Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Eight
What Oliver was grateful for was the postponement of the mission until the following week. The reason behind it never interested him enough to ask. Delays were common in conclave matters.

He sat back, unhurried, sipping the tea Rowan had prepared specially for him. The moment the sweetness hit his tongue, warm and rich, a soft sound of satisfaction slipped from his lips. Oliver didn’t bother hiding it. Rowan’s tea was unmatched, and he would admit that freely, even if he rarely admitted anything else.

He was just setting the cup down when the door opened.

Evelyn stepped in, her expression tight, shoulders drawn just a fraction too stiff. Oliver caught it immediately. She only wore that look when whatever she carried couldn’t be delivered gently.

“Alpha,” she said.

“Speak.”

“A woman collapsed in front of the pack gates,” Evelyn said, voice low, strained. “She didn’t faint—she fell. Face-first. She was soaked in blood, Alpha. Not just hers. And she’s heavily pregnant.”

Oliver’s fingers stilled around his cup.

“We nearly lost her on the steps,” Evelyn continued. “She was bleeding internally, ribs cracked, signs of prolonged trauma. Whoever brought her that far didn’t mean for her to survive.” She swallowed. “The healers stabilized her, but the pup—”

Oliver set the cup down with deliberate care.

“Alive,” Evelyn finished quickly. “For now.”

Silence pressed hard between them.

“She woke up less than an hour ago,” Evelyn said. “Barely conscious. Couldn’t even lift her head.” Her eyes finally met his. “The first thing she did was grab the healer’s arm and beg for you. She said if she didn’t speak to you immediately, she and her child would die.”

Oliver straightened, every trace of ease burned away.

“Did she give a name?”

Evelyn shook her head. “No. And she won’t. She’s terrified someone is listening.”

"Take me to her," Oliver ordered.

~
The infirmary was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in on the skin. Oliver’s footsteps echoed softly as Evelyn led him down the corridor. When she stopped, she gestured toward the door.

“She’s inside.”

Oliver pushed it open.

The woman lay on the bed, pale beneath dried blood that stained her dress and tangled in her hair. One hand rested protectively over the swell of her stomach, fingers curled like she was afraid to let go. When she heard the door, her head turned sharply.

Their eyes met.

Her breath hitched.

“You’re the Alpha,” she said hoarsely. Not a question. A statement loaded with relief—and fear.

“I am,” Oliver replied, voice steady. “You asked for me.”

Tears welled instantly, spilling over as she struggled to sit up. “Please,” she whispered. “You have to protect us. He’s coming.”

Oliver moved closer, placing a hand on the bed, his presence grounding, commanding. “Slow down,” he said. “Who is ‘he’?”

Her lips trembled as she swallowed.

“My mate.”

The word landed like a blade.

“And if he finds me,” she continued, clutching her stomach tighter, “he won’t stop until there’s nothing left to take.”

Oliver stood at the foot of the bed, unmoving.

The woman lay half-propped against the pillows, breath shallow, skin stretched tight over bone. Her clothes had been cut away by the healers, leaving her abdomen bare—too bare, too exposed, like something that mortal eyes should have never seen.

His gaze locked there.

Her stomach was… wrong.

It was huge. Not the rounded fullness of a healthy pregnancy, not even the strained swell of twins. It bulged forward in a way that looked almost unnatural, skin pulled so tight it shone faintly under the lamplight. Veins crawled over it in violent patterns—thick, branching lines of angry red and sickly green, pulsing faintly, as if answering to something alive beneath.

The rest of her body told a different story. Her arms were thin, collarbones sharp, face hollowed with exhaustion and pain. She looked starved—cheeks sunken, lips cracked—but Oliver knew instantly it wasn’t hunger alone that had done this.

Something had been taking from her.

Relentlessly.

Slowly.

His jaw tightened as his eyes traced the grotesque contrast: a lean, almost fragile body stretched around an impossible burden. The skin around her abdomen bore faint tearing, not fresh, but healed poorly—evidence of growth far too rapid, far too aggressive for a human body to sustain.

This wasn’t a natural gestation.

This was parasitic.

Predatory.

Oliver drew in a harsh breath, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“Why,” he said slowly, voice low and edged with disbelief, “is a human carrying a vampire baby?”

Evelyn’s expression darkened, her gaze flicking instinctively to the woman’s face before returning to Oliver. “Alpha… the child is draining her. Not just blood. Vitality. Life.” She hesitated. “If this continues, her body won’t last the term.”

The woman stirred weakly at the sound of his voice, lashes fluttering. One trembling hand moved to her stomach—not protectively, but instinctively, like she was bracing herself against something constantly feeding from within.

Oliver’s eyes hardened.

This wasn’t just bad.

This was a violation of every boundary between species, every law that kept monsters from using humans as vessels.

And whoever had done this hadn’t cared whether she survived it.

Not even a little.

Oliver’s gaze lifted slowly from her stomach to her face.

Whatever gentleness he might have offered was gone.

“Who did this?” he said. It wasn’t a question softened by sympathy. It was a demand, low and iron-edged. “Tell me his name.”

The woman flinched.

Her fingers dug into the sheets, knuckles whitening as her breath began to stutter. For a moment, Oliver thought she might faint again—but then her eyes sharpened, terror giving way to something worse.

Recognition.

She turned her head slightly, eyes glassy but locked onto his. “My mate’s name is Valen Arkwright.”

The door opened without warning.

Rowan stepped inside, his expression was grave in a way Oliver rarely saw—brows drawn, jaw set, eyes darker than usual, like he’d already reached a conclusion he didn’t like.

“She’s wrong.”

The words cut clean through the room, sharp and immediate.

Everyone turned to him.

Rowan’s gaze didn’t linger on Oliver this time. It went straight to the woman on the bed—measured, assessing, unsettlingly calm.

“Vampires don’t have soulmates,” he said flatly. “Not the way wolves do. There is no bond. No instinct. No fate.”

The woman’s breath hitched.

Rowan stepped further into the room, the quiet authority in his posture making the healers instinctively edge back. “What you’re describing doesn’t exist among my kind,” he continued. “Vampires choose. Deliberately.”

He stopped at the side of the bed, eyes briefly flicking to the grotesque swell of her stomach before returning to her face.

“They choose brides.”

“A bride is not a partner,” Rowan went on. “She is not protected by destiny or fate. She is selected for utility—bloodline compatibility, obedience, symbolism, or, in some cases…” His jaw tightened. “…reproduction.”

The woman shook her head weakly. “He said—”

“He lied,” Rowan cut in without hesitation. “Because the truth wouldn’t have kept you compliant.”

Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

Rowan finally turned to Oliver. “Valen Arkwright would never call a human his mate. That language is wolf-made. He used it because he knew it would make her believe she was chosen for love instead of purpose.”

Oliver stared at the jarring sight once again.

“Alpha,” Rowan said, inclining his head briefly. His gaze flicked once to the woman on the bed… then to her stomach. Something cold sharpened in his eyes.

He looked back at Oliver.

“Valen Arkwright isn’t just a vampire,” Rowan continued. “He’s the current Vampire King.”

The words settled heavily in the room.

Evelyn stiffened.

Rowan folded his hands behind his back, voice measured, factual—far more dangerous than panic. “His strength is estimated at fifty times that of an average wolf. Not lore. Not exaggeration. Confirmed accounts.” He paused. “An Alpha would last minutes against him. Fewer, if Arkwright is motivated.”

Oliver didn’t move.

Rowan went on, each word deliberate. “He doesn’t fight to test himself. He fights to end things. Efficiently. Brutally. There are records of him dismantling an entire pack leadership in under an hour. Alphas included.”

“Provoking him would not be a skirmish,” Rowan said. “It would be a declaration of war.”

The woman let out a small, broken sound, curling slightly around her belly.

Rowan’s gaze hardened. “Wolves and vampires have been enemies since before treaties had names. Before borders. Before we even agreed the other side deserved to exist.” His voice dropped. “If Arkwright discovers this woman is under your protection, Alpha, he will see it as a direct challenge to his sovereignty.”

Evelyn exhaled slowly. “And he will respond.”

“Yes,” Rowan said. “Personally.”

Silence stretched.

Oliver finally turned, meeting Rowan’s eyes. There was no fear in his expression—only calculation, and something far more dangerous beneath it. “And your recommendation?” Oliver asked.

Rowan hesitated. That alone was telling. “To disengage,” he said at last. “Return the woman. Wipe the trail. Reinforce our borders and pray Arkwright takes the offering and leaves.” His jaw tightened. “Anything else puts this pack on his radar.”

Oliver looked back at the bed.
At the human woman shaking, eyes wide and hollow with terror.
At the impossible life inside her—moving again beneath her skin, as if reacting to the tension in the room.

“Alpha,” Rowan said quietly, “this is not a fight we can win.”

Oliver’s lips curved—not in humor, but in something cold and resolute.
“Good,” he said. “Then it won’t be a fight.”

He stepped closer to the woman, voice lowering, carrying a weight that made the air vibrate. “If Valen Arkwright is bold enough to use a human as a vessel and send her crawling to my gates,” Oliver continued, eyes dark, “then he’s already involved us.” He straightened, power rolling off him in silent waves. “And I don’t offer sacrifices,” Oliver finished. “I protect what comes under my roof.”

Then he exhaled—slow, resigned—and something almost like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I knew you would say that.”

The woman let out a thin, frightened sound. Oliver moved instantly, resting a steady hand on the bed, grounding her again.

“You’re safe,” Oliver said, voice firm enough.

Rowan studied Oliver for a long moment, then sighed again. “Very well,” he said. “If we’re doing this, we do it properly.”