The Alpha's Regret: My Ex-Mate is the True Luna

The crystal chandeliers of Silvermoon Manor burned all night. Three hundred wolves filled the banquet hall. Champagne glasses clinked. The air smelled of roses and seared meat—wolf gatherings always served raw meat. Tradition. Elena stood in the corner, holding a cake. She had baked it for four hours. Three layers of cream. Strawberries placed one by one. On the seventh strawberry, her hand shook. Jam bled into the white cream, leaving a small pink stain. She tried to fix it with a spatula. The stain stayed. Barely visible, but there. She took a breath, pressed one last half-strawberry over the mark, and looked up. The crowd parted. Kael walked down the red carpet. Black suit. Silver family crest pinned to his collar—a crescent moon clasped by wolf claws, forged in pale silver, gleaming cold under the lights. At six-four, he moved through the crowd like a drawn blade. His shoulders strained the fabric of his jacket. His amber eyes swept the room. Three hundred wolves lowered their heads. Alpha. Pureblood Alpha. Elena walked toward him, holding the cake. Her heels clicked on the marble floor. She wore the only decent dress she owned—white, a little too long. She walked carefully to avoid tripping. She stopped three steps in front of him. "Kael..." She raised the cake, forcing a smile. "Happy birthday. I made you—" "We're done." His voice wasn't loud. But the music stopped. Three hundred wolves turned to stare. Elena's hands froze mid-air. "...What?" "I said, we're done." Kael looked down at her. His amber eyes held nothing—not warmth, not anger. The same look he'd give a bug crawling across his table. "Three years. You can't even shift. You can't even turn into a wolf, and you think you deserve to stand beside me?" The cake slipped from Elena's hands. Cream splattered across the floor. Strawberries rolled to Kael's polished shoes. He kicked one aside without looking down. A woman stepped out from the crowd. Red dress. Hair coiled in an elegant bun. Two ruby earrings dangling. She walked up and slipped her arm through Kael's, then glanced at the cake on the floor. "Oh my," she laughed softly, "you made it yourself? What a shame." Her name was Raven. Elena knew her. The only daughter of the Blackwood family—one of the oldest wolf clans in the council. She'd been showing up beside Kael for two years now. Always in red. Always with her fingers curled just right around his arm. Not too tight. Not too loose. Tight enough for the whole hall to see. Her red nails pressed lightly into Kael's sleeve. Elena looked at that hand. At the nails. At the way Raven's fingers rested against his forearm like it belonged to her. "Elena," Raven said, her voice soft as honey, "you can't even shift. You're taking up space that someone else—someone worthy—should have. Don't you think?" The hall was silent. Someone coughed. Someone else barely held back a laugh. Elena's lips moved. "...Kael. I'm asking you one more time. Are you serious?" Kael looked at her. Three seconds. Five. Then he reached out and pointed at the black bone ring on her left ring finger. "Leave the ring. That belongs to my family." Elena looked down at her hand. The ring was rough, unpolished. Carved from some kind of animal bone. She'd worn it for three years. A pale ring of skin had formed beneath it. Kael had never asked about it. Not once. Not in three years. Now he said it belonged to his family. She was silent for a long moment. Then she pulled the ring off her finger. Kael's brow twitched. Raven's eyes lit up. Elena closed her fist around the ring. Her knuckles went white. Then she lifted her head and looked at Kael—that beautiful, cold, perfect face—and felt something inside her chest, the thing she'd been slowly crushing for three years, stop beating for one second. She said, "You'll regret this." And she turned. The chandeliers stretched her shadow across the marble floor. She walked through it—long white dress dragging through the cream and smashed strawberries—toward the main doors. Her back was straight. Halfway there, Raven's voice floated after her: "Elena, your bag—" She didn't look back. The doors closed behind her. Outside, the night air hit her like ice. The driveway stretched long and empty, flanked by dark pines. She stood in the middle of it in her thin white dress, bare-armed, bare-shouldered. No coat. No bag. Nothing but the bone ring in her clenched fist. No one came after her. She laughed once. The sound died before it reached her ears. She'd learned, over three years, not to expect anything else. The kitchen steps, cold and hard. The light from the windows. The muffled laughter inside. Her, eating instant noodles from a bowl, watching her own reflection in the dark glass. Tonight, even the steps were gone. She walked. Three hundred meters in heels. Her feet bled. She kicked the shoes off and kept walking barefoot. The moon hung full and white overhead. Her shadow trailed behind her—thin, bent, like a stalk of bamboo that had been stepped on and stayed down. She didn't know how long she walked. Then she heard it. An engine. Behind her. Black SUV. Racing down the driveway. Headlights pinned her shadow to the road. She stepped to the side. The car flashed past, wind whipping her dress. Then it braked. Hard. Stopped fifty feet ahead. The window rolled down. A man's face—twenty-eight, buzz cut, scar through his left eyebrow. Black leather jacket. She knew him. Kael's second-in-command. Iron. Pureblood wolf. Never left Kael's side. "Elena," he said, flat. She stood in the middle of the road, barefoot. Iron tossed an envelope from the window. It landed at her feet. "Take it. Find a place. Don't come back to the city. You won't survive." The window rolled up. The SUV shot forward and disappeared around the curve. Elena bent down and picked up the envelope. She opened it. Cash. Thick stack. About ten thousand. A sticky note on top: Buy a ticket. Go far. Kael's handwriting. She knew it. She put the cash back. Closed the envelope. Then she looked down at her left hand—at the pale ring of skin where the bone ring had sat for three years. Like a brand. Three years ago, he put it on my finger. Tonight, he told me to leave. She closed her fingers around the ring. It was warm. She held it tight. Then she lifted her head and looked at the forest beyond the driveway. The treeline was dark, dense. Moonlight bled through the cracks in the canopy, spilling silver across the forest floor like shattered coins. She walked toward it. Her bare feet hit the dirt. A sharp stone cut her sole. She flinched, crouched, rubbed the spot. Then she stopped. Her palm was burning. She opened her hand. The black bone ring sat in her palm, its rough surface glowing faintly—hairline cracks of silver running through the black, like something alive waking up. She stared at it. "...Mom?" Her voice came out raw. She didn't know why she said it. The ring grew warmer. Just a little. Like someone pressing their palm gently against hers. Elena closed her fist around it. She stood up. No shoes. White dress stained with cream and blood. And she walked—barefoot, bleeding, alone—into the moonlit forest. Behind her, the distant music from Silvermoon Manor still played. No one remembered her. But the path she walked into the dark that night—that path was just beginning to curve. And it was curving back. — End of Chapter 1 —