THE REGRETFUL ALPHA AND THE PREGNANT LUNA

A scream clawed its way up Georgia Shields's throat, but died as a strangled gasp.

Her eyes flew open.

The first thing she registered was the searing pain. Not a physical wound, but a phantom agony tearing through her neck—a ghostly memory of teeth and claws ripping her apart. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of pure terror. It felt like it was trying to escape her body.

Her breath came in ragged, shallow bursts.

She shot up from the plush mattress, the silk sheets pooling around her waist. Her hand flew to her neck, fingers frantically probing the smooth, unbroken skin.

Nothing. No fatal wound.

Cold sweat, slick and chilling, soaked through the thin fabric of her designer nightgown. The room was dim, lit by the soft, ambient glow of the city skyline outside the panoramic windows of The Plaza's top-floor suite.

Then she heard it.

A low, guttural growl, vibrating through the floor from the direction of the master bathroom. It was a sound of pure, unrestrained animalism, and it sent a wave of primal fear through her, making the fine hairs on her arms stand on end.

Her head whipped toward the sound.

The frosted glass door of the bathroom exploded outward.

Shards of glass rained down on the marble floor as a towering figure stumbled out. Lantis Kensington. His uniform was half-torn, his usually immaculate blond hair was a mess, and his golden eyes—those cold, imperious eyes—were shot through with a terrifying network of blood-red veins.

Georgia's gaze flickered past him, landing on the sleek electronic calendar mounted on the wall.

Stardate 2045.

The numbers burned into her brain. A cold dread, far worse than the phantom pain, washed over her. Her stomach lurched. She was back. Back to the night it all began.

This was the night she'd tried to force Lantis to honor their marriage contract. In her past life, she'd gone to the black market and bought a male Pheromone Inducer—a banned substance that sent a male's psyche into immediate, violent overdrive, requiring a female's soothing pheromones to stabilize. She'd slipped it into his drink. When he'd stumbled back to his room, lost in the haze, she'd knocked on his door pretending to bring an antidote. She'd seduced her way inside.

One night of madness.

The next morning, Lantis's psyche bore her mark. He could never accept another female's touch again. So he'd swallowed his pride and accepted her as his雌主—his female master—through gritted teeth.

And she was a Null-Female. Worthless. No healing power at all. Lantis became a laughingstock because of her.

In this world, females ruled. Males bowed. Male psyches were volatile, always teetering on the edge of collapse, requiring a female's soothing pheromones just to stay sane. When a male's mental breakdown value hit 90, he began to revert—fur, fangs, claws, the beast rising to the surface. At 95, he was dragged to the Beast Tower, caged like an animal until he forgot he'd ever been a man.

So males submitted. They begged. They crawled.

And she'd had seven fiancés—seven powerful, decorated war heroes—who'd all tried to wriggle out of their contracts with her. She'd felt the sting of their rejection like a slap to her royal pride. How dare they? How dare these beasts defy her?

So she'd broken them. Bent them. Married them one by one through manipulation, blackmail, and sheer, vicious will. And afterward, she'd made their lives a living hell. She'd cursed them. Struck them. Let their psyches rot while she watched, cold and satisfied.

"So what if you're an Imperial Marshal? So what if you command a fleet? You still come crawling to me like a dog begging for scraps!"

High and mighty on the battlefield. On their knees at home.

She'd walked them through the palace on leashes.

The memory washed over her—the cruelty, the pettiness, the sheer, spectacular talent she'd had for destroying everything she touched. Her eyes burned. If self-destruction were a gift, she'd been a prodigy.

In the end, her seven husbands had banded together. They'd exiled her to a dead planet, sacrificing half their lifespans just to sever the bond with her. And Lantis—her primary husband, the one she'd ruined first and worst—had driven a sword through her heart on the transport ship.

She could still feel it. The cold steel. The crushing betrayal. The look in his eyes.

She shuddered, forcing herself back to the present.

She was back. Back to the night she'd burned everything to the ground.

She could still smell the Pheromone Inducer clinging to the air. In her past life, she'd been the one who spiked his drink. But this time—this time she hadn't done anything yet. She hadn't even opened the little black-market vial.

So why was Lantis like this?

Her mind raced, but there was no time to find answers.

The air in the suite grew thick, heavy with the scorching heat of his pheromones. Lantis's breathing was a harsh, rasping sound, each exhale a blast of hot air that seemed to raise the room's temperature. A tiny red light on the ceiling smoke detector began to blink—a silent alarm against the impending inferno.

She had to get out.

Now.

Georgia threw back the covers, her legs tangling in the expensive silk. She tried to stand, but her limbs were jelly, shaking uncontrollably from the shock of rebirth and the raw terror Lantis's presence inspired. Her knees buckled.

She collapsed onto the thick, soft carpet with a soft thud.

The sound, though small, was enough.

Lantis's head snapped in her direction. He moved like a predator that had just located its prey. His bloodshot eyes locked onto her form on the floor, and a new, more focused intensity burned within them.

His throat worked, a difficult swallow.

"Get... out," he rasped, the words torn from his throat. Each syllable was a struggle against the beast clawing at his sanity. "Now."

Last time, she had crawled toward him, babbling about her love.

This time, Georgia scrambled backward, her hands and feet finding purchase on the plush rug. Her eyes, wide with a terror he had never seen in them before, were fixed on him. It wasn't the look of a seductress. It was the look of prey.