All Chapters of Alpha’s regret : The return of his rejected mate: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

HELEN’S P.O.V.Lying to an Alpha is difficult. Lying to your mate is excruciating.It is a physical sensation. It feels like swallowing a stone with jagged edges. The stonesits in your gut, cold and heavy, scraping against your insides every time you breathe.But the worst part isn't the internal pain; it’s the external static.The Mating Bond acts like a emotional resonance chamber. When Damian is happy, Ifeel a warm hum in the back of my skull. When he is angry, the air around me feelscharged with ozone.And when I am hiding something? It creates interference. A low-level buzz of anxietythat I have to constantly mask with mental white noise.I sat at the breakfast table in the Alpha’s private dining room. The morning sun wasstreaming in, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the silver coffee pot. It was apicture of domestic perfection.Leo was devouring a bowl of oatmeal, chattering about the dream he had where he wasflying on a giant eagle. Damian was reading a tablet, o

HELEN’S P.O.V.Civilization doesn't end with a wall or a signpost. It ends with a feeling.It fades gradually, like the warmth of a fire dying out in a cold room. First, the pavedroads turn to gravel. Then, the gravel turns to rutted dirt. The cell towers disappear, thebars on your phone dropping one by one until the screen reads NO SERVICE.And finally, the silence sets in.We had been driving for eight hours.Our convoy was small, designed for speed and stealth. Two modified, matte-blackarmored trucks. Damian drove the lead vehicle, the "War Wagon," with me in thepassenger seat and Leo strapped into the back. Kai and Ryan followed in the "ChaseCar," guarding our six.Outside the reinforced windows, the landscape had shifted from the lush, green pines ofthe Crescent Moon territory to something skeletal. The trees here were stripped bare bythe wind, their branches reaching up like blackened fingers against a sky the color ofbruised iron."Temperature is dropping," Damian noted

HELEN’S P.O.V.The descent from the Spire was silent.This time, there were no whispers in the mist. The voices of the dead—the Echoes—hadbeen silenced, pressed into submission by the wave of raw power Leo had unleashed.The air was still thin and freezing, but it felt cleaner. The oppressive, sickly violet hazehad lifted, leaving behind a stark, honest winter night.Damian walked ahead of me.He carried Leo in his arms, refusing to put him back in the harness. He held our sonagainst his chest, shielding him from the wind with his own battered body. Damianwalked with a slight limp—the cracked ribs from his fight with Vor finally registering nowthat the adrenaline was fading—but he didn't slow down.I walked three paces behind him.My hand was pressed against the pocket where Eleanor’s journal rested. It felt warm,vibrating slightly, as if the ink inside was still settling.The Prime.I looked at the small, sleeping boy in Damian’s arms. He was drooling slightly ontoDamian’s coa

THE PROCESSIONAt noon, the drums began.It was a slow, rhythmic thudding that vibrated in the soles of my feet. The guests hadalready been seated—hundreds of wolves from the allied packs, whispering, watching,waiting.I stood at the altar, waiting for the procession.First came the Crimson Guards. They marched into the clearing in perfect lockstep, theirred armor gleaming in the dappled sunlight. They lined the perimeter, turning their backsto the crowd, facing outward. Ostensibly to protect us. In reality, to box us in.Then came the Silencers. Six of them. Men and women with shaved heads and stitchedmouths, wearing gray robes. As they entered the grove, the air grew heavy. The birdsstopped singing. The natural hum of the forest was sucked away, replaced by a vacuumof silence.I felt the pressure in my ears. It was like descending in an airplane.Finally, the Elders.Elder Vane led them. He had taken Marcus’s place at the front. He was younger,smoother, with a smile that didn't reach his co

HELEN’S P.O.V.Normalcy is a costume. You put it on in the morning like a pair of socks.I stood in the kitchen at 7:00 AM, packing a lunchbox.Sandwich (crusts cut off). Apple slices. Juice box (grape). Cookie (chocolate chip).It was the most mundane task in the world. But my hands were trembling as I snappedthe plastic lid of the Tupperware container shut.I looked over at the breakfast nook.Leo was eating eggs. He looked healthy. His cheeks were pink, his eyes were a clear,bright hazel. The terrifying white glow from the night before was gone. The cold thathad radiated from his bones was replaced by the natural warmth of a little boy.But I noticed the way he held his fork.He wasn't gripping it. He was barely touching it. The metal utensil seemed to stick to hisfingers, held there by a faint magnetic pull rather than friction.Every time he took a bite, the lights above the island flickered.Blink. Buzz. Blink."The wiring in this house is getting old," Damian said, not look