Lahat ng Kabanata ng Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption: Kabanata 51 - Kabanata 60

POV: Olivia The night had the wrong kind of quiet. Not the hush after bedtime stories, not a house settling. Hollow—heat sucked from walls, breath from my chest—leaving the safehouse like a body missing organs. The front door sagged on splintered hinges. Safety glass glittered on gravel like false frost. Someone had straightened the porch light, as if neatness could hide violence. Barefoot—heels in hand, dress hitched—I stepped inside. Lemon cleaner. Cinnamon from Hope’s cookies. Beneath it: iron and fur. It should have smelled like crayons, wool, warm breath on a couch cushion. It smelled like absence. “Clear the entry,” Luther said behind me—flat, controlled, for his men, not for me. I kept walking. The den iced my bones. Hyden’s drum split clean, blade-straight. Daisy’s storms—pages scattered, clouds smeared to bruises by boot and paw. Lily’s boots crooked, laces snarled—her disorder was a scream. Rowan’s sweater was half-folded, sleeve dragged. Hope’s blanket is tor

POV: Luther / RecceThe river warehouses slouched like old wolves, tin roofs coughing the last rain into gutters. The air reeked of damp stone and oil—and beneath it, the skin-itch of rogues. My men fanned along the alley mouth; only the soft clack of magazines and fabric on brick.Olivia stood three paces behind my shoulder in a black coat that made light choose. I told her to stay back. She came anyway. Some moments you don’t argue with.“Tracks hold?” I asked.Garron, low at the loading door, nodded. “Fresh. More than six. One limps. Blood on the latch.”I ran a thumb over metal—sticky, not ours. Aria had bought seconds with that paring knife and spent them well.I drew my blade across my palm—dark smear on rusted steel—and pressed it to the door. Old signal. Let them feel us coming.We went in.The door screamed. The first rogue lunged; my knife met him. His breath hit my neck warm; his heart hit the floor cold. We poured through the side door, broken windows, ripped dock curtain

POV: Olivia The safehouse had been scrubbed until the grout gleamed, and still the silence kept teeth. I sat at the little desk Aria had carved out for the kids' drawings pinned with magnets, a half-eaten pencil Daisy insisted was “for emergencies.” The cheap tablet Daisy loved lay face-up on the desk. Its screen was a spiderweb of cracks, one long fissure running like a fault line across the display. I had told myself the tablet was useless clutter; now it felt like a mouth someone had left open in my house. I tapped the corner because it felt dishonest not to. The cracked glass flared and a line of text crawled through the fracture like an insect finding a seam. > We have them. Alive. The words jittered as if afraid to be believed. My left hand went cold and then hot. For a breath, the room forgot to be quiet. Then a noise high, thin, cut short: a child’s sob, distorted through cheap compression and worse reception. It wasn’t one of the regular sounds of the house; it was

POV: AriaThe den reeked of wet fur, old blood, and fear. The air was so thick it clung to the children’s throats, making them cough in their sleep. Damp stone pressed cold into my back as I gathered them close one arm around Lily’s restless shoulders, the other steadying Daisy curled tight against my leg.The boys were worse.Rowan’s breathing turned ragged, shallow one moment, clawing the next. Hyden’s spine arched like a bowstring, his eyes glowing faint gold in the dark.The rogues noticed.“They’re shifting,” one hissed, teeth filed to stumps, fear sharp in his tone.“Too young,” another muttered. But he still kept his distance, gaze crawling over the boys as if they were live grenades. “Red Moon blood stains early.”They argued rogues always argued but the truth was simple: my boys frightened them.“They’ll tear each other apart if we keep them here.”“No. The girls slow them down. Separate them. Boys one way, girls the other. Weapons don’t belong with baggage.”Lily snarled. Ch

POV: Marcus The council chamber ticked like a metronome men pretending time could be leashed. Maps bled across the oak table, pinned and strung with red twine. Every mark was an argument: mines, trade roads, patrol routes, the line where Red Moon’s borders kissed Iron Fang’s teeth. Reports arrived in shards. Olivia’s drones had gone dark. Garron’s team found tracks that ended in stone. And Luther’s howl that father born thunder still trembled in the packhouse hours after it faded. I stood at the head of the table, listening to men discuss containment the way priests preach sin: theoretical, fearful, too late. “They crossed near the western ridge,” Lyle said, my strategist’s finger tapping the map. “Alpha Luther breached rogue tunnels. Casualties high.” “Define high.” “Half their force. Maybe more.” Numbers. As if blood tallies like grain. “And the children?” “Moved. East and north. Two groups.” He hesitated. “They’ll try to cross our perimeter.” “Our perimeter,”