Torn Bond: The Alpha's Late Regret

Clarabelle POV:

The harsh, ragged gasps and the dull thud of heavy breathing echoed through the thick oak door, cutting through the midnight stillness like claws across glass.

I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my trembling hands clutching the silver tray holding a cup of freshly brewed soothing tea.

Inside his master suite, the sound deepened into a low, agonized growl-raw, desperate, and laden with the untamed fury of an Alpha fighting the fever in his blood.

Gasper's seasonal Rut had peaked.

And he was enduring it entirely alone in the dark.

A cold, familiar ache hollowed out my chest. Today was the fifth anniversary of our mating ceremony, and in all those five years, he had never once allowed me into his quarters during his fever. The Moon Goddess had woven our souls together with the sacred thread of the mate-bond, granting my scent the natural power to soothe his inner wolf. He was burning alive just a few feet away, yet he chose to lock the heavy double doors, tearing his own sanity apart rather than letting my hands touch his skin.

To him, claiming a crippled she-wolf was a permanent stain on his proud Alpha bloodline. He saw my ruined leg as an insult to his strength, and his stubborn pride preferred the madness of isolation over the embrace of an imperfect mate.

Inside, the ragged panting climbed to a breathless, suffocating peak. The low growl broke into a ragged shudder-a desperate, strangled whisper torn from the deepest corner of his soul:

"Becky..."

The name shattered the last fragile piece of my heart into dust.

Becky. His first love. The untouchable, golden daughter of an allied pack who had left him years ago. He had sworn she was just a ghost, an old scar buried beneath his duty to our territory.

He lied.

Even at his most vulnerable, when his primal instincts stripped away all his defenses, his heart belonged entirely to her.

My fingers went numb, and the tray tilted.

Crash!

Porcelain shattered against the marble floor with a deafening crack. Scalding herbal liquid splashed across my bare ankles, soaking the hem of my long dress, but the burning heat barely registered against the freezing numbness spreading through my veins.

Panic seized me. I had to leave before he opened the door and saw the wreckage of my dignity.

I turned to flee, but in my haste, my damaged left leg gave out. The scarred nerves buckled beneath my weight, sending me crashing against the walnut console before collapsing hard into the pool of tea and jagged ceramic shards.

The bedroom door was violently yanked open.

Gasper stood in the frame, towering and drenched in a suffocating wave of heated cedar and raw Alpha musk. He wore only dark track pants resting low on his lean hips, his broad chest and corded stomach slick with a fine sheen of sweat from the fever. His dark hair clung damply to his temples, and his slate-gray eyes were wild, dilated, and bloodshot from the strain of holding his beast back.

When his gaze dropped to the mess on the floor, his brow pulled into a sharp, impatient scowl.

"Clarabelle?" His voice was hoarse, rough from the strain of his isolation. "What are you doing out here?"

"I... I brought your tea," I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

Desperate to get away from his overwhelming presence, I pressed my palms against the tiles, fighting to push myself up. But the marble was slick, and my ruined leg had no strength. I slipped again, my knees driving into the sharp porcelain shards, the edges slicing deep into my skin.

Five years ago, I had been on track to become an elite warrior of the pack. Then Gasper, reckless with grief after Becky left, walked into an ambush. I had thrown myself between him and a silver-laced trap, letting the poison chew through my nerves to keep him alive. The mate-bond revealed itself shortly after, but that sacred connection quickly curdled into suffocating obligation. He married me to repay a blood debt, but behind closed doors, he locked away his warmth, refusing to let an imperfect mate share his name in full.

Gasper took half a step forward. He reached down, offering an arm with that practiced, guarded courtesy he always used with strangers. "Did you cut yourself? Let me help you."

His words sounded polite, but his frame was rigid, keeping a clear boundary between our bodies. And as his eyes flicked down to my trembling, twisted limb, I caught the familiar, subtle hardening of his jaw.

The revulsion.

The quiet, instinctive disgust he always hid whenever he looked at the silver scars marring my flesh.

"Don't touch me," I said softly, slapping his wrist away with the last ounce of pride I had left. "I can stand on my own."

Gasper's hand hung in the air for a second before he let it drop, his expression frosting over.

"You're making a scene over an accident," he murmured, crossing his bare arms as his jaw clenched with irritation. "If your leg is acting up tonight, you shouldn't be wandering the halls. Go back to your room."

Without another word, he touched two fingers to his temple, opening the mind-link: Martha. Third floor. The Luna dropped something outside my door. Clean it up.

I dragged myself up along the wall, my fingers digging into the textured wallpaper as I forced all my weight onto my right leg, trembling from the sharp fire in my knees.

"By the way," Gasper added, gesturing toward a small velvet jewelry box sitting on the table just inside his room. "Happy anniversary. I had my assistant pick out a gift for you. Take it once Martha finishes."

A dry, bitter laugh caught in my chest.

I didn't need to look inside. For five years, on every birthday and mating anniversary, he had handed me that exact same box containing the exact same style of enchanted moonstone necklace. Inside my dresser drawer, nine identical pieces were already collecting dust.

This made ten. A routine purchase by a secretary to quiet his conscience, while another woman's name was still fresh on his lips in the dark.

"Thank you, Alpha," I said, my voice completely flat.

I reached out, picked up the velvet box, and closed my bleeding hand around it.

Without looking back, using the wall for support, I dragged my scarred leg down the quiet hallway toward my empty room.

Behind me, his heavy door clicked shut with an indifferent thud.

Five years of devotion. Five years of waiting.

Tonight, it was finally over.