All Chapters of Alpha’s regret : The return of his rejected mate: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

HELEN’S P.O.V.The drive to the coordinates Damian had received was a journey into the desolate heartof the territory.We left the paved roads behind, the SUV crunching over gravel tracks that woundthrough dense, fog-choked forests. The Crescent Moon territory was vast and beautiful,but this corner of it felt diseased. The trees were gnarled, their branches stripped bare bya blight that seemed to seep from the ground itself.I sat in the passenger seat, my hand resting on the grip of my gun. The leather ofDamian’s bracelet was still wrapped around my wrist, a warm weight against my pulse."You're quiet," Damian said.His voice was low, cutting through the hum of the engine and the drumming of rain onthe roof. He drove with one hand on the wheel, his eyes scanning the tree line with Alphaintensity."I'm thinking," I said, staring out the window."About the case?""About the poison," I corrected. "Aconitum napellus var. caeruleum. It's not just a plant,Damian. It's a statement.

HELEN’S P.O.V.The moment I pulled the trigger, the world fractured.The explosion of the TV screen was the starting gun. Sparks showered down likeelectric rain, hissing as they hit the wet floor tiles. Before the glass shards had evensettled, the air was ripped apart by the deafening CRACK-CRACK-CRACK of automaticfire.I dove behind the massive marble kitchen island, my knees hitting the stone floor hardenough to bruise. Beside me, Damian landed in a crouch, his gun drawn, his face amask of feral concentration.Above us, the kitchen disintegrated.Bullets chewed through the expensive cabinetry. They shattered the wine rack, sending aflood of red vintage cascading onto the floor, looking disturbingly like blood. The noisewas a physical assault a cacophony of shattering glass, ricocheting metal, and theguttural roars of the mercenaries."You shot the screen," Damian shouted over the din, looking at me with wild eyes. "Yougambled his life!""I gambled on Kai!" I shouted back, c

HELEN’S P.O.V.The drive back to the cabin was the longest five miles of my life.The adrenaline that had fueled me on the dam the cold, sharp focus that allowed me topull the trigger and maim a man was evaporating. In its place, a crushing exhaustionsettled over me, heavy as lead. My hands, gripping the steering wheel of the stolen truckbecause Damian’s shoulder had finally seized up, were trembling so violently I couldbarely keep the tires in the ruts of the road."Steady," Damian whispered.He was slumped in the passenger seat, his face pale, wet hair plastered to his forehead.He was pressing a wad of napkins against his chest where Karl’s bullet had struck hisvest. He was alive bruised, bleeding, battered but alive."I can't stop shaking," I confessed, my teeth chattering."Shock," Damian diagnosed. "Just keep breathing. In through the nose. Out through themouth."I followed his command. In. Out."Do you think he's still alive?" I asked, terrified of the answer."Kai is a c

HELEN’S P.O.V. The Capital was not a city in the human sense. It was a scar carved into the side of the Blackhorn Mountain range a fortress of gray stone and iron that predated the modern borders of the packs. To the humans who looked at satellite maps, it was a geological anomaly, a "mining dead zone." To us, it was Sanctum. The seat of the High Council. The place where laws were written in ink and enforced in blood. I watched it rise through the tinted window of the armored limousine. It loomed over the highway, a jagged silhouette against the overcast sky. Spires of black obsidian pierced the clouds, and the massive outer wall, fifty feet high and topped with razor wire, circled the base like a chokecollar. "It looks like a prison," Leo whispered. He was sitting between Damian and me, his nose pressed against the glass. He had stopped asking questions an hour ago. The oppressive atmosphere of the convoy the silence of the adults, the tension radiating from Damian had silenced him.

HELEN’S P.O.V.If I had to choose between disarming a bomb and planning a wedding for four hundredwerewolves, I would choose the bomb.At least a bomb has instructions. At least a bomb is honest about its intention to kill you.I stood on the pedestal in the center of the fitting room, my arms held out to the sideslike a scarecrow. The room smelled of lavender sachets and aggressive floral perfume.Around me, three seamstresses fluttered like nervous hummingbirds. They were pinning,tucking, and pulling at the mountain of ivory silk and Chantilly lace that was currentlysuffocating me."It needs more structure in the bodice," the head seamstress, a stern woman namedMadame Gisele, muttered through a mouthful of pins. " The Luna must look regal.Imposing.""The Luna wants to be able to breathe," I wheezed, my ribs protesting against the corset."And maybe walk without tripping.""Walking is secondary," Gisele dismissed. "Presence is primary."I caught my reflection in the tri-fold mi