The Alpha King’s Regret Novel – Fireworks for Someone Else Isla I lit the last candle and watched the flame catch like a secret. Everything was in place; the only thing missing was my husband. A bottle of red wine breathed on the counter the way I used to breathe when Kade kissed down my throat and told me I was safe—told me he loved me. It’s ridiculous, craving that on an anniversary. But I did. I wanted him back. Not the Alpha who sat on a throne made of meetings and territory maps and other people’s fear. Not the man who spoke in clipped sentences and looked through me like I was another problem to solve. I wanted my husband. I went to the bedroom, put on a black lace over skin-painted silk, and fastened a soft leather collar at my throat. He used to hook his thumb under my chin and say, “Mine,” in a way that made my knees weak. I added cuffs, a garter, the blindfold laid out like a promise, and a small velvet bag that had made me blush in the store and feel brave at home.
Pathetic how love could turn a wolf-girl into a hopeful little fool. I checked the time again. 9:03 p.m. Kade had promised he’d be home by eight. I told myself not to overthink it. Alphas were busy. Kings were worse. Crimson Pack ran like a city with teeth, and people called him Alpha King like it was carved into his bones, like he didn’t bleed the way the rest of us did. But he did bleed. I’d seen it. I’d stitched him once, two years into our marriage, when the Wandering Wolves tested Crimson’s borders and he came home at dawn with blood dried like rust along his ribs. I’d been shaking, furious and terrified, and he’d let me yell while I cleaned the wound, but then when he cupped my face, smoothed my hair away from my eyes, and whispered, You’re allowed to be afraid. You’re allowed to be angry. I’m still here. Still here? Where was he now? My phone buzzed against the counter. A message from one of the Omegas in the main house: The council ended early. Alpha left half an hour ago.
Relief washed through me so hard my eyes stung. Then another buzz. A notification. JUNO_LIVESS has started a live video. Juno was one of those shameless social butterflies who could turn anything into content, pack training bloopers, gossip, “Day in the Life of an Omega Assistant,” and once, a ridiculous “Ranking Alpha Smirks” video that had me laughing so hard I snorted. I didn’t even mean to tap it, but my thumb did it by itself. The screen filled with neon lights, and everyone seemed happy. There was a carousel, a Ferris wheel, and music thumping in the background. Juno’s face dominated the frame with her eyes glittering and cheeks flushed with excitement. “Oh my god, you guys,” she squealed, swinging the camera. “I’m not even supposed to be here, but someone rented out the entire park, and I swear I will never shut up about it.” The camera caught a sign: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE EVENT. My stomach tightened. Private events weren’t unusual for Crimson Pack. Kade did them for charity sometimes. And also for injured pack members and for political allies he needed to impress.
The camera swung again, and the fireworks started, white and crimson bursting over the dark like flowers made of fire. Juno shrieked. “Okay, okay, wait. I have to show you who this is for.” She pushed through a crowd. The live chat exploded with hearts and comments I couldn’t read fast enough. Then the camera found a woman standing under the fireworks, laughing with her head tipped back like she’d never had to carry grief in her mouth. Long dark hair and a sleek dress that shimmered like oil on water. Her arm was around a little boy, maybe five or six, who clutched a bright balloon and bounced on his toes, and beside them—Kade. My husband in a dark coat, jaw sharp, posture imposing even in a place built for play. He looked like he didn’t belong under carnival lights, except he did, because he was smiling. An actual smile, not the thin, polite smile he offered outsiders. Not the half-smirk he gave council members when they annoyed him. A real smile, soft at the edges, boyish in a way I hadn’t seen in months.
Juno zoomed in so hard I could see Kade’s hand on the boy’s head, steadying him, fingers splayed like a blessing. The woman leaned into Kade and said something I couldn’t hear over the fireworks. Kade laughed. Kade never laughed. The sound didn’t reach me, but I could see it in the movement of his mouth, in the way his shoulders loosened. Like he wasn’t carrying the world. Like he was, God, like he was home. Juno whispered dramatically, “You didn’t hear it from me, but… this is Mara Voss’s birthday, and—” She swung the camera to the boy. “This is Luca. Isn’t he adorable? Look at him!” The boy waved at the camera with a sticky hand, frosting smeared on his cheek. The woman, Mara, held up a mixing bowl. There was a table set up nearby with ingredients and a giant cake tin. In the background, staff wore party hats. A banner fluttered: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARA! Kade lifted the boy, whom now I know to be Luca, up onto his hip like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he’d done it a thousand times. The live chat screamed. My phone slipped in my hand. I caught it before it hit the counter. I couldn’t breathe.
Kade never did grand gestures for me. Not like that. He’d given me protection, yes—he’d sheltered the scattered remnants of Blackthorn after the Wandering Wolves tore us apart. He’d taken my people in when our borders shrank, when our howl fell quiet, when our alpha, my father, aged ten years in one season. The union had been “strategic,” everyone said. Some called it marriage for peace, while some called it marriage for shelter. And still, I’d believed, like a fool that I was, that love grew anyway. Because there was love. There had to be. You couldn’t fake the way he used to look at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. You couldn’t fake the way he’d carried me across the threshold of our home, murmuring, No one touches what’s mine. I stared at my screen until it blurred. He Wanted Kids, Just Not With Me Isla Then Juno’s voice squealed again, “Oh! Okay, wait, wait, they’re doing the candle thing.” The camera steadied on a cake; it was big, extravagant, frosted smooth, and pale. Mara leaned close to light the candles. Kade stood behind her, his hand on her waist, guiding her, and that made my skin crawl.
The boy clapped. “Mom, hurry!” Mom? My throat closed, and I got up from the bed and headed downstairs. Mara blew out the candles. Fireworks burst again, perfectly timed, raining light over their heads. Juno laughed breathlessly. “Tell me this isn’t the cutest little family moment—” Family? I dropped the phone like it burned me. It clattered onto the counter. The live kept going, muffled, a distant echo of happiness I couldn’t understand. My hands shook so hard I had to grip the edge of the sink. This had to be wrong. Kade was dutiful. Kade was cold, yes, and distant lately, but he was not the type to betray me like this. He was the kind of Alpha who kept his word because his word was law. He’d never been overly affectionate, but he’d always come home. He’d always slept beside me, even if he was too tired to touch. He’d always kissed my forehead like a promise. So I picked up my phone again. And called him. The call rang three times. Then someone answered. “Hello?” A woman’s voice.
Her voice was warm, amused, and distracted. My blood turned to ice. “Mara?” I managed, though I didn’t know how the name came out of my mouth. Maybe my brain was trying to save me by making it a question. She didn’t answer right away, then, lightly, as if I was someone inconveniently calling customer service: “Who is this?” My hand clenched around the phone. “Where is Kade?” Still no answer, and then I heard the laughter, the music, and fireworks in the distance. She didn’t lower her voice. She didn’t have to. “Kade?” she called, teasing, like she was calling a man from the other room in her house. “Someone’s on your phone.” My world tilted. Then a small voice, close to the receiver, bright and sure: “Dad! Dad, look! I got sprinkles!” Dad? My lungs forgot how to work. I tried to speak. Tried to say, “This is his wife.” Tried to say, “Give him the phone.” But the call ended. I didn’t get the explanation or the apology or that maybe it was a mistake. No mistake corrected. The screen stared back at me, calm and blank.
I stood there for a long moment, listening to the quiet of our home like it had teeth. Then I turned off the stove. One knob. Then the next. The meal I’d made, the one he liked, the one I’d learned in Crimson territory because the herbs grew differently here, went into the trash with a soft, wet thud. I didn’t cry. No, I can’t cry; it has to be a mistake. My mate loves me. I walked through the house like a ghost and saw evidence of my love everywhere. Curtains chosen, because Kade liked the way they softened the morning light. Plants he’d brought me after a council victory, awkwardly shoved into my arms like he didn’t know how to be tender but wanted to try. Illustrations on the wall, wolves in ink, landscapes of Blackthorn’s forests, my attempt to keep my old home alive in this new place. Our wedding photo, framed on the mantel. Kade’s hand on my waist. My smile is too bright. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, his eyes had been on me, like I mattered. Now, the symbols felt like a cruel joke. Like I’d built a shrine to a love that had never truly been mine to begin with. The front door opened at 11:17 p.m.
“Kade?” He strode into the hallway, shrugging off his coat, his scent sweeping through the house—pine, smoke, and something sharp and clean that used to make my body relax. His gaze found me. For a heartbeat, he softened. “Isla.” As if my name should fix what he’d broken. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words landed wrong. Too easy. “Plans changed. I’ll make it up to you.” Plans changed. Our anniversary was a plan. My throat burned. “Where were you?” His jaw tightened, the first sign of irritation. “I had to handle something.” “Something,” I echoed, tasting the word like poison. “Was it Mara?” A flicker crossed his face, annoyance. The cold mask he wore for outsiders slid into place. “I don’t have the patience for this tonight.” “This?” My laugh cracked. “I called you. She answered.” His eyes narrowed. “She had my phone.” “And the child called you Dad.” He froze. He didn’t deny My heart did something awful but kept beating anyway. He stepped toward me and reached out, his fingers curling around my wrist, tugging gently like he thought I’d follow. Like I always followed. Like he believed I would never leave. “Come to bed,” he said, in a low voice, commanding in that Alpha way. “We’ll talk tomorrow.” I looked at his hand on my skin and felt… nothing. Not warmth. Not longing. Not the familiar ache of wanting him. Just disgust. I pulled away. His brows drew together, confusion sharpening into annoyance. “Isla.” “Don’t touch me.” The words fell between us like a slap. His gaze hardened. “You’re overreacting.” I stared at him. “I set the table. I made your favorite meal. I—” My voice shook, and I hated that it did. “I waited for you, and I wore this! To impress you.” “I said I’ll make it up to you.” He said it like love was a debt he could pay off with a gift. Like I was a problem he could manage. “Do you even hear yourself?” I whispered. His patience snapped. “You’re being unreasonable.
You know what my life is like. You knew what you married.” I flinched as if he’d hit me. Because yes, I knew. I’d married an Alpha King with a pack on his shoulders and blood on his hands and duty stitched into his spine. I’d married a man who saved my people when my home burned down, who gave Blackthorn’s scattered wolves a place to breathe again. I’d married him because I loved him. And because in those early years, he’d loved me back in the only way he knew, quietly, fiercely, possessively, like he couldn’t say the words but couldn’t stop proving them. He used to come home just to find me in the kitchen and press his mouth to my temple, inhaling like he needed my scent to remember he was human under all that power. He used to sit on the floor with me, back against the couch, and listen while I told him stories about Blackthorn’s forests, the way the river sounded in spring, and the old stone circle where my mother used to sing to the moon. He used to look at me like I was the only softness he allowed himself. Now he looked at me like I was an obstacle. His phone rang. His eyes flicked to the screen. Something shifted in his expression—focus, urgency, and a softness that made my stomach turn. He answered immediately.