Alpha's Regret After the Divorce by Christina novel Chapter 8

Chapter 8

I held the small slip of paper tightly in my hand, the coordinates inscribed in Dominic’s precise handwriting. My thoughts spun wildly, each scenario darker and more unsettling than the last.

Could Lyra truly be gone? And what role could my father possibly have played in her death? The Derek Silverstone I knew was a man who dedicated his life to helping others—he would never harm anyone, especially not a young female wolf. The very idea seemed absurd.

“We’re nearly there, Ms. Silverstone,” Dominic’s voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.

“Thank you, Dominic,” I murmured, slipping the paper with Lyra’s coordinates carefully into my pocket. I wasn’t going to push him for more details—he’d already risked enough by handing this over.

The car veered onto the long, twisting driveway leading up to the Blackwood mansion. I recalled the first time I had laid eyes on it—the grand stone edifice nestled at the forest’s edge, its windows aglow with a warm, inviting light. Tonight, under the cold moonlight, it appeared stark and forbidding, more a fortress than a home.

“Luna, would you like to come inside?” Dominic, Rocco’s beta, asked politely, opening the door for me.

I shook my head gently. “No, thank you. I’ll wait out here.”

He nodded and disappeared into the house.

My gaze drifted to the towering Moon Maple tree dominating the side garden, its silver leaves shimmering softly in the moonlight.

During full moon season, Rocco used to gather these leaves to brew Moon Tea for me. I remembered how carefully he selected only the finest, most perfect leaves, his strong hands tender as they brushed against the delicate silver foliage.

It was hard to reconcile the man who once brewed tea for me and wrapped me in his warmth on cold nights with the cold, calculating Alpha standing before me now—someone who seemed to look right through me instead of at me.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the rough bark of the Moon Maple. It felt coarse beneath my touch, its life force subdued now that the full moon had passed. The tree was beginning to wither, much like my connection to Rocco, much like the wolf inside me.

“Rocco,” I whispered, sensing his presence before I heard his voice.

“Hmm?” His tone was flat, devoid of emotion.

I turned to find him standing a few feet away, his tall silhouette outlined by the soft glow from the house. Even in the dim light, I could see the hardness in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw.

“I want to have your Moon Tea one last time,” I said, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice.

His brows knitted together in a frown. “The moon season is over. Don’t waste my time.”

“Please?” I begged quietly, hating how desperate I sounded. But I needed this—for closure, for some semblance of peace.

For a brief moment, something flickered across his face—a shadow of the Rocco I once knew. Did our three years of marriage mean nothing to him?

“You must truly hate me, don’t you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation, his icy blue eyes unwavering.

I swallowed hard. “Then… would it make you happy if I died?”

I heard his heart skip a beat. The question seemed to catch him off guard, his expression softening for just a moment before hardening again.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But it’s just tea. Come inside.”

In the kitchen, Rocco moved with practiced ease, pulling a small wooden box from a cabinet. Inside lay dried Moon Maple leaves, carefully preserved from the last full moon season.

I watched silently as he prepared the tea, his movements precise and controlled. The thought that he once did this for me—out of love—made my chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the Bondbreak Syndrome.

“The tea is ready,” he announced, setting a steaming cup before me.

The familiar aroma of Moon Tea—earthy and sweet with a hint of wildness—washed over me, stirring a flood of memories. Nights spent curled against Rocco’s chest, his arms wrapped around me as we shared this sacred drink. Mornings when I’d wake to find he’d already brewed a fresh pot, a silent gesture of his love.

I took a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me. It didn’t taste quite the same as it had in those happier days.

“Dominic told me you changed your mind?” I asked, reminding myself of the reason I was here. “I need the money now, and we can dissolve our bond before the Moon Goddess later.”

“You’ve taken everything from me, Rocco,” I said, my voice firmer than it had been in weeks. “My children. My home. You’ve even tried to steal my dignity. But you won’t take my father’s reputation without proof.”

I stood up, feeling a flicker of my wolf stir inside me for the first time since our bond began to crumble. She wasn’t ready to give up either.

“I’ll find out the truth,” I declared, locking eyes with him without flinching. “About what really happened between my father and your sister.”

“And I’m not dying until I do,” I added, my resolve hardening.

The cold wind bit through my thin jacket, but I barely noticed. In my hands, I held a bouquet of pink moonlight flowers—delicate blooms that only appeared for three days after a full moon. According to wolf tradition, these flowers guide the spirits of the departed.

I moved slowly through the sacred werewolf burial grounds, the final resting place of our kind.

Each step sent a fresh stab of pain through my chest—not just from the Bondbreak Syndrome, but from the harsh truth I was about to confront. The coordinates Dominic had given me led to the heart of the cemetery, where the most honored wolves were laid to rest.

At last, I found the gravestone I sought. It stood out among the others—an elegant slab of gray-white marble that seemed to glow softly in the moonlight.

The name etched into the stone: Lyra Blackwood.

My throat tightened. This was Rocco’s sister, the girl he kept mentioning, the one who supposedly died because of my father. I crouched down to study the photo embedded in the headstone. She had the same striking blue eyes as Rocco—that almost surreal sky-blue shade. She looked young, no more than eighteen or nineteen.

The grave was adorned with flowers—some wilting, but most fresh. Rocco must visit often. I carefully placed my moonlight flowers among the others and pulled out my phone to take a picture of the headstone—my first tangible clue in this tangled mystery.

“Hello, Lyra,” I whispered, feeling a little foolish but pressing on. “I’m Kira, your… former sister-in-law.”

The wind rustled the branches overhead, as if answering me.

“I don’t know what happened,” I vowed, my voice growing stronger, “but I promise I’ll uncover the truth. Whoever the killer is, even with my time running out… I will find the truth.”

As I turned to leave, my eyes caught sight of another bouquet nestled among the flowers. It was simply wrapped, but with care—not expensive, but heartfelt. Attached was a small card that read: “To Jane, forever missing your smile.” It was signed, “Ethan.”