The Alpha Regret

The champagne tasted like victory.

I stood in the corner of the Bellworth Gallery, watching Seattle's elite drift between my paintings like well-dressed ghosts. They clinked glasses, murmured appreciatively, and occasionally glanced at the small cards beside each piece that listed prices most of them wouldn't blink at.

Six figures. My art was selling for six figures.

Five years ago, I couldn't have imagined this moment. Five years ago, I was a broken girl sobbing into her pillow, wondering if the pain in her chest would ever stop. Now I was Wren Mercer, rising star of the Pacific Northwest art scene, dressed in a sleek black dress that cost more than my first apartment's rent.

"You're brooding again."

I turned to find Vera at my elbow, her dark curls piled artfully on her head, a knowing smirk on her crimson lips. My best friend had a sixth sense for catching me in moments of unwanted introspection.

"I'm not brooding," I said. "I'm observing. There's a difference."

"Uh-huh." She sipped her champagne, unconvinced. "You have that look. The one that says you're about to spiral into some deep, dark corner of your psyche and I'll have to drag you out with wine and trashy reality TV."

I couldn't help but smile. Vera Santos had been my lifeline since I'd arrived in Seattle, shattered and desperate to become someone new. She didn't know the full story, couldn't know not without knowing what I really was but she'd never pushed. She just... stayed.

"I'm fine," I said. "Really. This is everything I wanted."

It wasn't a lie. Not entirely. This was everything I'd worked for. Every late night in my cramped studio, every rejection letter, every moment I'd poured my heartbreak onto canvas until it transformed into something beautiful, it had all led here.

So why did I feel so hollow?

"Ms. Mercer?"

I turned to find a gallery assistant approaching, tablet in hand. "The collector from New York is asking about 'Shattered Moon'. He's very interested in a private commission."

I nodded, slipping into professional mode. "I'll be right there."

Vera squeezed my arm. "Go. Schmooze. Make obscene amounts of money. I'll guard the champagne."

The collector was a silver-haired man with kind eyes and a wedding ring that probably cost more than my car. He wanted a companion piece to 'Shattered Moon' my largest work, a canvas dominated by a fractured lunar surface bleeding crimson into darkness below.

I didn't tell him what it represented. I never did. Let them see beauty in the wreckage. Let them find their own meaning in the chaos I'd expelled from my soul.

We were mid-negotiation when I saw it through the gallery's floor-to-ceiling windows.

A motorcycle.

Black, sleek, chrome catching the streetlights as it rumbled past. The rider was just a silhouette, leather-clad and anonymous, but my heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

'It's not him. It's never him. He's a thousand miles away.'

"Ms. Mercer? Are you alright?"

I blinked, forcing my attention back to the collector. My hands were trembling. I pressed them flat against my thighs, willing the shake away.

"I'm fine," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Where were we?"

But for the rest of the night, I couldn't shake the feeling. That prickle at the back of my neck. That phantom ache in my chest that I'd spent five years learning to ignore.

The bond.

It was still there, buried deep, a splinter I couldn't remove no matter how hard I tried. Most days I could pretend it didn't exist. Most days I was Wren Mercer, successful artist, independent woman, master of her own destiny.

But some nights, nights like this, when the moon hung heavy and full outside the window, I remembered.

I remembered being twenty-one, dizzy with hope, feeling that golden thread snap into place between us.

I remembered his face. The horror in his steel-gray eyes.

I remembered the words that broke me.

'You're like a sister to me, Wren. You'll only ever be a sister.'

By the time I got home, my mask was cracking. I kicked off my heels, poured myself a glass of wine I didn't really want, and stood before the one painting I'd never sell.

It hung in my bedroom, hidden from gallery owners and collectors and everyone who thought they knew me. A portrait I'd painted in those first agonizing months, when I couldn't stop seeing his face no matter how hard I tried.

Skyler Voss.

Dark hair. Steel eyes. That jaw sharp enough to cut glass. I'd captured him perfectly-the arrogance, the intensity, the hint of something softer he only showed when he thought no one was watching.

I hated that painting. I hated that I couldn't destroy it.

My phone buzzed on the counter. Mom. I let it go to voicemail, like I always did. The guilt was a familiar weight, but not heavy enough to make me answer. Not heavy enough to risk hearing about home, about the pack, about 'him'.

I finished my wine, showered off the gallery's lingering perfume, and crawled into bed.

Sleep came slowly, and when it did, I dreamed of forests and moonlight and a black wolf howling at a blood-red sky.

'Ten years ago...'

I was sixteen the first time I saw Skyler Voss, and I knew, I just knew that my life would never be the same.

He rode into the pack compound on a motorcycle that growled like a living thing, all dark leather and dangerous energy. My brother Ronan was at his side, the two of them laughing about something as they dismounted, and I watched from my bedroom window like the pathetic teenager I was.

"Who is that?" I breathed.

My wolf, barely awakened after my first shift three months prior, stirred with sudden interest. She pressed against my consciousness, curious and alert in a way she'd never been before.

'Mine', she whispered.

I was too young to understand what that meant. Too naive to recognize the early stirrings of a bond that wouldn't fully manifest for another five years. All I knew was that Skyler Voss was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and I wanted him to look at me, really look at me more than I'd ever wanted anything.

He didn't, of course.

I was Ronan's kid sister. A scrawny, mousy-haired girl with paint-stained fingers and a tendency to trip over my own feet. Skyler ruffled my hair when Ronan introduced us, called me "little bit," and promptly forgot I existed.

But I didn't forget him.

Over the next five years, I became an expert in Skyler Voss. I knew his schedule, his habits, the way he took his coffee (black, no sugar, like his soul, I used to joke to myself). I knew which smile was real and which was for show. I knew the sound of his laugh, low and rough, and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when something genuinely amused him.

I filled sketchbooks with his face. Dozens of them, hidden under my bed like contraband. Skyler in profile. Skyler on his motorcycle. Skyler shirtless after a training session, all rippling muscle and gleaming sweat.

God, I was pathetic.

But I couldn't help it. My wolf was convinced he was ours, and she grew more insistent with every passing year. 'Mate', she would whisper when he walked into a room. 'Ours. Claim him.'

I told her to shut up. Skyler didn't see me that way. Skyler didn't see me at all.

He was the pack's rising star-the youngest wolf ever appointed as an enforcer, destined to lead them someday. He was three years older, impossibly cool, and so far out of my league we weren't even playing the same sport.

I watched him date other women. Tall, confident she-wolves who commanded attention when they walked into a room. Nothing like me, with my quiet voice and my tendency to fade into corners.

It hurt. God, it hurt. But I told myself it was just a crush. A silly, teenage infatuation I would outgrow.

I was wrong.

The feelings didn't fade. They deepened, intensified, became something I couldn't name or control. By twenty, I was so in love with Skyler Voss that I could barely breathe when he was in the same room.

And he still called me "little bit." He still ruffled my hair. He still looked right through me like I was made of glass.

My twenty-first birthday approached, and with it, the pack's traditional celebration. Every wolf who came of age received a ceremony under the full moon-a recognition of their place in the pack, their transition to full adulthood.

I didn't care about any of that. I only cared that Skyler would be there.

Maybe, I told myself, this would be the night. Maybe he would finally see me as a woman instead of a child. Maybe the moon would work its magic and he would look at me-really look-and everything would change.

I spent hours getting ready. I bought a new dress, deep green velvet that made my hazel eyes look almost golden. I let my mother fuss with my hair until it fell in soft waves around my shoulders. I even wore makeup, something I rarely bothered with.

When I walked into the pack hall, I felt beautiful for the first time in my life and then I saw him.

Skyler stood by the bar, a beer in hand, laughing at something Ronan said. He wore all black-black jeans, black t-shirt stretched across his broad chest, black leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His dark hair was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it.

He was perfect. He was everything.

My wolf surged forward with sudden, overwhelming force.

'MATE.'

The word exploded through my consciousness like a bomb. I gasped, stumbling, catching myself on a nearby table. The world tilted, colors too bright, sounds too loud, and through it all, a golden thread unfurling from my chest and stretching across the room toward him.

The bond. The mate bond. It was real.

Skyler went rigid. His beer slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. His head snapped toward me, those steel-gray eyes finding mine across the crowded room, and I saw it, I saw the moment he felt it too.

I smiled. I couldn't help it. Joy bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, spilling across my face in a grin so wide it hurt.

'He's mine. He's really mine. After all this time...'

Skyler's expression twisted.

Not into joy. Not into recognition or relief or any of the things I'd dreamed of seeing.

Into horror. Pure, undisguised horror.

I watched the horror bloom across Skyler's face, and I didn't understand.

This was supposed to be the happiest moment of my life. The mate bond-that sacred, unbreakable connection that every wolf dreamed of-had finally manifested. After years of longing, of hoping, of loving him from afar, fate had confirmed what my wolf had known all along.

We were meant to be together.

So why was he looking at me like I was his worst nightmare?

"Skyler?" My voice came out small, uncertain. The joy that had flooded my system moments ago began to curdle into something cold and sharp.

He moved before I could process it. One moment he was across the room; the next, his hand was wrapped around my arm and he was dragging me toward the back exit. His grip was too tight, bruising, but I was too shocked to protest.

"Skyler, what..."

"Not here." His voice was a growl, barely human. "Not in front of everyone."

The night air hit my face like a slap. We were behind the pack hall now, in the shadows between the building and the tree line. Music and laughter drifted through the walls, muffled and distant, a cruel reminder of the celebration I'd been so excited for.

Skyler released me like my skin burned him. He paced away, one hand raking through his hair, his movements jerky and agitated. I could feel his emotions through the bond, a chaotic tangle of fear and denial and something darker I couldn't name.

"Skyler, please." I stepped toward him, reaching out. "Talk to me. I don't understand what's happening."

He spun to face me, and the look in his eyes made me flinch.

"This can't be happening," he said. "This is a mistake. It has to be a mistake."

"It's not a mistake." I shook my head, desperate to make him understand. "The bond doesn't make mistakes. We're mates. We're 'meant' for each other. I've known it for years, ever since I was sixteen..."

"You were a child." The words were harsh, cutting. "You are a child. Ronan's baby sister, following me around with those big eyes like a lost puppy. I thought you'd grow out of it."

Each word landed like a blow. I felt my eyes burn, but I refused to cry. Not yet. Not in front of him.

"I'm not a child anymore." I lifted my chin, trying to hold onto some shred of dignity. "I'm twenty-one. I'm a full member of this pack. And I'm your mate."

"No." He said it like a curse, like a denial of reality itself. "You're not."

"You felt it." I stepped closer, desperate. "I know you felt it. The bond is there, between us. You can't deny that."

His jaw clenched. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes-longing, maybe, or regret-but it was gone before I could grasp it.

"It doesn't matter what I felt." His voice went cold, deliberately cruel. "I don't want it. I don't want 'you'."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually staggered, my hand flying to my chest where the bond pulsed like a fresh wound.

"You don't mean that."

"I do." He moved toward me, and his closeness was a special kind of torture feeling the heat of him, smelling the leather and pine scent that had haunted my dreams for years, while his words carved me into pieces. "Listen to me carefully, Wren, because I'm only going to say this once."

I shook my head, backing away. "Don't..."

"You're like a sister to me." Each word was precise, intentional, designed to destroy. "You've only ever been a sister. You will only ever be a sister. This bond means nothing."

The world went white. Then red. Then black at the edges, narrowing to a tunnel with Skyler's cruel, beautiful face at the center.

'He doesn't want me. After everything, after all these years, he doesn't want me.'

"Why?" The word tore from my throat, ragged and broken. "What's wrong with me? What did I do?"

Something cracked in his expression, a fissure in the ice but he smoothed it over before I could hope.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he said, his voice slightly less harsh. "You'll find someone else. Someone better. Someone who isn't..." He stopped, jaw tightening. "Just forget about the bond. Ignore it. It'll fade eventually."

"It won't." Tears streamed down my face now, impossible to stop. "You know it won't. Rejected bonds don't just fade. They fester. They poison..."

"Then learn to live with it." He stepped back, putting distance between us. "Because I won't accept it. I won't accept you. Not now. Not ever."

He turned and walked away.

I watched him disappear around the corner of the building, back toward the celebration, back toward his life that didn't include me. The bond stretched between us like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with pain.

My knees gave out. I crumpled to the cold ground, velvet dress pooling around me like a puddle of broken dreams. The sob that escaped my throat was barely human a howl of anguish that my wolf echoed inside my skull.

'Rejected. Unwanted. Not enough.'

I don't know how long I stayed there, crying in the dirt behind the pack hall while my birthday celebration continued without me. Long enough for the cold to seep into my bones. Long enough for the tears to run dry, leaving me hollow and scraped out.

When I finally stood, something had changed.

The part of me that had loved Skyler Voss so completely, so unconditionally-it wasn't gone. But it had cracked, fractured, begun to harden into something sharper and more dangerous.

I walked home alone, slipping through shadows to avoid anyone who might see my ruined face. I packed a bag with mechanical efficiency. I wrote a note to my parents that explained nothing and everything: ~I have to go. Please don't follow. I'll call when I'm ready.~

By dawn, I was gone.

And I swore to myself, as Ironvale disappeared in my rearview mirror, that I would never let anyone break me like that again.