who I was.

I should have been terrified. I was alone, on enemy territory, and he could kill me, drag me back to his pack, do anything he wanted.

Instead, I said, "You smell like fate."

His eyes flickered with surprise, maybe interest.

"You smell like mine," he said.

And then he stepped toward me.

I should have run, should have fought, should have done anything except stand there like a fool.

But I did not move.

Because I felt it—the same pull I had felt with Ezekiel, but different, sharper, more urgent.

Two mate bonds. Two Alphas. One pack that had rejected me and one that should have killed me.

And I was standing in the middle of it.

Xavia stopped a few feet away, close enough to touch, close enough to hurt, close enough to save.

"Your Alpha rejected you," he said. "The moon chose you for him, and he said no."

I nodded. I did not trust my voice.

"Now you're here," he said. "On my land. In front of me."

"What are you going to do?" My voice came out steady. I was proud of that.

He smiled, small and sharp. "I'm going to offer you a deal."

"A deal?"

"Information," he said. "You give me information about your pack. I give you protection."

"You mean I spy for you."

"I mean you survive," he said. "Your pack just threw you away. You have nothing. No one. I'm offering you something."

"What?"

He stepped closer. I did not step back.

"A purpose," he said. "A reason to stay alive."

I should have said no. I should have turned around and walked back to my pack and accepted my fate as a rejected nobody.

But I thought about the way Ezekiel had said my name, like it was a mistake. I thought about the way the pack hall had watched me, like I was nothing. I thought about the bond that had pulled me to this man—this enemy—and how it felt more real than anything I had ever felt in my pack.

"Fine," I said. "You have a deal."

His smile widened. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"

I did not answer. I did not know what I was, or what I was becoming.

And then I heard it.

A howl. Low and mournful. Coming from the Iron-Claw territory.

My father.