Irin’s POV
No one came to save us.
In that dark, cold cave, I watched my son take his last breath. I screamed. I cried until my throat was raw, my body shaking as I did everything—everything—to keep him alive.
I begged the Moon Goddess to save him. But she never answered.
She never did.
By the time my sister arrived with our pack warriors, it was too late. I barely registered her sobbing when she saw Elijah’s lifeless body. The healer tried to revive him, but I knew—I felt—that my baby was already gone.
I just sat there, staring. Unmoving. Numb.
Tears streamed down my face, but I felt nothing. Nothing but a hollow, gaping wound inside me that no amount of time could ever heal.
My sister took me back to the pack. That was when she told me—Alpha Dixon’s warriors had been slaughtered. They never stood a chance against the rogues.
She had rushed to find me the moment she heard what happened.
I should have called her.
Not Dixon.
If I had, Elijah would still be alive.
I was a fool. A stupid, naive fool to believe he would come for us. That he would choose his own son over her.
Dixon was strong. He was powerful enough to tear through those rogues like they were nothing. But he didn’t.
He chose.
He fucking chose the woman who had once abandoned him.
Now, a week later, I stood before my son’s grave, staring at his name carved into stone. I hadn’t returned to the Alcoven Pack. I hadn’t answered any of Dixon’s calls or replied to his messages demanding to know where I was, saying we needed to talk.
Talk?
What was there to talk about?
There was nothing left.
I was nothing. A hollow shell of the woman I used to be. When I lost my son, I lost myself.
One morning, as I lay curled up in bed, staring at the wall, my father entered my room. His voice was steady, but I could hear the weight behind his words.
“Alpha Dixon is coming.”
I didn’t react. Didn’t move.
I just kept staring, wishing—wishing—that I could have died with Elijah.
But instead, I was here. Alive. And angry.
Angry at myself.
Angry at Dixon.
“What does he want?” I murmured, my voice hoarse, each word feeling like an effort.
“You are still the Luna of the Alcoven Pack,” my father said. “You have responsibilities.”
Responsibilities.
I let out a hollow, bitter laugh. My own father was talking about responsibilities when my world had just ended.
He closed the door behind him, and I slowly forced myself out of bed.
I pulled on a black dress, tying my hair into a tight bun. Then I stared at my reflection, at the dark circles under my eyes, the lifeless look in them. I applied makeup, covering the evidence of my grief, masking the pain.
I would not let Dixon see how broken I was.
When he arrived, he pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly as if that could fix anything. His green eyes—ones I had once loved—held hope. The same shade of green as the forest where I first saw him.
But I felt nothing.
I forced myself to smile. But I couldn’t.
I wanted to tear him apart. To make him feel the pain I did.
“Where’s Elijah?” he asked.
The name—my son’s name—felt like a blade slicing through my chest, bringing back the memories.
The cave. The blood. My desperate prayers.
I let out a laugh, sharp and hollow, full of nothing but bitterness and pain.
Dixon frowned. “Luna, that’s not the answer I wanted.”
Luna.
As if that title meant a damn thing anymore.
“You’re looking for Elijah?” I whispered, my voice dripping with acid.
His brows furrowed. “Did you not hear me? What’s wrong with you?” He reached for me, but I took a step back.
The movement stunned him.
Then it hit him. His expression shifted as realization dawned in his eyes.
“You’re mad because I didn’t come,” he said, his voice softer now. “I can explain—there’s a reason I’m here.”
I ignored him. “Did you get the letter?”
His brows knitted together. “Letter?”
“Elijah’s funeral.”
Silence.
His face drained of color. His lips parted, but no words came out.
You never came.
I swallowed, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “You never came when he was dying. And you never came when he was already dead.”
My voice cracked, and I took a deep breath, refusing—refusing—to break in front of him. He didn’t deserve to see the wreckage he had left behind.
He raked his fingers through his hair, struggling for words. His wolf was howling inside him, aching at the sight of mine.
Because she was grieving.
Dying inside.
The bond between us had weakened—nearly snapped.
And he felt it, too.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Sorry?
A laugh ripped from my throat.
“Sorry?” My voice shook with fury, with agony. “You killed him, Dixon.”
His expression darkened. “Don’t accuse me of that.”
“You killed him!” I shouted, my body trembling, rage burning through every fiber of my being.
That was when he snapped.
He grabbed my arm, his grip tight, his emerald eyes blazing with anger. “Don’t. I didn’t kill him, Irin! You’re lucky I even considered him my son.”
The world stopped.
My breath caught in my throat as I stared at him.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
