The Omega Who Rose from the Ashes: The Alpha's Regret

Trishelle paced the length of Bradley’s hotel room, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. The scent of antiseptic clung to her skin from the hospital, a reminder of how close she’d come to losing him. Now that he was safe, a different kind of terror gnawed at her insides, one she couldn’t name and couldn’t shake.

"Stop wearing a hole in my floor," Bradley’s voice rumbled from the sofa where he’d propped himself up with pillows. His hospital discharge had been smooth, the doctor’s instructions clear, but the lines of pain still etched around his eyes, a reminder that he was far from fully healed.

Trishelle paused, her hand instinctively going to her stomach where their pup stirred restlessly, as if sensing her unease. "I can’t help it." Her voice barely carried across the room. "Something’s wrong, Bradley. I can feel it."

He pushed himself upright with a grimace, extending his hand. "Come here."

She hesitated, torn between the urge to keep moving and the pull of his outstretched hand, then crossed the room and settled beside him, the sofa dipping under her weight. Bradley wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. His warmth seeped through her thin sweater, but it did nothing to chase away the chill spreading through her veins, a cold that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than skin.

"Tell me," he murmured against her hair.

"James." The name escaped her lips like a confession. "I haven’t heard from him since yesterday morning. No calls, no texts. Nothing."

Bradley’s muscles tensed beneath her touch, the shift so slight she might have missed it had she not been leaning against him. "Maybe he’s giving us space?"

Trishelle shook her head, pulling away slightly to meet his gaze. "James doesn’t give space. He hovers. He checks that I’ve eaten, that I’m resting, that - " Her voice broke, the words catching on something too tender to say aloud. "I tried calling earlier. His phone just rang. I left messages, but they’re still unread."

She stood abruptly, the need to move overwhelming her, as though sitting still might let the fear catch up to her completely. "Even the pup knows something’s wrong. He’s been so quiet today." Her hand splayed across her belly as if she could somehow protect their child from whatever was happening to James.

The fear of giving birth without him flashed through her mind - unbidden, terrifying, a vision of an empty chair beside a hospital bed. Tears welled in her eyes, blurring Bradley’s concerned face.

"Hey." Bradley pushed himself to his feet, his movements stiff but determined. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. "We’ll call him again. Together."

Trishelle leaned back against him, drawing strength from his steady heartbeat against her back, letting it anchor her even as her thoughts spiraled. "Okay."

"Now," he added with a faint smile in his voice, "get me my phone, woman."

She turned in his arms, a genuine smile finally breaking through despite everything. "Demanding much for someone who was shot two days ago?"

Bradley’s eyes darkened. "I can think of a few things I’d like to demand." His hand slid down to cup her ass, giving it a playful swat. "But first, my phone."

Trishelle giggled, the sound foreign even to her own ears, as though laughter belonged to some other, lighter version of herself. She headed toward the bedroom, the weight of his gaze following her the whole way.

As she retrieved his phone from the nightstand, Bradley was already linking Sam through their mind connection. What came back made his stomach clench - not just the information, but the knowing amusement in his Beta’s voice.

*He heard you two*, Sam sent, the mental equivalent of a smirk. *Every. Damn. Minute.*

Bradley rubbed his temples, unable to summon even a flicker of embarrassment given the circumstances. *And where is he now?*

*That’s the problem, Alpha. No one’s seen him since he took off from the nursing home.*

Trishelle returned with the phone, her expression hopeful in a way that made Bradley’s chest ache. He took it, his fingers brushing against hers. "Let’s try again."

The call went straight to voicemail this time.

"His phone’s off," Trishelle whispered, the color draining from her face.

"Maybe the battery died." But even as Bradley said it, he knew it was a lie. James never let his phone die; the man treated a dead battery as a personal failure.

Hours passed, each one heavier than the last. Their calls went from unanswered to straight to voicemail. Trishelle’s worry escalated into full-blown panic, her pacing becoming more frantic, her breath coming in short, uneven pulls.

"I can’t just sit here," she cried, her hands twisting in her sweater. "What if the attacker got to him? What if - "

Bradley caught her wrists, stilling her movements. "Breathe, Trishelle. Just breathe." He released her slowly, watching until her shoulders eased a fraction. "Sam, check James’s room. See if his charger is there."

The response came back moments later. *Charger’s on his nightstand. Looks like he left in a hurry.*

Trishelle sank into a nearby chair, her body trembling, the strength that had carried her through the day suddenly gone. "This is bad, isn’t it?"

Bradley’s expression hardened, the pain in his side forgotten beneath a colder, more urgent resolve. "I’m not losing anyone else." He pulled out his own phone. "I’m sending out search parties. Bloodmoon members too. We’ll find him."

He met Trishelle’s gaze across the room, holding it long enough to let her see the certainty there. "And Sam," he added through their link, "go back to the nursing home. Review every security camera from the time James left. I’ll give you that month-long vacation I promised if you find something useful."

Trishelle’s shoulders relaxed slightly as Bradley took charge, some of the panic receding now that he’d given her something to hold onto besides fear. She rubbed her belly, whispering to their pup, "Everything will be fine. Your father will find him."

Two hours after Bradley’s discharge, the werewolf network was buzzing with the news. His phone rang continuously - pack leaders, council members, allies all wanting updates or demanding meetings, each call pulling him further from her side.

"I have to take these," he told Trishelle, gesturing toward the second bedroom he’d converted into a temporary office. "Council calls I can’t avoid."

Trishelle nodded, understanding the weight of his responsibilities even as her heart sank, the loneliness of the coming hours already pressing in on her.

Martha appeared moments later, her arms piled with documents, her expression too composed to be reassuring. The door closed behind them, and Sam gave Trishelle a sympathetic look. "He’ll be busy for a while, Luna."

Night fell with no news about James. Trishelle ordered room service, picking at the food she had no appetite for, each bite tasting like ash. The clock ticked past midnight, each chime tightening the knot in her stomach until it felt like something might snap.

She showered and changed into a sleep shirt, hesitating outside Bradley’s office door, her knuckles hovering an inch from the wood before she finally knocked. A quick knock revealed a harried-looking Martha and a frustrated Bradley pacing behind his desk.

He paused when he saw her, crossing the room to press a light kiss to her forehead. The phone remained pressed to his ear, his voice low but intense. Trishelle couldn’t make out the words, but the anger radiating from him was palpable, a heat that seemed to fill the small room.

She mouthed "goodnight" and retreated to her room, certain sleep would evade her, certain her mind would keep circling James’s silence like a wound she couldn’t stop touching. But exhaustion won, pulling her under within minutes.

"Luna, wake up."

Sam’s voice cut through her dreams. Trishelle’s eyes flew open, the digital clock reading 5:17 AM.

"James?" she asked, sitting up too quickly. The room spun for a moment, and she pressed a hand to the mattress to steady herself.

"We think we’ve found him," Sam said, his expression grim, offering none of the relief she’d hoped for.

"Where’s Bradley?" Trishelle looked around, but the pillow beside her was untouched. A pang of disappointment hit her - harder than it should have, given everything else at stake.

"He had to leave for an emergency meeting with the Northern Pack. Couldn’t be avoided."

Trishelle pushed herself to the edge of the bed, her feet finding the floor, the cold of it grounding her. "Where is James?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her eyes for a beat too long. "We tracked his movements last night. He’s downtown - in the Red District."

The name sent a chill through Trishelle, colder than anything she’d felt since the hospital waiting room. The Red District was where packs sent members who needed to disappear for a while. Where deals were made in shadows and bodies sometimes turned up in alleyways.

"I’m gathering some men now," Sam continued. "We’re heading over to check it out."

Trishelle flung the covers aside, determination overriding her fear, a fierce clarity replacing the fog of sleep. "Give me five minutes."

Sam cleared his throat. "No offense, Luna, but I don’t think Bradley would - "

"James is my - " She caught herself, the truth too complicated, too raw, lodged somewhere between her ribs. "He’s the father of my child," she amended, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I’m not waiting here while he might be in danger."

She stood to her full height, channeling every ounce of Luna authority she possessed, letting it settle over her like armor. "As your Luna, I’m coming with you. Either you wait, or I go alone. I’m sure your Alpha would prefer the first option."

Sam’s shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine. We’ll wait downstairs." He backed out of the room, muttering something about alphas and awkward situations, his retreat almost comical against the gravity of the moment.

A faint smile touched Trishelle’s lips as she headed for the bathroom, the first genuine one in hours. The quick shower did little to wash away her anxiety, but it cleared her mind, sharpening her resolve into something usable. She dressed quickly in a dark grey jersey and matching sweatpants, struggling to bend over in her pregnant state to pull on socks and running shoes, her frustration at her own body a small, familiar annoyance amid the larger fear.

Rocking herself to standing, she took a deep breath and headed downstairs to face whatever waited in the Red District, praying with every step that James was simply lost, and not gone.

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