Too Late For The Alpha's Regret

I spent seven years in a frozen outpost as punishment for saving my fated mate's life. My family called my sacrifice dark magic, a crime that shamed our name.

When I finally came home, I found my adoptive sister, Briar, wearing my life like a stolen dress. She had my parents' love and my mate's devotion, all built on the lie that she was the one who had saved him.

They forced me to sleep in the attic and serve champagne at the party celebrating her. My own mother called me a disgrace.

My mate, Alpha Ryker, planned to formally reject me and bond with her in front of the entire pack. He demanded I stand by and bless their union.

He looked at her feigned weakness and called it a noble sacrifice. He looked at my broken spirit and called it a stain on his honor.

Then my brother found the old medical files proving I was the one who nearly died for him. The truth came out at the altar, right as Ryker was about to bond with my sister. But by then, I was already gone, a rogue wolf with nothing left to lose.

Chapter 1

The old jeep rattled to a stop, the engine cutting out with a sputtering cough.

"We're here. Get out."

The driver, Gus Finch, didn't even turn to look at her. His words were as rough as the gravel drive. He spoke to her like she was a sack of potatoes he was finally unloading. After seven years, maybe that's all she was.

Elara Thorne pushed the creaking door open and slid out. Her body ached. Seven years in the Northern Rehabilitation Outpost had carved the softness from her, leaving a thin, wiry frame clad in the coarse, grey fabric of a prisoner. Her pale, silver-blonde hair, unwashed and unkempt, hung in a loose braid down her back.

The Thorne Manor stood before her, a monument of stone and dark wood, its windows glittering like cold, judgmental eyes. It was a palace, and she was a ghost haunting its gates.

Her inner wolf, a presence that had been a faint, pained whimper for years, stirred weakly. It didn't recognize the scent of home. It smelled only of cloying sweetness—Briar's perfume—and the sterile indifference of their parents.

The crunch of the jeep's tires on the gravel must have been the signal, because the heavy oak door swung open before she reached it. Arthur, the family's butler for as long as she could remember, stood silhouetted in the entrance. His posture was ramrod straight, his face a mask of professional disdain. His eyes raked over her, from her worn boots to her tired face, and he sniffed, a barely audible sound of distaste.

"Follow me," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "And try not to track the wilderness in with you."

Elara said nothing. She followed his stiff back into the grand foyer, her boots silent on the marble floor. The house was