Torn Bond: The Alpha's Late Regret

Clarabelle POV:

Martha finally left, closing the door behind her with a lingering look of worry.

I did not go back to sleep. I washed my face, sat down at my desk, and pulled up the examination syllabus for the Lycaeum.

For the past five years, ever since the liquid-silver bolt ruined my left knee and ended my path as an elite warrior, I had spent ninety percent of my life confined to this estate. Gasper always said it was for my own good, claiming that without him or an escort, I was better off staying safe inside. But we both knew the unspoken reality: a crippled she-wolf was an embarrassment, an awkward shadow beside a powerful Alpha.

To keep from drowning in loneliness, and to stop myself from spending every waking hour waiting for a man who rarely looked at me, I had carved my days into rigid routines. Two hours of ancient runes, three hours of herbalism theory, and endless afternoons translating forgotten texts in the archives.

I had studied simply to survive the emptiness. I never imagined those solitary hours would become the very wings to carry me toward freedom.

Around midday, Martha brought a light lunch to my room on a tray. As she cleared away the empty plates, she hesitated, then mentioned that the Alpha had already left the pack house for the day and would not be returning until late.

I knew why. Becky’s social media schedule had mapped out her entire return week. Today was Gasper’s turn to host, surrounded by his loyal pack brothers who treated her like their golden idol.

I did not let it distract me. I spent the entire afternoon reviewing the formula for the scent-erasing brew and memorizing the final sequences of the neutral border runes.

By late afternoon, the autumn sun began to sink below the treeline, casting long, bruised shadows across the lawn.

It was time.

I opened my wardrobe and chose a simple, high-necked black dress with a sweeping hem that fell all the way to my ankles, completely concealing the twisted silver scars on my left leg. I pulled on dark leather gloves, slipped my travel pass and identification into a small purse, and threw a heavy hooded coat over my shoulders.

When I reached the foyer, Martha hurried over from the dining room, her hands wringing her apron.

"Luna, are you truly heading out alone?" she whispered, glancing nervously toward the empty driveway. "Please let me call one of the pack drivers. If the Alpha finds out you left the estate without a guard—"

"He is busy celebrating with his friends tonight," I cut her off gently. "There is no need to trouble him over something so minor."

I pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped out into the chill evening air.

The moment I stepped past the estate gates and into the bustling street, an old, defensive instinct took over. My shoulders curled inward. I lowered my chin, pulled the heavy hood down over my brow, and turned up the coat’s collar to shield my face from view.

Ever since I began to limp, walking in public had felt like walking under an interrogation lamp. Every curious glance from strangers felt like a silent, cutting question: how could someone so grand and accomplished as Alpha Monroe have a crippled mate? That shame had been etched into my bones for five long years, and peeling it away would take more than just a single day.

I raised a hand and hailed a passing cab.

"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked.

"The Blackwood Grill," I replied, sliding into the back seat.

The final assessment for the Lycaeum was set for eight o'clock tonight in private suite 7 of the Blackwood Grill. An examiner would be waiting there to evaluate my runes and practical potion brewing. Once that clearance was stamped onto my papers, my departure from this territory would be absolute.

The drive took forty minutes through the thickening evening traffic.

When the cab pulled up along the curb opposite the Blackwood Grill, I paid the fare and stepped out onto the pavement.

I looked across the street at the imposing, gilded facade of the luxury restaurant, and my breath seized in my throat.

Parked directly in the reserved VIP bay right in front of the main entrance was a sleek, obsidian Bentley. The custom silver emblem on the grille bore the sharp, familiar crest of the Monroe Pack.

Gasper’s car.

A cold drop of dread sank straight into my stomach.

Becky’s posts, his sudden absence, the private gathering—they were dining right here tonight.

In the very same building where my only chance at freedom was about to be decided.