The Alpha's Regret Over Omega

The single candle flickered atop the store-bought cupcake, casting shadows across the worn wooden table of my tiny cabin. Twenty-three years old today. Possibly my last birthday.

I closed my eyes, the doctor's words still echoing in my mind. Six months. Maybe eight with treatment.

"Make a wish, Chloe," I whispered to myself, the sound hollow in the empty room.

Once, my birthdays had been celebrated with the entire pack. Marcus would lead a midnight run through the territory, wolves howling in celebration as I rode on his back, unable to shift but still part of something greater. He'd carry me to the highest ridge where we could see the moon reflected in the lake below, and he'd tell me that someday, my wolf would come.

She never did.

I blew out the candle, watching the thin trail of smoke curl upward. *I wish to leave this pack forever.*

The wish surprised even me with its intensity. But after Marcus's rejection at the pack house yesterday—the cold dismissal in his eyes, the severed mind-link—what was left for me here? A terminal diagnosis and the pitying glances of wolves who had always seen me as less?

I picked at the frosting, appetite gone. The cancer would take me whether I stayed or left. At least I could choose where and how I spent my final months.

A sharp knock at my door startled me. Visitors were rare at my isolated cabin on the pack's outskirts—a placement that spoke volumes about my status.

"Coming," I called, quickly wiping away stray tears.

I opened the door to find Rachel Thompson standing on my porch, her golden hair gleaming in the afternoon sun, her posture radiating dominance. Even without my own wolf, I could sense her power—a strong she-wolf, a worthy mate for an Alpha.

"Happy birthday," she said, the words dripping with false sweetness. Her eyes flicked past me to the sad little cupcake on the table. "Celebrating alone? How... fitting."

I straightened my spine, refusing to cower. "What do you want, Rachel?"

"To deliver a message." She stepped forward, forcing me to back into my own home. "Marcus and I are planning our mate ceremony."

The words hit like a physical blow. I'd known it was coming, but hearing it confirmed made my knees weak.

"I want you gone from this pack within three days," she continued, examining her perfectly manicured nails. "Your presence is... uncomfortable. Inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" I echoed, confusion momentarily overriding my pain.

Rachel's smile was razor-sharp. "A wolfless Omega who's clearly harbored unhealthy feelings for her Alpha? It creates tension. Makes others uncomfortable." She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Marcus agrees. Why do you think he blocked your mind-link? Your attachment is unhealthy for the pack's stability."

I struggled to maintain my composure. "This has been my home for fifteen years. Marcus took me in—"

"As a child," she cut in. "You're not a child anymore, Chloe. And your continued presence here, looking at him the way you do..." She shook her head. "Three days. Then I'll personally see to your removal."

She left without another word, the door slamming behind her with finality.

I sank to the floor, her ultimatum ringing in my ears. Three days. After fifteen years, I had three days.

With shaking hands, I began pulling out boxes from my closet. If I had to leave, I'd need to pack whatever mattered most. My fingers brushed against my old toy chest, tucked away and forgotten years ago.

I opened it, expecting childhood treasures. Instead, I found a false bottom, cleverly concealed. Beneath it lay a sealed manila envelope, yellowed with age.

Breathing hard, I broke the seal. Inside were photographs, coordinates, and classified pack documents—all bearing the same symbol: a crescent moon dripping with blood. The Blood Moon Collective.

My parents' handwriting covered the margins of maps and reports. Notes about infiltration points. Names of contacts. Details of a mission that had cost them their lives.

A mission that, according to these documents, had never been completed.

I stared at the evidence of a life—and death—I'd never fully understood. My parents hadn't died in a random rogue attack as I'd been told. They'd been warriors on a mission, one dangerous enough to keep hidden even from their daughter.

As I spread the papers across my floor, a small note fluttered out, addressed simply: "To our Chloe, when the time comes."

With trembling fingers, I unfolded it, unaware that my parents' final words were about to change the course of my remaining days.