Alpha's Regret After She Kneels novel Chapter 94

(Raiden’s POV)

The echo of my own words haunts me, looping endlessly in my mind: Our arrangement served both our purposes.

At the time, it had felt like the safest answer, the easiest way to sidestep the vulnerability hanging between us after her question—Did you ever care for me at all?

But the moment the words left my mouth, I saw the pain flash in her eyes, quick and sharp, before her carefully constructed mask slid back into place.

I can’t forget it.

The image of her walking away, her back straight, her steps measured, plays in my head like some kind of punishment.

I know I’ve hurt her before—my rejection, my indifference, my unwillingness to even consider what she might have been going through. But this time feels different. Worse.

Why couldn’t I have just told her the truth? That there were moments—too many to count—when her smile had been the brightest part of my day?

That I’d noticed the way she bit her lip when she was deep in thought, or the way her laughter seemed to light up every corner of the room?

Pride, maybe. Or fear. Fear of what such an admission might mean for the distance I’ve worked so hard to maintain between us.

But now, as the unity challenge continues, that distance feels more like a prison than a shield.

Every day, I find myself making small concessions—adjusting strategies to highlight her strengths, ensuring her injured warriors receive better accommodations, giving her space to lead without interference.

They’re small gestures, insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but they feel like inadequate penance for years of neglect.

And the worst part? Everyone else seems to see her value now.

Even the staunchest members of my pack, the ones who once whispered about her behind her back, are grudgingly acknowledging her leadership. They see what I refused to see for so long: Siena is remarkable.

“Is that…” she begins, her voice trailing off.

“Chamomile,” I say, feeling oddly self-conscious. “I remember it’s your favorite.”

She steps aside, letting me in, but her movements are hesitant, deliberate. The room smells faintly of lavender, and the soft light from the lamp on her desk casts long shadows across the walls.

I set the tray down on the small table by the window, pouring the tea with practiced ease. She watches me the entire time, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable.

“You’re being… kind,” she says finally, the words slow and deliberate, like she doesn’t quite trust them. “Why?”

The question hits with unexpected savagery.

Is that how she sees me? As someone incapable of kindness? As someone so consistently cold that even a small gesture feels suspicious?