Don't Regret after losing me to the Alpha King

The night the moon rose silver over the valley, my heart betrayed me. It chose him. Paxton Lincoln—the younger twin, the shadow to Alpha Jaxton's flame. His laugh was reckless, his smile careless, and his eyes... gods, his eyes carried storms I should have run from. But I didn't. I walked into them willingly, knowing they could drown me. I had been feeling this way for two years now, ever since the first time I saw him after my first shift. Back then, Paxton had been... good to me. Kind, teasing in a way that made my chest flutter, careful in ways that made me hope. But then he met Hillary, and everything changed. The warmth in his gaze vanished, replaced by a storm that only ever seemed to hit me. And drown me, they did. "Move, Lya," his voice snapped, sharp as a whip against my skin. He didn't look at me when he said it. Instead, his gaze flickered past me, straight to her. Hillary Walters—sunlight wrapped in golden hair, the kind of beauty that made even the strongest wolves stumble. She wasn't his mate, but you wouldn't know it from the way his world spun around her. I followed anyway. My feet dragged across the dirt floor of the clearing, where the others had gathered to celebrate the Alpha's return. Laughter and music tangled in the air, but for me, it was suffocating. Paxton's hand closed around my wrist—not in affection, but like I was a leash he could tug whenever he pleased. "Don't fall behind," he muttered. His grip tightened, pulling me forward, his tone dipped in mockery, loud enough for nearby ears to catch. "You wouldn't want anyone thinking you can't keep up, would you?" A ripple of laughter spread through the pack. I lowered my head, shame burning my cheeks as their eyes found me—Lya Felix, the girl foolish enough to orbit Paxton Lincoln like he was the sun, when I was only ever meant to be ash in his fire. And yet... my chest tightened with something that felt too much like love, too much like desperation. Because even when he humiliated me, even when his words cut deeper than claws, I stayed. For the briefest flicker of a moment, when his hand held mine—even like this—I could almost pretend it meant something. Almost. He released me the moment Hillary appeared. She was standing by the long oak table, laughter spilling from her lips like honey, drawing every gaze, every ear. Paxton's whole body changed when he saw her—his shoulders straightened, his smirk softened, his storm-torn eyes found calm. "Look who's here," he announced to the crowd, brushing past me like I was air. His hand, the same one that had bruised my wrist moments ago, now reached for Hillary's without hesitation. He lifted it to his lips, kissed her knuckles in an exaggerated bow, earning cheers from the others. "Princess Hillary," he drawled, "the only reason half the men here showed up tonight." More laughter echoed in my bones, rattled my chest. I stood frozen, the burn of tears threatening to blur my vision. Around me, whispers threaded through the noise—about how Paxton toyed with me, how foolish I was to follow, how pathetic. My wolf whimpered deep inside, wounded and small. Hillary giggled, casting me a glance from beneath her lashes. She knew how badly I wanted him, how desperately I clung to him, and how easily she could pull him away. And Paxton let her. He let her take every piece of him in front of me. That was the cruellest part of it all. When his gaze finally landed on me again, it was sharp, deliberate. My lungs forgot how to breathe. His lips curled into the faintest smirk, as though my suffering amused him, as though this—my brokenness—was part of the game. "Lya," he called, loud enough to hush the music near us. "You're not sulking in the dark, are you?" His words were coated in honeyed mockery. A few chuckles rippled through the pack. My cheeks burned, but I forced a smile and stepped closer, pretending his attention didn't feel like a brand pressed into my skin. "Why don't you join us?" he added, gesturing lazily to the space beside him. My heart leapt stupidly, traitorously, until he finished: "You'd make a great servant. Hillary could use someone to fan her with those big wolfy arms of yours." The laughter was louder, sharper. Hillary covered her mouth with her hand, eyes sparkling with false sympathy. "Paxton, don't be cruel," she chided sweetly. But she leaned closer to him, basking in his attention, her gaze flickering over me like I was something pitiful, less than her. I lowered my head, biting the inside of my cheek until the copper taste of blood grounded me. My wolf snarled inside me, restless and humiliated, powerless to act. Even then, his eyes lingered on me just long enough to stir a dangerous hope. There was something in the weight of his gaze that contradicted his words, a darkness I couldn't name. It was cruel, but also tethering—like chains disguised as glances. So I stayed. I endured the laughter, the smirks, the way Hillary leaned into him. Because in the middle of all the cruelty, there were fleeting looks Paxton gave me—silent, sharp, unspoken things that neither mocked nor adored. And those scraps were enough to keep me there, burning alive. The fire burned lower as the night deepened. Most of the pack had fallen into a drunken haze, their howls and laughter echoing into the forest. But Paxton and Hillary remained a shining axis, drawing every orbiting gaze. Hillary leaned closer to Paxton, lips brushing his ear as she whispered something. He laughed—loud, careless—and nodded. My stomach twisted. "Lya," Hillary cooed, her voice dripping false sweetness, "be a dear and show me your wolf." The air went still. A few heads turned, eager for spectacle. Transforming wasn't a trick to perform—it was raw, vulnerable, sacred. My wolf wasn't meant to be paraded for entertainment. "I... I don't think—" "Oh, come on," Hillary interrupted, pouting prettily as she clutched Paxton's arm. "Don't be shy. We'd all love to see it." Her gaze flicked to Paxton, daring me to refuse. His smirk widened. "You heard her," he said, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Don't make her beg, Lya. Shift. Let's show them what you're good for." Laughter rippled again, sharper this time. My wolf clawed at me from the inside, humiliated, furious, but bound to obey. I let the change ripple through me, bones cracking, fur sprouting, my body bending into the beast within. The crowd cheered. Hillary clapped her hands, delighted. "She's adorable," she laughed. "Like a little pet." And Paxton—oh, Paxton—didn't argue. He just grinned down at me, wolf to wolf, with eyes that said one thing: Mine. Not mine in love. Not mine in affection.Mine in ownership.Mine in ruin. The others soon lost interest, returning to their drinks and dances, leaving me crouched in the dirt, fur bristling with shame. Slowly, painfully, I shifted back, skin bare and trembling under the weight of their laughter. I caught Paxton watching me, just for a heartbeat. His eyes weren't mocking then. Something deeper than cruelty flickered there. But just as quickly, he turned back to Hillary, pressing a kiss to her cheek, sealing my invisibility. Still, that fleeting look anchored me where I stood. Because in my foolish, broken heart, I still believed it meant something. The night thickened like smoke, heavy with firewood, spilled ale, and bodies pressed too close. The pack reveled louder, unrestrained. My humiliation had been consumed and discarded by most, nothing more than a passing spectacle. But not by me. Never by me. I sat at the edge of the clearing, clutching my knees, forcing my body to remain small, unseen. My wolf growled low inside me, desperate for dignity, for distance. But my heart—it betrayed me. He was standing now, drink in hand, leaning far too close to Hillary. She moved like she was performing, voice pitched just enough for me to hear. "She really is pathetic, isn't she? Look at her. Sitting there like a lost pup no one wants." Paxton didn't stop her. He didn't flinch. Instead, he turned his glass in his hand, slow and thoughtful, before his gaze found me again across the firelight. And then—he smirked. "Pathetic," he repeated, low but loud enough to carry. "But she does know her place." A laugh broke from the group nearest him. My chest tightened. My nails dug into my palms until I thought they might draw blood. "Show us again, Lya," Hillary called, syrup-sweet, mocking. "Shift again—let's see the little pup dance for her Alpha's brother." The words struck harder than the laughter. That was all I was here: a shadow, a toy, dragged along to prove a point. I couldn't move. My wolf screamed inside me, snarling to take over, to bare teeth and claws. But my body betrayed me. My heart betrayed me. Because when Paxton stepped toward me, every sound in the clearing seemed to fade. The smirk softened, almost imperceptibly. His eyes found mine—not the crowd, not Hillary, not anyone else. Just mine. And for one brief, unbearable second, I thought I saw something there. Something dangerous. Something like want. But then Hillary called his name, and he turned. He draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as though I had never existed. The moment shattered, leaving me with nothing but ashes and ache. Still, my heart clung to that single look. That cruel, fleeting spark bound me tighter than any chain. I should have hated him. Gods, I wanted to. But instead, I sat there under the dying firelight, longing for the monster who made a spectacle of me, hoping—praying—that someday, his eyes wouldn't turn away. The night dragged on. Every laugh Paxton gave Hillary, every careless brush of his hand, every glance that skipped over me—it all cut sharper than claws. And yet, I stayed. My body stiff, my throat raw with words I could never say. My wolf snarled in its cage, begging me to leave, to turn my back. But my heart... my heart was a traitor. I kept watching. Always watching. Because between the laughter and whispers, I caught him. Just for an instant. A flicker of eyes through the firelight, lingering where they shouldn't—on me. His expression unreadable, but the look stayed long enough for my chest to tighten with desperate hope. When the crowd began to thin, when the music softened and embers glowed low, Paxton rose from the log with Hillary draped against him. He stretched lazily, as though the night's entertainment had ended. His gaze swept the clearing—and landed on me. "Stay put, Lya," he said, low, commanding. "Don't wander off. I might need you." It wasn't tenderness. It wasn't care. It was ownership, thrown out casually before the few pack members remaining. A reminder that even in my silence, in my humiliation, I was tethered to him. I nodded, wordless, heat prickling behind my eyes. And he turned away, hand in Hillary's, walking into the shadows of the trees. The night air wrapped cold around me, but still I sat there. Still I clung to that single thread—his eyes finding me through the fire, his voice, even cruel, directed at me. A promise or a curse, I couldn't tell. Maybe tomorrow, I told myself. Maybe tomorrow, he'll look at me without the smirk. Maybe tomorrow, he'll see me. It was a lie. I knew it was. But lies were all I had left to keep my heart beating. And so, I stayed. Silent. Waiting. Hoping for a man who would never be mine. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, faint orange and red smudges in the blackness. Shadows stretched long across the clearing, and the air smelled of smoke, damp earth, and alcohol. Around me, the pack had dissolved into the night—but I stayed rooted, a statue of shame and longing, every muscle tight, every nerve raw. Somewhere in the darkness, I could still hear Paxton's laugh. Low, careless, intoxicating—meant for her. Hillary's sweet voice responded, floating toward me like a cruel echo. They walked together, close, wrapped in warmth I would never feel. I hugged my knees to my chest and pressed my forehead against them, trying to shrink into myself. My wolf prowled inside me, restless, humiliated, snarling at the injustice, at my own weakness. She wanted to fight, to roar, to vanish into the shadows. And yet... I didn't move. Because even as my pride shredded, even as every nerve burned with humiliation, my heart betrayed me. My chest ached with a twisted, pitiful hope, a cruel tether I couldn't cut. I clung to it, ridiculous and stubborn, telling myself that maybe tomorrow—maybe just for a moment—he'd glance at me differently. Maybe he'd see me as more than a shadow, more than a tool for his amusement. I could still see his eyes in my mind—the way they flicked to me just before he turned back to her. That tiny, dangerous spark of attention, lingering just long enough to chain me to him. I hated it. I hated myself for loving it. But I couldn't stop. I pressed my palms into the dirt, feeling the rough grit scrape my skin, grounding me in the reality I didn't want to face. That I was alone. That he didn't care for me. That he never would. And yet, here I stayed, waiting for crumbs of affection I would never receive. Tears pooled at the corners of my eyes, hot and helpless. I pressed my face to my knees, trying to stifle them, to hide the proof that I was broken. My shoulders shook quietly as the night stretched on, long and empty, and my wolf whimpered inside me, just as tired, just as defeated. I wanted to vanish. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream and howl until someone heard the hollow ache of my chest. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because even in the pitifulness of it all, even in the humiliation and unbearable longing, I clung to him. To Paxton Lincoln. Even if it meant standing alone in the ashes, waiting for a love that would never come. Even if it meant breaking, every single night, in silence. And still, I stayed.