Alpha’s Regret After Putting Me In Jail novel Chapter 171

Chapter 171: A Mother’s Grief

Chapter 171: A Mother’s Grief

(Celeste’s POV)

I had barely settled into the plush chair in Regina’s private chambers, the weight of the Sacred Immolation threat pressing on my mind, when she suddenly lunged forward. Her icy fingers

wrapped around my arm with a grip far stronger than her weakened appearance suggested.

Her violet eyes, still red and puffy from crying, bore into me, her face contorted with bitter

grief. “Are you scared, Celeste?” Her lips curled into a chilling smile, stained with tears. “Afraid

of being buried alive with my son?”

Her words hung in the air like a death sentence. A shiver ran through my body, but I kept my composure. My spine stiffened slightly, and I made sure my voice didn’t tremble. “Yes,” I

admitted, staring back unflinchingly. “I am afraid of death, Your Highness.”

Her grip on my arm tightened, her nails digging into my skin. Her wolf’s aura flared briefly,

weakened but laced with dominance and rage. “Good,” she hissed. There was a satisfaction in

her tone that only deepened the grief simmering in her gaze.

Gently, I reached up with my free hand, scarred fingers brushing lightly against her

tear–streaked cheek. The rough texture of my silver–burned skin startled her, and she flinched

ever so slightly, though she tried to mask it.

“These scars,” I began calmly, my tone steady despite the storm inside me, “are a constant

reminder of life’s fragility. They remind me that no matter how much pain we endure, those of

us left behind have no choice but to keep moving forward.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, searching for something beneath my calm facade. Perhaps she

thought she’d find fear or guilt, something she could use to fuel her anger. But all she saw was

the quiet resilience I’d built over the years of suffering her son had inflicted on me.

I took a measured breath, deliberately softening my voice. “You, more than anyone, must understand that now, Your Highness. Marcus is gone, but you are still here. The living must find a way to continue, no matter the cost.”

The words sank in slowly. Her grip on my arm began to loosen, and her wolf whined faintly,

grief overtaking its rage. The truth was undeniable–without Marcus, her position in the royal

pack was tenuous at best.

“Come,” I said gently, slipping free from her grasp to guide her toward the couch. Her legs

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Chapter 171: A Mother’s Grief

wobbled slightly as though the weight of reality was too much for her, but she allowed herself to be led.

Once she was seated, I pulled a blanket from the couch’s edge and draped it over her shoulders carefully. Her violet eyes stared blankly ahead, reflecting the haze of grief that had clouded her once sharp and calculating gaze.

“The deed to the boutique,” I began, retrieving the neatly folded paper from the pocket of my dress. “It’s too generous a gift for me to keep. I should return it to you now.”

Regina blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and reached out to take the document from my hand. Her gaze lingered on me as she unfolded it, her expression shifting into one of

unexpected curiosity.

I could tell she expected reluctance on my part, or perhaps bitterness at giving back

something tangible Marcus had offered me. Instead, I felt only relief, a weight lifting from my chest as I relinquished the last physical tie to his memory.

She studied me intently, clearly puzzled by how easily I parted with the gift. I offered her

nothing but silence, sensing she was searching for something that wasn’t there. The act felt

like closing the door on a debt, leaving one less chain tethering me to the past.

Her eyelashes fluttered as fatigue began to overwhelm her. Her breathing slowed, tinged with

the occasional hitch of a suppressed sob. Slowly, her body sank deeper into the couch.

“Go…” she murmured, her voice quiet and frail. “Go see Marcus. Send him… send him off on

his final journey for me.”

I hesitated, biting back a sigh. I had already fulfilled the traditional duties and paid my respects before coming to see her. But now was not the time to press against her grief.

“Of course, Your Highness,” I responded softly, my silver–scarred wolf curling inward

cautiously. Compliance was the safest path for now.

The sacred mourning grounds were suffused with heavy incense, the air thick and suffocating. The moon–blessed herbs burned steadily, their smoke forming tendrils that wrapped around the altar. The ceremonial chamber exuded an oppressive atmosphere, made worse by the

weight of tradition.

Marcus’s body lay prepared for the traditional farewell rites, his appearance unnervingly peaceful despite the cowardice that had marked his final moments. The royal morticians had worked meticulously to erase any semblance of the desperate man he had become.

I lowered my gaze, torn between guilt and grim satisfaction. The sight of him stirred

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Chapter 171: A Mother’s Grief

conflicting emotions within me–not forgiveness, but the smallest spark of pity. He had been a victim of his own cruelty, a life consumed by power and control that ultimately destroyed him.

I turned my attention to the ritual, beginning the solemn process of burning sacred herbs to honor the deceased. The act was mechanical, yet it soothed something deep within my wolf’s fractured spirit.

Nearby, two beta pack servants whispered softly to each other, assuming I couldn’t hear them

over the crackle of the ceremonial flames.

“This is her second visit today,” one murmured, her tone laced with curiosity. “She must have

cared for him, at least a little.”

The other hummed in agreement. “And the tears… she seems genuinely affected by his

passing.”

Fury flared in my chest, but before I could correct their misguided assumptions, a familiar chill

engulfed the room. The servants suddenly froze, their faces draining of color as Alexander

strode in, his white wolf’s aura radiating cold domination.

“How dare you disgrace sacred ground with idle gossip?” His ice–blue eyes burned with fury as they swept over the pair. His voice was sharp, cutting through the chamber like frostbitten

wind.

“Y–Yes, Sir Steele,” the first servant stammered, bowing hastily.

The second managed only a squeak before both scrambled toward the chamber door, nearly

tripping over each other in their haste to escape his wrath.

Alexander advanced toward the altar, his every step deliberate and commanding. He knelt briefly to offer moon–blessed herbs to Marcus, his posture stiff and formal. Only then did he

turn his attention to me.

“You’re a little dramatic for a funeral, don’t you think?” I muttered under my breath.