Alpha's blind regret:His runaway Luna and their secret heirs

​“Lyra Hart!” ​Marco's voice exploded across the service corridor. ​“If that tray hits the floor, don't bother coming in tomorrow!” ​Lyra barely caught the silver platter before it tipped sideways. A mini quiche slid dangerously close to the edge, but she snatched it back at the very last second, pressing it flat against the metal. ​“Sorry!” ​“Sorry doesn't pay for wasted food!” Marco groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I've got two hundred guests, three missing servers, and a billionaire donor arriving any minute. I cannot deal with another disaster tonight.” ​Before she could even respond, he shoved a fresh tray of crystal champagne flutes into her hands. ​“VIP guests are entering through the main ballroom. Get out there. Smile. Pretend you love your job. And for God's sake, stop looking like you're headed to your own execution.” ​Lyra forced a tense, practiced laugh. “Working on it.” ​“Work faster.” Marco disappeared down the corridor, barking orders at a terrified kitchen prep cook. ​The second he was gone, Lyra released a long, shaky breath. Her hands were still trembling, the cold silver of the tray vibrating against her fingertips. But it wasn't because of Marco's theatrical breakdown. ​It was because everything tonight felt... off. ​The feeling had followed her all evening. A suffocating pressure in her chest, a restless, vibrating unease she couldn't logically explain. "We should leave." ​The voice slipped into her mind unexpectedly. It was weak, scratchy, and almost entirely forgotten. ​Her wolf. ​Five years of heavy, synthetic chemical suppressants had reduced the once-proud creature to little more than a whisper in her soul, but tonight, the beast sounded strangely alert. ​Lyra frowned, keeping her eyes locked on the swinging service doors. "Leave? Why?" ​The wolf paced restlessly inside her mind, clawing at the walls of her consciousness. "Something's wrong." ​A slow, icy chill crawled down Lyra's spine, but she shook her head to clear it. "You say that every time we're stressed." " ​No." The wolf's answer came instantly, sharper this time. " This is different." ​Lyra adjusted the heavy tray against her hip and deliberately ignored the warning. She knew exactly why she was anxious, and it had nothing to do with instinct. It was reality. Maya had thrown a massive tantrum, refusing to let her leave without reading her favorite bedtime story—twice. Then Leo had somehow managed to hide her left work shoe inside the hotel suite's microwave. Then the skies had opened up, forcing her to sprint five blocks through the freezing rain. ​By the time she'd kissed her twins goodbye and rushed into the hotel staff room, she was twenty minutes late ​Nothing supernatural. Nothing dangerous. Just the exhausting reality of her life. The kind of life she'd spent five long years building far away from packs, tyrannical Alphas, and broken promises. ​We need to get out of here, the wolf whispered, its voice laced with a sudden, desperate panic. " Now." ​Lyra's jaw tightened. The scent-masking spray hidden in my apron pocket cost nearly half our grocery budget this month. The rent is due in three days. And Leo needs his new asthma medication. ​Leaving wasn't an option. It hadn't been for a very long time. ​“We're staying,” she muttered under her breath, her voice clipping the quiet air of the corridor. ​The wolf fell silent. Not convinced. Just temporarily defeated. ​Taking a deep, steadying breath to steel her nerves, Lyra pushed through the heavy service doors and stepped onto the glittering ballroom floor. She had no idea that within minutes, her entire carefully constructed life was about to fall apart. Tonight’s gala was the kind of event that made invisibility easier. The Grand Regent Hotel ballroom was hosting the city’s annual charity gala, a polished, expensive affair meant to raise money for the children’s wing at St. Anne’s and a handful of local shelters. There would be speeches, a silent auction, too much champagne, and enough wealthy donors in one room to fund half the city if they felt generous enough. Lyra moved quietly through the crowd with a silver tray balanced on one hand, offering drinks with the careful politeness of someone who knew exactly how to stay unnoticed. A woman accepted a glass without even looking at her, and Lyra was grateful for it. The less people noticed her, the better. She had learned that lesson the hard way. Five years ago, she had lost everything because somebody had noticed her, and ever since then she had preferred being forgotten. Her fingers brushed the thin silver bracelet hidden beneath her sleeve, and a familiar ache settled in her chest. Leo and Maya were waiting back in the hotel suite with Mrs. Evans, and she could already imagine what they were doing. The twins were probably chattering nonstop, climbing onto the furniture, and charming the poor woman into giving them extra dessert. They were bright, restless, and impossible to ignore, the kind of children who filled every room with noise and energy, but they were also affectionate and clever in a way that made it hard to stay stern with them for long. They meant no harm, only mischief, and somehow they always managed to turn even the most ordinary moment into something chaotic. The thought almost made her smile. Almost. Then the room went quiet. Not gradually. Instantly. It was the kind of silence that made people look up from their conversations, and Lyra stopped walking at once. Something felt wrong. Around her, guests were turning toward the entrance, their expressions shifting from curiosity to nervous excitement. A strange feeling crawled up her spine. Don’t look. Every instinct she possessed screamed the warning. Her pulse began to race, and still, despite every part of her telling her not to, Lyra glanced toward the doors. Several security guards entered first, and then a man stepped through the entrance. The tray nearly slipped from her grasp. The air left her lungs. No. Her throat tightened. No, no, no. Not him. Anyone but him. Kiril Volkov. Five years had not softened him. If anything, he had become even more intimidating. Tall, powerful, and completely unreachable, he moved with the kind of authority that made people step aside without being asked. His dark suit probably cost more than Lyra earned in six months, and for a second she could not breathe. What was he doing here? The Midnight Pack’s territory was thousands of miles away. She had spent years making sure their paths would never cross again, and now he was standing in the middle of the ballroom as if fate had decided to punish her personally. She turned immediately, desperate to leave. She needed to get away before he saw her, before he smelled her, before everything fell apart. She took one hurried step, but someone behind her shifted at the same time, bumping her shoulder hard enough to throw her off balance. The tray tilted in her hand. She tried to catch it, but the glasses slid. Champagne splashed over the marble floor, and one glass slipped free, shattering at her feet. The sound cracked through the ballroom, and every conversation stopped. Heads turned. Champagne splashed across polished shoes, including a pair of expensive black dress shoes standing directly in front of her. Lyra’s blood ran cold. Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. “I’m sorry,” she whispered automatically, her hands shaking as she reached for the broken glass. A shadow fell over her. She knew before looking. She knew. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt, and for one terrible moment she considered running. Then she made the mistake of looking up. Their eyes met, and everything else disappeared. Kiril stared at her, and the annoyance on his face vanished. Shock replaced it, then disbelief, and then something far more dangerous. His eyes flashed silver. “Lyra?”