Ex-Alpha's Regret: Siren's Comeback novel Chapter 104

POV: Damian

The soul-weaver's words had been a death sentence, the final, irrevocable end to any hope of reconciliation. I had returned to the Blackwood manor not as a king returning to his castle, but as a ghost, haunting the halls of a life that was now a mockery of what it should have been.

Sylvie was there, of course. She had played her part perfectly. She was the picture of the concerned, loving consort, ready to soothe the wounds of her Alpha. She had everything she had ever wanted: the power of the Matron, the adoration of my son, and me, finally untethered from my "disloyal" mate. She had won the game. But her prize was a hollowed-out man, a king of a silent, empty kingdom.

In those first few months, she had tried to fill the void that Seraphina had left. She would wear the silks I had once admired on Seraphina, fill the halls with the moon-orchids Seraphina had once loved. She would try to engage me in conversation about the pack, about our future, her voice a constant, gentle hum of possession and planning. But every gesture was a grating, painful reminder of what I had lost. Every time I looked at her, at her silver-blonde hair, her pale skin, my mind would betray me, superimposing Seraphina's image over hers. Her smile was not Seraphina's smile. Her laugh was not Seraphina's laugh. Her presence, which I had once sought out, did nothing to fill the gaping, screaming void in my soul.

I became cruel, my own inner torment spilling out and poisoning everything around me. I would retreat into my study for days at a time, speaking only to my Betas, the familiar world of politics and power my only refuge. When Sylvie would bring me a meal, I would push it away, untouched. One night, she came to my bed, wearing a nightgown of transparent black silk, her eyes holding a desperate, pleading invitation. I remember looking at her, at this woman I had once thought I wanted more than anything, and feeling nothing but a profound, soul-deep revulsion.

I began to hate. I hated Sylvie, for being a pale, inadequate imitation of the real thing. I hated Jax, for being the instrument of her escape and her success. I hated the soul-weaver, for telling me a truth I couldn't bear to hear. And I hated Seraphina, for her strength, for her resilience, for her ability to not just survive without me, but to thrive and become a goddess in her own right.

But most of all, a new and terrible emotion began to take root in the barren soil of my soul. I began to hate myself. The arrogant, blind fool who had held a goddess in his hands and had, through his own pride and stupidity, crushed her until she had no choice but to turn to dust and blow away on the wind. The self-loathing was a new and terrifying companion, and its voice was the loudest in the dead of night.