ALPHA'S REGRET His Fated Human Luna

Paige's POV The second line shows up like a slap. I sit on the cold bathroom tile with the test stick shaking between my fingers, staring at that tiny blue mark until my eyes burn. Positive. Pregnant. Ours. For three seconds, I let myself be stupidly happy. Callum's shirt still hangs on the back of the door—black, expensive, smelling faintly of rain. I press the plastic stick to my lips like an i***t and whisper, "We're going to tell him tonight." My stomach flips. Not morning sickness. Hope. I wash my face, fix my hair, and practice the words in the mirror. Callum, I'm pregnant. Simple. Clean. No drama. I'm a veterinarian. I deliver bad news to animal owners all the time. But I want to believe I can deliver good news to my own husband without sounding like a teenage girl. I slip the test into my jacket pocket and head for his study. The whole house is too quiet for a Tuesday evening. Usually, there should be staff moving in the kitchen, and Callum's childhood friend—also his company secretary—should be arguing with someone on the phone. The house hums low and never really sleeps. Tonight the hallway feels padded. Wrong. Then I hear her. A soft, breathy laugh. The kind that should belong in a bedroom—and should never come out when Callum is with another woman. I stop outside the half-open study door. "Callum," a woman purrs. "My Alpha mate." My hand freezes on the wood. I should leave. Or knock. Or do anything except look. But I look. Callum has a woman pinned against his desk, eyes locked on her like nothing else in the world matters. Her fingers are in his hair. His mouth is on her throat. I don't know her. I'm sure I've never seen her before. And yet I notice the mark on the side of her neck facing me—fresh, angry red. When she tips her head back and smiles like she already won, the lamplight catches it clean. Whatever had been leaping in my chest is suddenly gone. "Alpha mate," she says again, louder, tasting the words. "Say it. Tell me your Luna feels it." Callum makes a sound I've only ever heard in the dark, naked with him and no one else. I don't scream. I also don't start a fight. I put one hand on my stomach—still flat, still a secret only I know—and I choose to leave before my knees decide for me. By the time I reach the side corridor, my vision is swimming. My phone is already in my hand. Dad picks up on the second ring. "Paige? What's wrong?" "I need to come home," I say. The words scrape. Clinic calm tries to take over—the worse the emergency, the colder I get—but tonight it keeps slipping. "Don't come to the house. I'm leaving. I—I can't stay here." "Leaving where? Did that bastard—" Fraser's voice cuts in from his side of the line, low and alert. Dad and Fraser must be together. "Speaker, Greg." Fraser has been my father's close friend for years. He's also my godfather. I trust him the way I trust Dad. He's family. I walk faster, past the gallery windows, past that stupid oil painting of Callum's father looking down like judgment itself. My keys dig deeper into my palm. My eyes burn, but I refuse to cry in this hallway. "I found him with another woman," I say. "In his study. I'm done. I want a divorce. I can't sleep under this roof tonight. Can I stay with you?" "Yes," Dad says at once, rough. "Come home. Now." "She—" My laugh breaks in half. "God, it was so stupid. She called him Alpha mate. Twice. And Luna. Like pet names. Like a bedroom game." I wipe at my face with my sleeve and keep walking. "I thought they were doing some role-play thing. Alpha. Luna. Whatever made her feel special while she—" I stop. Swallow. Tears keep coming anyway. Silence. Then Fraser again, sharper: "Say those words again. Exactly." "Alpha mate. Luna." My voice shakes. "Fraser, why does that matter? They're nicknames. Ugly ones. I don't care what they call each other. I just need somewhere that isn't this house." "You weren't hearing nicknames," Fraser says. Dad's jaw must harden; I hear the chair scrape. "Fraser—" "Greg." Fraser's tone drops into something I rarely hear from him—almost like he's issuing a command. "If that house is what I think it is, your daughter just walked out of a hunting ground." Hunting ground. The word lands wrong in my ear. Too much like something you'd say about animals. I stare at nothing, blank. Grief makes everything slow. "What are you talking about?" "Werewolf," Fraser says, no ceremony. "Pack. Hierarchy. Mate bond. That woman isn't just a mistress. If she's calling him Alpha mate—and herself Luna—she's claiming the seat next to him." My first answer is a short, ugly laugh. "That's insane." "Paige—" "No." I shake my head hard enough that it hurts, phone pressed to my ear. "Callum is a man. A cheating bastard of a man. He is not—Fraser, listen to yourself. Werewolves? I'm a vet. I know animals. I know anatomy. I know what bleeds and what doesn't. Don't do this to me tonight." Fraser doesn't argue like a crank. He waits one breath, then: "Think." So I do. Against my will. Callum hearing the downstairs staff through two closed doors. Callum never getting sick—not once in five years. Callum smelling rain before the clouds broke. Callum moving too fast in the dark, catching a falling glass I hadn't even seen tip. Strength I joked about. Heat under his skin I blamed on good genes and a gym membership. I told myself he was built tough. I told myself I was overthinking it. I loved him enough to stop asking. My mouth goes dry. "That still doesn't make him a—" "It makes him pack," Fraser says. "And pack does not let a human mate walk away clean once a new claim is on the table. Especially not from an Alpha's house." Dad explodes, shouting, "Then I'm going over there right now to beat that bastard—" "No," Fraser and I say at the same time. "If you walk in angry, you put her on a map," Fraser snaps. Then, to me, quieter but worse: "Paige. Listen carefully. Do not drive to your father's. Not tonight. Airport. Now. If he notices the bond shift—if that woman pushes him—you will not get a second window." Leave. The word finally lands somewhere under the numbness. I called to borrow a bed and start a divorce. Now my godfather is telling me my husband isn't human, and that if I try to sleep this off at Dad's, I may not get out at all. "I am scared," I say. Honest. Flat. "How did I sleep with a man this long without knowing?" "Then use the fear," Fraser answers. "Don't run like prey. Prey triggers chase. Walk. Keep your heartbeat boring. If anyone stops you, you're going shopping because you left something behind. You're annoyed, not scared." "There's something else," I say, and my free hand presses the test through my pocket. "I'm pregnant." Dad makes a broken sound. Fraser is quiet for half a second. Then: "That changes the clock. Pregnancy shifts your chemistry. An Alpha tracks scent better when a bond is fresh. Soap. Coffee. Leather cleaner if you still have it—wrists and neck. Not perfume. Perfume blooms. We need muddle, not advertisement. Grab the go-bag. Then leave." I duck into the mudroom and do what he says, moving fast through each step. Soap. Bitter coffee from the kitchen pod drawer, rubbed into my pulse points until my skin stings. Leather cleaner, sharp and chemical, wiped along my throat—where Callum likes to bury his face. Every motion feels like scrubbing away my past with Callum. Good. I grab my go-bag from the cupboard—passport, cash, clinic keys, and the spare charger Dad made me pack "in case the city ever hits a disaster." It always felt dramatic. It doesn't now. "Car," Fraser orders. "Avoid looking hunted. Text me the terminal once you're through security. Your father and I will handle the rest." "Where am I even going?" "Somewhere his name doesn't open doors," Fraser says. "I'll send the ticket while you drive. Go." I step into the garage. Callum's black SUV sits like a sleeping beast. My smaller car waits beside it—reliable, unimpressive, the car of a woman who once believed love was everything. I reverse out. At the bottom of the drive, the gatehouse light clicks on. Soren is there. The fact that he isn't inside the house tonight makes me wonder if he already knew Callum was cheating. He lifts a hand in an easy greeting, then frowns when he sees my face through the windshield. He steps into the lane—not fully blocking me, but close enough that I have to slow and stop. I roll the window down two inches. Night air rushes in, cold and pine-sweet. "Paige?" Soren's smile is practiced. "Heading out this late—and Callum isn't with you. Want me to come along?" My heart tries to climb my throat. I think of Fraser's words. Make the lie rounder. "Shopping," I say, and even manage a thin smile. "I forgot something. Don't tell Callum. He'll tease me for being scatterbrained." Soren's gaze flicks over the go-bag on the passenger seat and holds a beat too long. Then he chuckles and steps aside. "Drive safe, Paige." I don't look back at the lit windows of the house where my marriage just ended without a single raised voice. The gate arms rise. I pull through, easing onto the gas like I'm not running, and only when the villa's stone pillars shrink in the rearview do I let myself cry—quiet, ugly, the kind that makes the road blur. My phone buzzes. Callum. I stare at his name until the screen goes dark, then I turn the phone face down and keep driving toward the highway signs for the airport. In my pocket, the pregnancy test presses against my ribs with every turn—small, plastic, and more precious than anything I've ever held.