ALPHA'S REGRET His Fated Human Luna

Chapter 3 One Cradle Empty

Callum's POV

The nineteenth lead dies before noon.

A motel clerk outside Portland swears he saw a woman with deep reddish-brown hair, a go-bag, and a calm way of talking. By the time I reach the room, the bed is stripped, the trash is empty, and bleach burns the back of my throat.

No Paige.

No soap. No coffee. No leather cleaner.

Not even a single hair left behind.

Soren waits in the parking lot with his phone pressed to his ear. Rain comes thin and hard, needling the asphalt. Autumn fog crawls along the lane. My wolf paces under my skin, raw from eight months of failed hunts.

"Gate cameras at Sea-Tac turned up nothing usable," he says when I slam the car door. "Whoever bought her ticket paid cash through a cutout. Fraser Holt's name isn't on anything. Greg Winslow's either."

"Find the cutout."

"We're trying." His jaw tightens. "Callum—Aldric wants you home. Third time this month. Celeste's father called twice. They're calling your silence an insult to both packs."

I laugh once. Gravel. "My wife is missing. Tell them to wait."

"They won't. They've already booked the wedding window through winter."

"Then let them book it."

"Your wolf smells like it's splitting." Soren drops his voice. "You've searched her clinic street three times. She was pregnant, Callum. You saw the box in the trash yourself. You can't keep—"

"Don't say that word."

He shuts up.

I still call Paige.

Voicemail.

Again.

Nothing but her clinic calm telling me she'll call back as soon as she can.

The hollow in my chest has a shape now. It fits her absence. Eight months ago she was walking our hallway toward the study, probably practicing how to tell me. Now I'm calling a ghost.

How long am I supposed to keep dialing this empty space?

I know both packs won't give me much more time.

*

Celeste's POV

Callum looks like grief with a pulse.

I watch him from the study doorway of the Drayton house—thinner, colder, still refusing to wear my claim in public. The red at the side of his throat has faded into something makeup and a story have to hide. He didn't finish the mark that night. If I leave it to chance, he never will.

So I stop leaving it to chance.

The rogue meets me behind a shuttered feed store two towns over. He smells like wet asphalt and old blood carefully washed. No pack scent. No loyalty. Perfect.

"Human woman. Paige Winslow." I slide an envelope across the hood of his truck. "Pregnant. Hiding with a rogue named Fraser Holt and her father. She's due any day. We end it tonight. You handle the kill. I handle the proof. If she delivers first, the child comes with me. Then burn everything."

One pup. Callum's bloodline in my arms. Soft enough to shape. Soft enough to break later. Soft enough to make an Alpha need a Luna who "saved" it.

He opens the envelope. Counts. Does not whistle.

Another point in his favor.

"We?"

"I go with you." I smile easy. "No one ever learns my hand was there. When it's done, I walk back into the pack as the woman who tried to save Callum's bloodline. You take the rest of the money and never show your face to either of us again."

"And if she screams your name?"

"She won't." I tap the envelope. "You'll make sure of that."

He pockets the cash. "Address?"

I give him the one my watcher pulled from a clinic supply run—Fraser's mistake.

He didn't count on how much gauze a human birth eats. I watched her for eight months. Her belly rose day by day until the window finally opened. They don't dare order anything online—Callum would smell the trail. Cash is nearly gone. Bulk medical buys offline would flag him too. So Fraser slipped back near the clinic for gauze. When he returned, I found their hole.

We take the rogue's truck. Rain. Perfect cover for scent and tracks. No lights on the last mile. My pulse stays steady.

When we kick the door in, the cabin kitchen is lit, and someone is swallowing pain in soft broken sounds.

Paige is on the floor mid-labor, deep red hair stuck to her face. Greg Winslow boils water he does not know how to use and throws himself in front of her.

"Get out—"

The rogue drives an elbow into Greg's ribs. Greg folds, hits his knees, still tries to climb for his daughter. The second hit floors him. Rope bites his wrists before he can rise. The kettle tips. Steam hisses out.

Fraser Holt half-shifts before the door wood finishes exploding. Claws rake the rogue's shoulder. Blood hits the stove. I don't step in. Let him fight the hired muscle.

The rogue hits the table edge, catches Fraser's throat, and slams the half-shift into the wall. Wood chips fly. Fraser is too old for this, and half-shifted isn't enough. A red line opens on his scalp. One arm bends wrong.

He still breathes. Barely. Eyes won't stay open. Perfect. Alive enough to look like survivors of a rogue attack. Dead witnesses make the story dirty.

I slide through the collision like silk. Quiet. Untouched.

A cry cuts the chaos—thin, alive, scent washed pale and easy to miss under smoke and blood. A pebble dropped into water.

I move to it. One swaddle. One pulse. Exactly what I came for.

"The child," I tell the rogue, soft enough for him alone. "Make sure the human dies. Then make it fire."

He lights the rag under the side window. Smoke bites the curtains first.

Paige's eyes roll white. A gloved hand covers her mouth. Dark takes her. She never sees who lifts her child.

I wrap the pup against my chest. In the smoke and shouting I do not inventory the room. I have what I came for. The rest can burn.

Outside, the truck eats mud and rain. Smoke and fire rise in the side mirror on cue, rain too thin to kill either. Success tastes thick on my own tongue.

"Payment at the quarry," the rogue says. "Then I disappear."

"Of course. Full amount. Clean exit."

"You're thorough."

"I have to be."

He never sees the blade I always carry.

The second his eyes leave the road for the final cash envelope I dangle like bait, I put silver through the soft place under his jaw. The truck jerks. One hand on the wheel. One on the swaddle. He drops without theater.

I was careful with Paige's death scene. I was never going to leave a witness with a mouth.

I shove his body into the ditch far enough for scavengers and rain to argue. Stage what needs staging—truck abandoned, my scent and the newborn's scrubbed clean, tire tracks that read like a rogue alone, none of my blood, a scrap of Paige's clinic bag on brush like she fought and lost before I "arrived."

When Callum's people find this, they find a rogue attack.

Not a partnership.

I drive his truck to the quarry road, then switch to the clean car I stashed.

The pup in my arms is too weak to wake or cry. Cooperative. Perfect.

I practice the face for Callum.

Grief. Courage. Rage. Regret soft enough to beg a kiss.

One last check that every trail is clean. Then I carry the pup to the Drayton house.

Aldric's study smells like whiskey and heavy old books.

When I walk in, both Aldric and Callum look startled. I don't come here uninvited—especially not without Aldric's call. Today he didn't call.

Then they see what I'm holding. Understanding hits.

Callum stands. Hope smashes his face so hard it hurts to watch.

"Celeste." His voice scrapes. "That's... my child, isn't it? Where's Paige? Where is she?"

"I found her trail." Tears gather exactly where I tell them to. Not too many. Not too few. "A rogue got there first. Fraser's kind. They always turn on soft targets when money's thin."

Soren is somehow already in the doorway. Silent. Listening.

Good.

I almost wish for more wolves. Witnesses make stories stick.

I hold the baby out just enough for Callum's scent to catch. Drayton blood. Undeniable.

"She was already gone when I arrived," I whisper. "I couldn't save Paige. I'm sorry, Callum. I only got to the child in time. The fire—too fast—too hot—there wasn't—"

My voice breaks exactly where it should.

Callum takes the pup like a man taking a wound.

His hands stall. That scent of his—the one that usually pulls me—pours out bitter, panic and grief thick enough for the whole room to taste. His throat works once. Nothing comes out. His wolf thrashes inside him. I feel it.

"Where was she?" he asks quietly. The pup in his arms seems to be the only thing keeping him upright enough to think.

This time I give him the address with nothing held back. The quarry too.

No need to hide anymore.

Then he lifts his eyes. Not to me. To Soren.

"Send people to the quarry." Orders grind out one word at a time. "Confirm the body. Lock the road. Keep media away. Then the mountain—cabin, fire site, every print, every scrap. I want a body. Or proof solid enough to explain why there isn't one."

Soren is already dialing. "On it."

"Public line stays locked. Alpha heir widowed. Details unverified. Anyone who talks walks."

"Understood."

Only after every order is out does Callum dare look down at the child—tiny fist, light hair, features that echo his mother, and the absence of the woman who should be holding him. The blank on his face lasts so long Aldric's chair creaks.

"She's dead," I say gently. Soft. Mate-soft. "I killed the rogue who did it. Body's on the quarry road. You and your father can send people. I brought your bloodline home."

Callum finally looks at me. Cold. Not hate.

Hate needs strength. And proof.

He looks at me like a stranger. Distance.

"Why you."

Not a question. A verdict with doubt in it.

I practiced this too. My lashes tremble once. "Because I've been looking for her. For you. For the child she was carrying. Callum—"

His stare hardens. Measuring. Like I'm already the suspect. The rest of my speech sticks.

"Did you have a name picked?" Soren asks quietly, cutting the air thin enough for me to breathe.

Callum's eyes drop back to the pup. His mouth opens. Nothing comes.

I steady myself, step closer, soft enough to look harmless, and finish what I started. "He needs a Luna's care. A pack. A mother who understands what he is. Callum... your human wife is gone. Fate already chose. Stand with me. Marry me. Let me raise him as ours."

Silence stretches.

Callum's wolf howls behind his eyes. I hear it in the hitch of his breath.

He does not say yes.

He does not say no.

He folds around the pup like the whole world has narrowed to one heartbeat, and mine is not in it yet.

But it will be.

I bow my head so everyone present can see my sorrow clean.

I know I will get what I want.

Paige Winslow is erased.

I brought her child back. And the Alpha who would not finish my mark finally has no excuse left.

Now it's only a matter of time.

*

Paige's POV

I wake covered in blood. Empty. Hurting. Smoke claws my throat.

Someone is pressing my chest. Once. Again. A mask-style oxygen piece sits on my face, cold plastic against skin—pulled from somewhere in this cabin I don't know.

Fraser's bolt-hole always hides things in corners you don't expect.

I open my eyes. The person pumping my chest blows out a breath so hard he almost tips sideways. Fraser. Clumsy CPR—because one arm is bent wrong, bone showing. His good hand grabs me and hauls me up.

"Up." His voice is shredded. "We don't move, this place comes down. We die here."

Fire already owns the cabin. Beams c***k and spit. Heat hits my face.

Panic hits harder.

"My babies—" The word rips out raw. "Where are my babies? Dad—Fraser—where are they?"

They came to kill me.

Attackers who break doors and put hands over mouths do not leave children breathing.

The thought lands and gutters me. Both of them. Tiny. Minutes old. Gone because someone wanted me gone.

"No—" I choke. "No, no, please—they can't—Fraser, tell me they aren't—"

"Outside." He drags me straight for the door. "Move. Now."

I can't move like a person. I move like something broken. Sparks bite my hair. Rain hits my face and I still can't stop the sound coming out of me—ugly, animal grief for two heartbeats I already named in secret.

Then—

A cry.

Thin. Alive. Cutting the rain.

My head snaps toward it so hard my neck screams.

Dad sits in the mud, bleeding out, arms locked around a bassinet. Inside: one baby. Tiny fist. Light hair—Callum's color. Mouth open. Crying. Still here.

Still here.

My knees go. Hope hits so hard it hurts worse than the despair did.

"Dad—" I crawl. "Oh God—oh—"

Fraser's good hand steadies my shoulder. His voice is shredded but steady. "Breathe, Paige. Stay with us. Be strong."

"There were two," I whisper. I know that in my bones. I birthed two. In pregnancy I slipped to an old med-school classmate for a secret check and learned there were twins. I set two cradles ready. "Where—where is the other one?"

Dad's mouth shakes. Blood on his teeth. "They took one." His arms tighten around the living child like the world ends if he loosens. "Only one. This one stayed. You hear him? He's yours. He's alive."

They took one.

Not both dead.

One stolen. One breathing in the rain.

Despair cracks open and something fiercer climbs out.

I reach into the bassinet with hands that will not stop shaking and gather the crying baby against my chest. He is warm. He is loud. He is the only piece of tonight that did not burn.

"I've got you," I tell him. My voice breaks and rebuilds around him. "I've got you. Nobody takes you. Nobody. I will protect you with everything I have left."

Fraser nods once. Rain keeps falling.

Behind us, the cabin collapses in on itself—and on the empty cradle I can no longer see.

I do not look back.

I hold the child who cried me back into the world, and I swear on smoke and blood that this one will live.