Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Seven
Oliver never thought—never, in his wildest imaginings—that he would be the one to dig his own grave.

He had done everything right. Too right. One by one, he had wiped out the foolish alphas who trafficked, abused, and broke omega slaves under the excuse of being superior. He had erased them quietly, efficiently, leaving no witnesses and no trails. The rest of the Alphas whispered his name with fear, and the packs told themselves comforting lies about accidents and internal rebellions.

He took a bitter satisfaction in that. Maybe even contempt. They deserved worse.

What he hadn’t expected was the Conclave.
The message arrived: all major packs were to send delegates for a multi-pack negotiation, neutral ground, and binding terms. Refusal wasn’t an option. The Conclave never asked twice. Oliver’s pack was listed without hesitation. So was Grey’s. It made sense, infuriatingly so. Oliver was known for strategy, for bloodless victories and brutal efficiency when diplomacy failed. Grey was known for command, for restraint backed by overwhelming force. Together, they represented everything the packs feared and respected. The Conclave wanted efficiency.

They wanted them both.
If Oliver had been sent alone or paired with some disposable alpha, he could have managed. Manipulated the situation. But this—this was different. He was being sent on a journey to hostile neutral territory with Alpha Grey at his side.

Grey, who watched too closely.
Grey, who was too smart for his own good.
Grey, whose presence alone threatened to peel back everything Oliver had spent years burying.

The mission was expected to last more than seven days, even with the use of magic. Long enough for a single mistake to unravel everything.
Oliver stared at the summons, jaw tight, but then, after a while, he forced himself to be still.

He straightened where he stood, spine aligning, shoulders rolling back as if tension were something he could physically shrug off. He drew in a slow breath, held it for a count, then let it out just as deliberately. The tight coil in his chest loosened, not because the problem had disappeared, but because fear had never helped him survive anything.

When he opened his eyes again, they caught the light, sharp and focused, the way they always did when he stopped reacting and started planning.

This was pointless.

Dwelling on the Conclave’s decision, on Grey’s involvement, on what might happen if things went wrong—it was a waste of time. He had clawed his way out of worse situations than this. Panic had never saved him. Preparation had.

All he needed to do was get himself ready.

That was all.

First, the drugs.

Oliver moved toward the desk, his expression settling into something cool and deliberate. He didn’t need to search for suppressants or gamble on half-effective concoctions. He already had them. Unlike the crude blockers he had relied on in the past—drugs that merely dulled pheromones and blurred a scent—this formula was absolute. It didn’t soften or disguise. It erased. As long as he took it on schedule, there would be nothing for another Alpha to sense.

The supply was sufficient, prepared in advance, and measured carefully. Oliver only had to be disciplined. Miss a dose, stretch the timing, and his natural scent would return in full force, sharp and unmistakable. Not gradually. Not subtly.

Completely.

And that was not a risk he intended to take.

Grey had never rejected him.

By all logic, the bond should have withered to nothing by now. Years had passed. Marking another had severed it. Distance should have finished the job. But bonds were unpredictable things, especially when one side had never consciously cut it. Oliver wasn’t arrogant enough to assume it was gone. And he wasn’t stupid enough to let Grey get close without safeguards.

If Grey caught even the faintest trace—something familiar, something wrong—then everything Oliver had built would come crashing down. His pack. His authority. His life.

Dead meat.

He didn’t need to reach out to anyone or make discreet inquiries. The supply was already secured, stored away for situations exactly like this. Enough for the full duration of the mission, with extra doses accounted for in case the journey stretched longer than planned. Oliver trusted preparation more than luck, and he trusted nothing to chance when his life depended on it.

As long as he stayed precise, stayed disciplined, Grey would sense nothing at all.

The Conclave allowed each delegate to bring a small retinue—bodyguards, advisors, and trusted companions. Appearances mattered, but trust mattered more. Rowan was the first name that came to mind. Oliver almost decided it without thinking. Rowan was efficient, ruthless when needed, and knew every shadow Oliver had ever stepped into. If something went wrong on the road, Rowan would be the one person he trusted to pull him out alive.

Almost.

The thought didn’t settle right.

Oliver stopped pacing and exhaled slowly. No. Taking Rowan with him would be a mistake.

Iron Fang didn’t just need muscle while he was gone—it needed a mind. Someone who could read threats before they reached the gates, someone who knew how to keep the pack steady if rumors spread or if the Conclave decided to test boundaries in his absence. Rowan was more than a blade at his side. Rowan was a leader.

And Iron Fang would need one.

Oliver wasn’t arrogant enough to believe nothing would happen while he was away.

Rowan would stay.

The decision settled cleanly, with no regret. Rowan would hold the pack together, manage the councils, and make sure no one got bold while their Alpha was out of reach. If anything went wrong, Oliver trusted Rowan to handle it exactly the way he would have.

For the mission itself, he needed different people.

Evelyn was the obvious choice.

His Gamma had nerves of steel and a mouth sharp enough to handle negotiations without escalating them. She knew when to push and when to pull back, and more importantly, she knew how to read him. If Oliver faltered—even for a second—she would catch it and compensate without drawing attention.

She had never failed him.
The third choice took a moment longer.

Oliver thought through faces, skills, and loyalties and finally settled on Elvis.

Elvis wasn’t loud. He wasn’t ambitious. But he was observant, dangerous in a quiet way, and fiercely loyal. The kind of man who noticed details others missed and acted without needing orders spelled out. He would be useful on the road and indispensable if things turned ugly.

Evelyn. Kelvis. A small escort of guards.

Grey would bring his own people. Oliver didn’t care who they were. 

They would travel together. Eat in the same camps. Sit across from each other in negotiations that would stretch for days. Smile when required. Measure every word.

Fine.

Oliver had survived captivity, betrayal, and death itself. He had rebuilt from ashes and bone. He would not unravel now just because fate had decided to test him again.

\~~~
A few hours earlier—

The culprit behind the selection, Grey had summoned a mirror call, the surface of the enchanted glass rippling before settling into the image of Alpha Seraphine, the female Alpha of Blackthorne, currently overseeing the Conclave’s affairs. She looked tired, parchment spread across her desk, quill tucked behind one ear.

“Grey,” she said, straightening slightly. “This is unexpected.”

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Have you found a way to negotiate with the neutral packs yet?”

Seraphine sighed. “Not a solid one. They’re cautious. Watching which way the wind blows before committing to anything.”

“And the delegation?” Grey asked calmly. “Has the board finalized who they’re sending?”

“No,” she replied. “But I’m about to put names forward.”

She glanced down at the parchment, scanning it. “There are a few Alphas I think would be suitable. Experienced. Politically—”

“No,” Grey interrupted.

Her head snapped up. “No?”

“I’ll go,” he said simply.

For a moment, Seraphine just stared at him.

“You?” she repeated, disbelief clear in her voice. “You’ve never volunteered for a Conclave mission. You barely attend half the meetings.”

Grey shrugged. “That doesn’t mean I’m incapable.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly, recovering. “It’s just… unexpected.”

She hesitated, then nodded. “Well. That’s… good. Your presence would certainly carry weight.”

She made a note on the parchment. “In that case, we’ll need a second Alpha of equal standing. Someone strong enough to command respect if things turn hostile.”

She paused, thinking aloud now. “Perhaps—”

“No,” Grey said again, tone still even. “Choose Iron Fang.”

Seraphine blinked. “Iron Fang?”

“Alpha of Iron Fang,” Grey clarified.

That made her lean back in her chair, eyes narrowing slightly as memory surfaced. The way Oliver had fought Blackwood during the last Conclave gathering. Efficient. Brutal. Controlled. An Alpha, limited by bangles, who had stood his ground against an Older Alpha without hesitation. The bloodthirst in his eyes in that moment was something Seraphine had rarely seen in modern Alphas. Most of them had grown soft, complacent, drunk on the idea that their rank alone placed them above everyone else. They barely trained, barely sharpened themselves, convinced that peace would last forever simply because the conclave existed.

Naive fools.

Seraphine despised that weakness.

But that cold hunger that rolled off the Alpha of Iron Fang, the raw, predatory aura he never bothered to hide—sent a shiver down her spine. It made her feel small in a way she hadn’t felt in years. And before the day of the conclave, there had been only one Alpha capable of making her feel that small.

Grey.

He stood above her in every sense of the word—rank, ominous power, authority—and she knew, without question, that she would do exactly as he ordered.

“…Yes,” she admitted slowly. “He’s more than capable. Dangerous, even.”

Her gaze flicked back to Grey, something cautious creeping in. “You’re sure about this pairing?”

Grey met her look without flinching. “Very.”

For a second, suspicion stirred in her expression. She studied him, as if searching for something beneath the calm exterior. “You’re not harboring any personal intentions toward Iron Fang, are you?” she asked lightly, though the question carried weight.

Then she shook her head almost immediately, dismissing the thought herself. “No. That’s ridiculous. You have a Luna. Everyone knows how devoted you are.”

Grey said nothing.
The mirror went dark shortly after.