Semua Bab Alpha’s Regret: His Luna, His Heirs, His Redemption: Bab 61 - Bab 70

POV: OliviaThe yard still smelled of smoke and oil, but the halogens were off and the sky had its job back. Wolves ringed the perimeter heads up, ears tilted alert in a way that looks like rest to anyone who’s never had to earn it. A kettle rattled on the burn barrel: indecently ordinary.I sat on the tailgate with a comb and a little patience. Daisy leaned against my knees, her blanket around her shoulders, the blue whale patch newly mended and already eager to fray. Lily perched beside me, solemn, fingers worrying the hem of her sweater.“Ow,” Daisy reported, dignified.“Small ow or medium?”“Medium. With feelings.” She thought about it, then added, “The night did it. Tried to climb in my hair.”“The night’s done,” Lily said, glancing toward where Luther stood with the boy's sleeves rolled, thumbs hooked in his belt, the wolf quiet beneath him. Rowan and Hyden mirrored him with five-year-old gravity: feet set, mouths tight, practising not falling.“Mom,” Lily whispered.“Yes, love

POV: Luther The border camp hummed with uneasy quiet. Canvas walls fluttered, wolves moved like shadows, and oil lamp smoke threaded into rain. We’d pitched on neutral ground close enough for Red Moon to see us, far enough they couldn’t claim we’d come home. Olivia worked near the trucks, the kids wrapped in blankets, her laptop open on a crate. She turned the generator’s grind into the background and typed through it, one breath from another war. When I passed, Rowan tracked me the way a cub watches weather. Hyden followed, restless. They were learning what wolves look like when they aren’t monsters. Recce was still, not sleeping. Stillness isn’t peace, he said through my ribs. Something stalks the edges. I scanned the ridge. No Iron Fang scent yet. The quiet felt wrong. Peace never arrives this easily. Aria found me by the fuel drums, shoulder wrapped, face set. “Marcus’s succession review,” she said. “It’s bait.” “For me?” “For whoever helped Iron Fang. He’s trying to flus

POV: Luther The courtyard still smelled of smoke and stone a scent that slips into fur and memory until you can’t tell which burns longer. Ash drifted across the marble like snowfall that had forgotten gentleness. The Hall’s east wing had collapsed with a groan; wolves gathered in a loose ring, eyes bright, muzzles lifted to air heavy with what we’d lost. They came because the bells hadn’t told them not to. They stayed because no one else had the voice to teach them how to breathe. The old dais waited behind me, blackened where boots had sworn oaths that later choked them. The Alpha seat remained wide, carved, unbroken the only thing the fire had respected. I didn’t sit. Recce moved under my skin like an echo testing walls. Garron held the steps, bandage on his arm. Kade watched from the side, eyes rimmed with smoke but still finding patterns. Aria leaned on a broken pillar, bandolier low, scanning the crowd with the calm of someone who trusts her aim more than people. Olivia st

POV: Elara The Hall of Red Moon was no longer a throne room. It was a mausoleum that refused to die. Moonlight filtered through broken arches, scattering silver dust across the cracked marble. The fallen banners hung limp, their crimson silk dulled to the colour of dried blood. The air smelled of ash and something older the quiet that follows when pride finally burns out. I walked alone. No crown. No guards. Only a candle, its small flame trembling against the dark. He sat where kings once stood. Marcus Reed Alpha of Red Moon. My husband. His hands rested on his knees, head bowed as if listening to ghosts. Firelight traced the grey through his hair, the lines carved deep around his mouth. Time had caught him and finally refused to let go. “Marcus,” I said. He didn’t startle. “Elara.” His voice was low, rough, stripped of command. “I wondered how long it would take you to come.” “I would’ve come sooner,” I said, stopping at the foot of the dais, “if I thought you’d

POV: Olivia The server room smelled like a butchered heart cables split and spitting sparks, fans screaming, metal ribs glowing through smoke. Melted plastic coated the tongue like poison. Garron drove a combat knife into a warped drive cage and peeled it open. “Half the backups survived,” he coughed. “They wiped fast but not clean.” “Then we start with what refused to die.” He shoved a surviving core into the console. Static flickered, then a single folder surfaced: THE FOUR HOWLS PROTOCOL My pulse stumbled. “That’s them.” He opened it. Thermal footage bloomed heat and horror in equal measure. Four cages. Two boys. Two girls. The metal was welded crookedly. Zip ties where mercy should’ve been. The Iron Fang insignia gleamed on a handler’s shoulder. A filtered voice rasped through the speakers: > “Two males for conditioning. Two females for devotion. The bloodline must be sanctified before the next moon.” The floor tilted. I dug my nails into steel until my skin squealed.