The Lycan’s Regret: His Runaway Lunar Queen

Three years.

That’s how long I’d played the role of the perfect, obedient wife to the most powerful Alpha in the North. Three years of smiling at pack galas, nodding at boring elders, and keeping my "weak omega" head down so Silas Vane could build his empire.

I was the daughter of a fallen Beta from the Silver Lake pack—a pack that had been decimated by rogues when I was twelve. Silas had rescued me by marrying me, but everyone knew the truth. He didn't want a mate; he wanted a placeholder. Someone quiet and unremarkable to warm his bed and manage his household while he waited for the True Mate the Oracle had promised him.

"Mrs. Vane? The lamb is resting, and the 1945 Petrus is decanted."

I turned away from the floor-to-ceiling windows of our Manhattan penthouse. Mrs. Gable, our head housekeeper, was watching me with a look that was somewhere between pity and boredom. She’d been with the Vane family for twenty years. She knew I was just a temporary fixture.

"Thank you, Mrs. Gable. You can head home for the night," I said, smoothing the silk of my emerald dress. It was a gown Silas had bought for me—expensive, elegant, and completely devoid of personality. Just the way he liked me.

"Happy Anniversary, dear," she said, though her voice lacked any real warmth. "I hope the Alpha is... on time tonight."

She left, the heavy oak doors clicking shut behind her. I was alone in a five-thousand-square-foot tomb of marble and glass.

I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror. At twenty-three, I was supposed to be in my prime. I had long, wavy hair the color of honey and eyes that shifted from blue to gray depending on the light. I had the curves the guys at the academy used to howl over, but tonight, I felt invisible.

I walked into the dining room, adjusting the silver candlesticks. I’d spent four hours on this meal. I’d even gone to the human markets to get the specific herbs Silas liked. I was desperate for tonight to be different. Because this morning, my world had tilted on its axis.

I reached into my small clutch purse on the sideboard and touched the plastic stick hidden inside. Two pink lines.

I was pregnant. An omega with thin blood wasn't supposed to be able to conceive with a High Alpha like Silas, but here we were. A miracle. I imagined his face when I told him. Maybe the gray in his eyes would melt. Maybe he’d finally realize that he didn't need a True Mate from a prophecy when he had a family right here.

Suddenly, the air in the room shifted.

The pressure dropped, and a heavy, masculine scent of cedar wood, expensive bourbon, and pure, unadulterated power flooded the room. My wolf, a small, silver-furred thing I rarely let out, whimpered and tucked her tail.

Silas was home.

The front door didn't just open; it yielded. Silas Vane walked in, looking like a god carved from granite. He was 6'4, all muscle and lethal intent, dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my father's entire estate. His black hair was swept back, and his jawline was sharp enough to draw blood.

"Silas," I said, my heart doing a hopeful little dance. "You're just in time. I—"

He didn't look at me. He didn't look at the candles or the $2,000 wine. He walked straight to the mahogany sideboard and poured himself a finger of scotch, his movements jerky and cold.

"Sit down, Elara," he said. His voice was a low, guttural vibration that usually made my toes curl. Tonight, it made my blood run cold.

"Is something wrong?" I stepped toward him, reaching out to touch his arm. "The elders again? If it’s about the border disputes—"

He flinched away from my touch as if I were made of silver. He set his glass down with a sharp clack and reached into his inner breast pocket. He pulled out a thick, white envelope and tossed it onto the dining table.

It landed right on top of my plate.

"What's this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

"Divorce papers."

The world went silent. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I could hear the wind whistling against the glass.

"Divorce?" I laughed, a short, hysterical sound. "Silas, it’s our anniversary. I have news. I have—"

"The High Oracle called me this afternoon," Silas interrupted, finally turning to look at me. His eyes were a flat, icy gray. No warmth. No regret. "The prophecy has been fulfilled. The True Mate has emerged. It’s Genevieve St. Cloud."

My heart didn't just break; it shattered into a million jagged pieces. Genevieve. The Alpha daughter of the Midnight Sun pack. She was a warrior, a socialite, and Silas’s childhood crush. She was everything a Lycan King was supposed to have.

"Genevieve," I repeated, the name tasting like ash. "So that’s it? Three years, Silas. I gave you everything. I lived for you. I changed myself for you."

"You did your job, Elara," he said, and the word job felt like a physical blow to my stomach. "You were a placeholder. A bridge between my father’s reign and mine. You were quiet, you didn't cause drama, and you were... adequate. But the wait is over. My Queen is coming tonight."

Adequate. I looked at him, and for the first time in three years, the veil lifted. I didn't see a protector. I saw a predator who had used me until something better came along.

"A placeholder," I whispered. My hand went to my stomach, shielding the secret he would never know. "You’re throwing me away for a prophecy? For a woman who wouldn't have looked at you five years ago when the pack was in debt?"

"I’m doing what’s best for the North," Silas snapped, his Alpha aura flaring. The power rolled off him in waves, a heavy, suffocating weight that forced my knees to tremble. "Don't make this difficult. I’ve been generous. I’ve cleared your family's debts and set up a trust that will keep you in luxury for the rest of your life. All you have to do is sign and be out of here by midnight."

"Midnight?" I gasped. "Silas, it’s raining. I have nowhere to go."

"Then find a hotel," he said, turning back to his drink. "Genevieve is arriving at one a.m. I won't have her smelling another woman’s scent in our bed."

Our bed. The bed where he’d whispered my name just forty-eight hours ago.

A cold, hard knot formed in my chest. The "weak omega" was dying, replaced by a cold, simmering rage. I walked to the table, picked up the pen, and signed my name in one long, jagged stroke.

"There," I said, tossing the pen at him. It bounced off his chest and hit the floor. "You want your Queen, Silas? Go ahead. But remember this moment. Remember the night you chose a prophecy over the woman who actually loved you."

I walked to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of Petrus, and tipped it over. The dark red wine poured out, soaking the white lace tablecloth, drowning the lamb, and staining the divorce papers like a fresh wound.

"Elara! What the hell—"

"Consider it a housewarming gift for Genevieve," I spat.

I didn't pack a suitcase. I didn't take the diamonds. I grabbed my keys, my purse, and the ultrasound picture hidden in the sideboard.

"Where are you going?" Silas demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous growl. "You have no pack, Elara. You’ll be a rogue. You won't last a week."

I paused at the door, my hand on the handle. I didn't look back.

"I’d rather be a rogue than a placeholder," I said.

I walked out, the elevator doors closing on his stunned face. As I hit the lobby and stepped out into the freezing New York rain, my wolf let out a howl deep in my soul. It wasn't a whimper anymore.

It was a battle cry.

Silas Vane thought he was the King. But he’d just handed his crown to the woman he thought was nothing. And I was going to make sure that by the time I came back, he’d be the one kneeling.