The Alpha’s Regret: Mommy’s Secret Triplets

The zipper stuck.

Aria sucked in a breath, reached behind her back, and wrestled with it for the third time, fingers clumsy, palms damp until the metal teeth caught and the dress closed. She let the breath out slowly. Checked the mirror.

The dress was ivory. Once. Years ago, when it had belonged to someone else, it had probably been a clean, bright white, the kind of white that meant something. Now it was the color of old paper, and the hem on the left side dipped a quarter inch lower than the right because the stitching had come loose and Aria had resewn it herself by lamplight two nights ago with thread that didn't quite match. You could see it if you looked. She was trying not to look.

She smoothed the fabric down over her hips anyway.

It was the nicest thing she owned. That was the honest truth of it.

Below her feet, the basement floor was cold, the stone held winter in it no matter what month it was, and the single heating vent on the far wall had been broken since October and submitted for repair twice, both requests lost somewhere between the packhouse maintenance log and the part of the pack's priority list where Aria did not exist. She had learned to sleep in socks. She had learned a lot of quiet, practical things about surviving in a space that was never designed for comfort, never meant as a real room at all, just a converted storage area with a cot and a curtain rod and a square of mirror propped against the wall because there was no place left to hang it.

She put her shoes on.

They were flat, strappy things she'd found at the secondhand exchange in town, not formal, not even close, but they were clean and they were hers and she had polished them last night until they looked almost intentional.

Almost.

She turned back to the mirror and looked at her face.

There were shadows under her eyes from not sleeping. Her hair was up, pinned carefully at the back of her neck in the style she'd seen the other pack women wear to formal occasions, held with two pins and a prayer because she didn't own a proper clip that matched. One small piece had escaped near her left ear. She pushed it back. It fell again.

She left it.

From somewhere above her, through the floor, through the maze of hallways and staircases that separated the basement from the rest of the packhouse, she could hear the ceremony gathering. The low, layered rumble of a hundred and sixty wolves finding their seats, the clink of glasses, the warm and meaty smell of the roasted banquet drifting down through the vents in clouds of rosemary and woodsmoke and the thick, animal warmth of pack pheromones, a smell that always made something in her chest press against its own walls, because it was the smell of belonging somewhere, and she was never quite sure whether it was an invitation or a reminder.

She pressed her fingers flat against her sternum.

Caleb.

Just his name was enough to do something strange to her pulse to loosen and tighten it at the same time. Three years of carrying it quietly, carefully, the way you carry something fragile through a room full of sharp corners. Three years of the bond humming at the base of her throat like a held note, present every time he walked into a room she was already standing in, and she would go very still, the way the air goes still before something significant happens.

He was going to be Alpha tonight. In a few hours, Caleb would stand at the front of that hall and accept the title and everything that came with it and then he would turn, because that was how the ceremony went, that was the tradition, the Alpha claimed his Luna and the pack witnessed and he would say her name.

Her name. In front of all of them.

After eighteen years of no one saying it like it meant anything.

She let herself feel that for exactly one moment. The full weight of it. What it would mean, not just the bond acknowledged, not just the warmth of being chosen, but the practical, solid, finally-real fact of no longer being the Silver Fang pack's human, their charity case, their basement-dwelling non-answer to the question of what to do with a girl nobody technically owned. Luna. Hi. Protected by something that couldn't be argued with or filed away or broken by two women in a hallway deciding she didn't deserve to pass.

She exhaled.

Her reflection looked back at her, pale, tired, jaw set, a dress with a slightly uneven hem and shoes that were not quite right.

Hold on, she told the girl in the mirror. Just a few more hours.

She picked up her small bag. Turned off the lamp. Started for the stairs.

The hallway on the ground floor was already busy, pack members moving toward the great hall in clusters, dressed in their formal clothes, the women in deep jewel colors, the men broad-shouldered and scrubbed. Two of them came around the corner while Aria was still mid-step, side by side, taking up the full width of the corridor, and they did not break formation. She had half a second to twist sideways before the taller one's shoulder caught hers and drove her back into the wall, the stone cold and hard against her shoulder blade, and neither of them slowed down. Neither of them turned. The smaller one said something to the other and laughed, and the sound of it moved away down the hall and disappeared.

Aria straightened. Rolled her shoulder once. Keep walking.

She had learned not to make it a moment.

Through the open oak doors of the great hall, candlelight spilled over the gathering crowd where she knew Caleb would be waiting at the front.

She stopped just outside the doors.

The noise washed over her; voices, movement, the low vibration of something about to begin.

Her hands were shaking.

She pressed them together. Breathed once, fully, down to the bottom of her lungs.

Then she walked in.