Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Six
Grey returned to his room and stopped in the middle of it—didn’t sit, didn’t move toward the bed, didn’t even bother closing the door properly behind him. He just stood there, boots still on, cloak heavy on his shoulders, staring at nothing while his thoughts dragged themselves in slow, ugly circles that refused to settle.

His chest rose and fell, shallow at first, then deeper, rougher, as anger bled into frustration. Frustration twisted into something heavier, denser, until it pressed against his ribs and made breathing hurt. The Alpha of Iron Fang’s face wouldn’t leave him. That calm stare. That cold, unwavering certainty—as if he had been stating facts, not accusations.

“You didn’t care enough to see.”

The words replayed again and again, each time cutting deeper.

Grey’s jaw tightened. Before he realized he was moving, his fist slammed into the mirror on the wall.
The sound was sharp and violent. Glass burst outward, cracks spiderwebbing before the mirror shattered completely. Shards rained down, clattering across the stone floor. Some sliced into his knuckles. Others slid beneath furniture. Blood welled and ran freely down his hand, dripping from his fingers, but Grey didn’t react. He barely felt it.

He stared at the ruined reflection.

His face stared back at him in fragments—eyes split, mouth distorted, expression torn apart just like everything inside him. In one shard, he looked furious. In another, exhausted. In another, terrifyingly empty.

Raped. Forgotten. And then died miserably.

Guilt surged through Grey, hot and suffocating, because he knew—deep down—that it was true. He had promised Oliver he would release him. Promised he would come back for him. Promised he wouldn’t leave him there.

And then he hadn’t.

He had been too caught up in the warmth of Diana’s attention, in the ease of her smiles, in the way her presence demanded nothing painful of him. He had spent days indulging her—walking with her, listening to her, giving her everything she asked for—while Oliver was left behind.

While Oliver was being broken.

Grey’s hand curled into a fist again, blood smearing across his palm. He hadn’t even questioned how the Iron Fang Alpha knew. Hadn’t demanded proof.

Because some part of him already knew.
That day—the day he had been with Diana—he remembered feeling it. A strange, faint ache spreading through his body. Not sharp. Not alarming. Just… wrong. He’d brushed it off, convinced himself it was nothing, something temporary, something unimportant.
He never imagined it had been Oliver.

And the reason it hadn’t nearly killed him—the reason it hadn’t dropped him to his knees—was because the mate bond had already been torn almost completely apart.

Grey wished—fiercely, irrationally—that he could dig up the graves of the guards who had hurt Oliver. He wished he could drag their rotting bodies back into the world, just long enough to make them scream. Just long enough to return every ounce of pain they had inflicted. He wanted their fear, their agony, their begging. He wanted to watch it break them the way Oliver had been broken.

But it was impossible.
They were already dead.

No matter how badly he wanted to tear them apart with his bare hands, there was nothing left to touch. Nothing left to punish. The rage had nowhere to go, and that made it worse. It clawed at him from the inside, turning in on itself, sharp and useless.
If resurrecting the dead had been possible, Grey would not have hesitated. He never had. For three years, he had tried—quietly, obsessively, desperately. Ancient texts. Forbidden rituals. Blood-stained altars hidden far from prying eyes. Promises whispered to gods that never answered.

All of it had led nowhere.
Death stayed death.

And Oliver had faced it alone.

Grey dragged a hand down his face, smearing blood across his skin, his breathing uneven. The realization settled in fully now, cruel and unrelenting: there would be no justice for what had been done to Oliver. Not the kind Grey wanted. Not the kind that would let him sleep at night.
The only thing left was the living.

Grey sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowing forward. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor between his boots.

“I said I’d come back,” he muttered hoarsely to the empty room.

For three years, Grey hadn't touched a soul—not even Diana, his marked mate and pack Luna. The pack hounded him now: fuck her already, breed her, give us the next Alpha pup. But he couldn't. Tried once, twice—shoved her legs apart, willing his cock to rise. Nothing. Limp as a dead fish. All his dick wanted was him, and he finally realized that his body wasn't his anymore. His Omega mate. Oliver's honey-sweet scent choking his lungs, those addictive pheromones owning his brain.

Even after Oliver rotted in the ground, Grey jerked off to him. Locked in the bathroom, fist pumping his finally-hard cock, growling Oliver's name as thick ropes of cum splattered the tiles. Then the crash: disgust, bile rising. Oliver was dead. The dead were dead. The grave didn’t care how much you wanted. Didn’t care how much you couldn’t move on.

Every release left him a little emptier, a little more disgusted with himself. Grieving someone and still using their memory to get off felt wrong, like dragging a corpse back into his bed. He’d stare at his hand, his breath rough, and hate himself for it. But when the days stretched too long and the nights turned thick and suffocating, he did it again.

But a few nights before? Some bastard snuck into his room, and Grey realized that it was the Alpha of Iron Fang. And now, years of blue-balled hell later, his cock throbbed again—raging, leaking. For an Omega who hated his guts. An Omega whose scent, whose spitfire glare, and tight little body screamed Oliver. It was shredding Grey's sanity, piece by bloody piece. The way he’d glared at Grey like he wanted to tear his throat out. The way his almost hidden scent hit him, not exactly Oliver, but close enough that his chest hurt and his cock ached and his head felt like it was splitting.

It was wrong. Entirely wrong.

Oliver was gone. The dead didn’t come back. You didn’t REPLACE them. You didn’t RE-CREATE them in someone ELSE'S body.

And yet, Grey’s arousal hadn’t been a mistake. It wasn’t imagined. His erection pressed uncomfortably against his pants.

He felt sick.

The idea of touching the Alpha of Iron Fang turned his stomach and lit his blood on fire at the same time. It disgusted him—and it tempted him. The resemblance, the scent, the attitude, the way he pushed back instead of cowering. It all clawed at Grey’s self-control. But he couldn't bring himself to act upon his desire. After all, he loved Oliver and still loves him.