Luna Seraphina Hale thought 66 proposals from Alpha Derek Voss meant forever—until his childhood rogue companion, Violet, became his first choice, every time. “Use a card,” he’d dismiss, handing over embossed tokens like they erased his neglect. By the 64th card, fresh from ectopic surgery, he ordered her to apologize for Violet’s public tantrum—while tenderly fixing Violet’s hair. His “gift” that night? Blood-stained sheets, not her favorite pastries: “She can’t touch cold water.” His texts to Violet betrayed indifference: “Lily handles chores.” When he blew off their night with a bored “use a card,” Seraphina shattered their engagement mug—and their bond. “No more cards,” she messaged, attaching divorce papers. This Luna wasn’t begging for scraps. Let him drown in Violet’s lies; she’d stamp the final cards on a future he no longer shared. Chapter 1 Alpha Derek Voss had planned 66 romantic trips to propose to me, Luna Seraphina Hale. On the 67th attempt, beneath the shimmering lights of a rooftop banquet, I finally yielded to the sincerity in his gaze and whispered “yes.” Our wedding day dawned with a vow I thought unshakable—but by nightfall, I placed 66 “forgiveness cards” in his hands, each embossed with the faint scent of moonflowers, a scent only wolves could detect. “Each card is a thread in our bond,” I told him. “Use them wisely.” For six years, the scent of Rogue Violet Crow—Derek’s childhood companion—lingered in our den, each time he chose her over me. With every argument, he’d press a card into my palm, the embossing fading as our connection frayed. By the 64th card, my demeanor shifted. I no longer snarled at their too-close touches or flinched when he canceled pack gatherings for her. When he turned to leave for her den yet again, I simply asked: “If you go, may I mark a card?” His reply was careless: “Do as you wish—plenty remain. ” He failed to notice the tremble in my hand, or that only two cards stayed in the box. The night of the pack alliance banquet fell on the seventh moon after my ectopic pregnancy surgery. Rogue Violet, her eyes glinting with challenge, smashed a honey-caked pastry into Beta Gideon Rhett’s chest—the visiting Alpha of a neighboring pack. Derek’s first growl was for her: “Are you harmed?” Before I could recover from the scent of cinnamon and anger on the air, he turned to me, voice sharp: “Seraphina, apologize.” I stared at him, the pain from my still-healing midriff a dull throb. Gideon’s fur bristled, his Beta status demanding respect, but Violet clung to Derek’s arm, tears pooling in her lashes as if *she* were the injured one. “The one at fault hides behind others,” Gideon rumbled, pawing at his soiled tunic. Derek’s grip on Violet tightened, his Alpha command leaving no room for debate: “Apologize. Now.” He forgot—or chose to ignore—that moonflower tea, not alcohol, should be on my lips, the surgery leaving my body vulnerable to wolfsbane in spirits. Violet’s smirk cut through the air—she knew the power she held, the way Derek’s protective instincts flared for her, the way he’d throw me to the pack’s judgment. “One forgiveness card,” he murmured, low enough for only my wolf hearing. It was a hollow offering, a relic of the man who’d once hunted stars for me. I bowed to Gideon, the scent of humiliation bitter on my tongue, and as I did, Derek’s paw brushed Violet’s hair, a tender gesture he’d not spared me in moons. “Next time, watch yourself—what if you’d struck stone?” Her giggle was a blade: “You’ve always been my shield, Derek.” *Before*—a time when his shields were mine. The wound in my belly ached in rhythm with my wolf’s whimper. *Two cards left*, I reminded myself. *Two chances for him to see me*. After the banquet, Derek dismissed me with a cold glance: “Return home. Violet sprained her paw—I’ll take her to the Healer.” His eyes, once warm for me, now glowed with concern for her. In days past, I might have pleaded, shown him my bandages, demanded he choose. Now, I simply dipped my head, the scent of his indifference heavier than the storm brewing outside. “Be cautious,” he said, softer now, as if soothing a pup. I didn’t tell him caution had died with the 64th card. Chapter 2 No sooner had his words fallen than Violet threaded her arm through his, her frame delicate against his broad chest—*my* Alpha’s chest. Derek’s suit jacket, still carrying my scent, draped over her shoulders as he lifted her into the passenger seat, a care I hadn’t felt in seasons. “Stay still,” he rumbled, before finally glancing my way: “We grew up as pack siblings, Seraphina. You know there’s no bond between us.” I forced a smile, the word “siblings” a lie even his wolf should smell. “You used a card,” I said. “All is… forgiven.” His hesitation was brief, Violet’s whimper drawing him back. The engine roared, and they were gone, leaving me alone under the ironwood tree, its leaves whispering secrets of better days. At our den, I found the forgiveness cards strewn on the oak table—once locked in his Alpha vault, now carelessly abandoned. The 64th card received my mark, and beneath it, the divorce papers—parchment scented with wolfsbane to ward off his tracking—lay waiting. I called Elder Malcolm Thorne, my former mentor, his wisdom a steadying force. “Divorce?” he asked, his voice a low growl of surprise. “You two were the Moon’s favorite tale.” *What happened?* His question lingered as I traced the edge of the last two cards. It had begun with stolen glances at Violet’s den, with nights he smelled of her jasmine soap, with the day I found their paw prints tangled on a forbidden trail. “The bond is broken,” I said. “He forgets I am Luna—not a scribe to tally his mistakes.” Elder Malcolm sighed, a sound like wind through ancient pines. “I’ll send a Pack Law specialist. You deserve better than a mate who treats forgiveness as a game.” Before I could reply, Derek entered, a pastry bag in hand—*my* favorite bakery’s scent, but tainted by jasmine. “Who called?” he asked, eyes narrowing. “Elder Malcolm—research,” I lied. He dropped the bag, his scent turning sharp. “Research at this hour?” I opened the bag, expecting the cinnamon rolls of our courtship, but instead found a blood-stained dress and crumpled sheets—Violet’s. “Her moon cycle—she can’t handle cold water,” he said, voice firm. “You understand, as a Luna.” I stared at him, the irony bitter: I, too, was forbidden cold water, yet he’d never fetched *my* herbs, never asked the Healer about my recovery. “Use a card if you’re annoyed,” he added, already sinking into the couch, oblivious to the way my nails bit into my palms. *One card left*, I thought, watching him scroll through his phone, no doubt messaging Violet. *One chance for him to see*.
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “296815”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #浪漫Romance #现实主义Realistic
Leave a Reply