Chapter Fourty Nine

Chapter Fourty Nine
Grey’s fingers brushed over the mannequin before slowly applying pressure.

It did not yield.

“I see,” Grey murmured.
His touch shifted, tracing the faint spellwork etched into the surface. The mark flared briefly beneath his fingers, then dimmed, obedient only enough to confirm its existence.

“I’m sure you’ve realized it,” he added softly, averting his gaze towards Matthew.

Matthew nodded. A smile—too satisfied, too happy—curved his lips. “Yes. The Alpha of Iron Fang is Oliver Baker. Your mate.”

Grey did not react. Not visibly.

“With my investigation,” Matthew continued, “I discovered he lost his memories during the escape three years ago. That may be why he couldn't recognize you.”

Grey straightened slowly, withdrawing his hand as though the corpse had burned him. His expression remained composed, but something old and starved shifted behind his eyes. Grey reached for the phone on his desk and dialed without hesitation. The call connected barely a heartbeat after the first ring.

“Bring the mission forward.” His voice sliced through the line—cold, sharp, and final.

On the other end, Seraphine’s jaw clenched so hard her molars ached. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hurl the phone across the room. Why the fuck was he doing this again? She’d just peeled off her day clothes, slipped into soft pajamas, and was two steps from collapsing face-first into the blessed oblivion of her bed. It was eleven forty-something at night, damn it.

The moment “Demon” flashed across her screen, her hand had answered faster than her brain could scream don’t.

She swallowed the tirade clawing up her throat and forced out the only thing she could manage without completely losing it: “And when exactly would the new date be?”

A bitter smile twisted her lips as she continued sarcastically. “Tomorrow, I presume?”

The reply came flat, stripped of everything human. “Yes. Tomorrow morning.”

Something inside Seraphine detonated. “Tomorrow?!” Her voice cracked upward. “Shouldn’t the Alpha of Iron Fang be given at least two days' notice? Basic courtesy? Or are we just throwing entire pack hierarchies into chaos on a whim now? In a few fucking hours?!”

Silence stretched across the line, as if Grey was quietly considering. Then, very quietly, almost gently—like the calm before something worse—Grey answered: “…Fine. Forty-eight hours.”

A beat.
“But not a minute more.”

The line went dead before she could respond.

Seraphine stared at the darkened screen, heart hammering, fingers white around the phone. She exhaled shakily. “Motherfucker,” she whispered, half fury, half exhausted surrender.
Then she dropped the phone onto the mattress, dragged both hands down her face, and muttered to the empty room: “I’m going to kill him one day. I swear to the goddess.”

Seraphine sighed, dragging her tired ass to her office and plunging into the seat. Her fingers moved swiftly to turn on the computer and craft an email for Alpha of Iron Fang. As Seraphine set the phone down, Grey's voice lingered in her ears like frost on glass—the way he'd said "…Forty-eight hours."

Not yielding but...
A growl forced through gritted teeth.
It wasn't just mere reluctance.
It had sounded like every syllable cost him something vital, like he'd rather have bitten the words in half than let them escape.
As if the extra day was an insult, he was barely tolerating.

Since when did Grey—the infamous Demon of the Conclave—give a damn about missions?

He'd always treated Conclave affairs like a chore he endured out of obligation: dragging them out until the last possible second just to remind everyone he answered to no one.

He hated the politics, the endless council games.

He'd once let a critical strike window close by three full days simply because he refused to dance to their timetable.

So what the hell had changed?

Seraphine stared at the ceiling, arms folded tight across her chest.
Could someone like Grey flip from cold indifference to this… this barely-leashed hunger for action?


Oliver was in a cheery mood. His plan had unfolded flawlessly. Even Sam, whom he had worried about, had been released with nothing worse than minor injuries.

He poured himself a glass of alcohol, the kind potent enough to knock out a werewolf if consumed long enough. He drained it in one swallow, the burn sliding down his throat. Without pausing, he filled the glass again and downed it just as fast.

Time blurred. By the time he noticed, he was thoroughly drunk—but that was the point. The alcohol coursed through him, dulling the edges without stealing his awareness. His senses swam, yet his mind remained stubbornly clear, still tracking the world around him.

Oliver sighed, slouching deeper into the chair. Under his breath, half-amused and half-frustrated, he muttered, “I really could’ve used a way to blow off some steam right now. A blowjob would’ve been perfect.”

When Oliver finished speaking, a soft, feminine voice sounded behind him.
“I could be very helpful with that.”

He arched his eyebrows as the woman stepped into view.
She was a young omega—no older than twenty-one—with pale blonde hair and striking blue eyes, her beauty quietly hypnotic rather than loud. She said nothing more as she approached, her movements unhurried, deliberate. Stopping directly in front of him, she lowered herself smoothly until one knee touched the floor.

Oliver’s smirk froze for half a second when he actually registered her.

She was close—too close—and the sweet, unmistakable honey-and-jasmine scent of an omega in the early bloom of heat curled around him like smoke. Not overwhelming yet, but definitely present. Definitely deliberate.

He tilted his head, letting his gaze drag slowly from her face down the soft curve of her throat, over the delicate collarbones exposed by her thin off-shoulder top, then back up to those too-blue eyes that hadn’t blinked once since she knelt.

Then his hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck, fingers curling possessively into blonde strands as he guided her forward.
“Good choice,” he said roughly.

The metallic clink echoed softly, followed by the rasp of his zipper lowering. Oliver shifted his hips upward just enough to help her slide his pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. It lay there, half-hard from the anticipation, thick and veined, but he made no sound, no twitch of acknowledgment beyond the mechanical assistance.

She inhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring as his musky scent mixed with her own sweet heat aroma. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, searching for any sign of pleasure, but his face remained impassive, jaw set. It irked her—the way he just sat there, like her efforts were nothing. A spark of annoyance ignited in her gut, fueling her determination to crack that facade.

Leaning in, she wrapped one small hand around the base of his shaft, her grip firmer than before, almost challenging. Her tongue extended first, flat and warm, licking a slow stripe from the underside up to the tip. Oliver didn't groan or shift; he simply watched, his fingers flexing idly in her hair. The silence pissed her off more, her heat making her skin flush with a mix of need and irritation.

She circled the head with her tongue, pressing harder, lapping insistently at the slit where a bead of pre-cum had formed. Still nothing—no hitch in his breath, no tightening of his muscles. Her free hand squeezed his thigh, nails digging in just enough to sting, as her lips closed around the tip. She sucked sharply, cheeks hollowing with force, taking him deeper in one swift motion.

Inch by inch, her mouth stretched around his girth, saliva coating him as she bobbed her head aggressively, setting a rhythm that demanded response. Her throat relaxed as she swallowed around his length, the constriction tight and deliberate. Oliver's cock hardened fully under the assault, throbbing against her tongue, but his lips stayed pressed in a thin line, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.

The omega's heat scent sharpened, her body shifting on her knees as frustration boiled into something hotter, more insistent. She pulled back slightly, only to plunge down again, her hand stroking the base with twisting pulls, wet slurps filling the room. Tears of effort pricked her eyes, but it was the lack of his moans that fueled her now— she wanted to hear him break, to feel his control slip.

'Come on,' she thought, though she didn't voice it, her mouth too full. The submission twisted with her annoyance, making her work him harder, her tongue pressing flat against the underside vein on every upstroke. Oliver's grip in her hair tightened at last, not guiding but holding, and a faint grunt escaped him—barely audible, but there.

Emboldened, she redoubled her efforts, gagging softly as she forced him deeper, her throat fluttering around his cock. Saliva dripped down her chin, soaking his balls, the obscene sounds echoing louder. Her own arousal throbbed between her legs, her pussy clenching emptily, but she focused on him, on breaking through that wall.

'Fuck,' he muttered at last, voice rough and low, the first real sign of surrender. It sent a thrill through her, washing away the initial piss-off, replaced by triumphant heat. She sucked harder, urging him toward the edge, her hands and mouth working in tandem until his control shattered.

With a guttural curse, Oliver came, hot spurts of cum flooding her throat. She swallowed every drop, milking him with her tongue, not pulling back until he was spent. As she finally released him, lips swollen and slick, she looked up, blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction at having drawn those sounds from him.

She stood up as Oliver panted, and then she reached behind her back, movements casual, almost lazy. When her hand came forward again, it held a slender black blade, matte finish, no reflection. The kind that disappears in low light.

She smiled wider—too wide. “You didn’t really think I came here just to service you, did you?”

Oliver’s eyes snapped open fully.

In the heartbeat before she lunged, he moved.

With a roar that was pure instinct, he drove his knee up into her midsection, forcing the air from her lungs in a choked wheeze. Then he spun her, slammed her chest-first against the wall, and pinned her there with his forearm across the back of her neck.

She thrashed, snarling, scent spiking into something acrid and wrong—chemical, synthetic, masking agent failing.

Oliver leaned in close, breath hot against her ear. “I knew that you had a hidden agenda. Who sent you?”

She laughed—wet, bubbling—then spat blood onto the ground. “You already know, baby boy.”

He froze.
The blonde hair began to… shift.

Not fall out—change. The color bled away like dye in water, darkening to deep auburn shot through with brown at the roots. The blue eyes flickered, pupils elongating for a split second before settling into familiar pair of eyes. The delicate features sharpened—cheekbones higher like he’d memorized.

The disguise melted away in patches, revealing the truth underneath like a snake shedding skin.
Diana.

Oliver closed his eyes for one long second.
Then he shifted his grip.

One brutal, practiced twist.
The crack of her neck was louder than the decanter had been.

Her body sagged instantly, boneless, sliding down the wall until she crumpled at his feet like a marionette with cut strings. The beautiful pair of eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, mouth slack, blood pooling beneath her head in a slow, dark halo.

Oliver stood over her for a long time.

After that, he adjusted his pants and zipped them up with practiced indifference, as if he hadn’t just ended a life. The body lay at his feet—cooling, silent, insignificant. Blood clung to his knuckles, dark and tacky, but Oliver didn’t bother wiping it off.

That was when it hit him.

The air shifted.
His spine stiffened as an Alpha presence slammed into his senses—cold iron and wildfire. Grey.

Oliver exhaled slowly, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smile. He didn’t turn around.

“So,” he said calmly, voice cutting through the stillness, “you finally felt it.”

Footsteps sounded behind him—measured, controlled, furious beneath the restraint.

Oliver tilted his head slightly. “I killed your mate,” he added, almost conversational. “Came here to arrest me for it?”

Silence.

It stretched long enough for anticipation to coil tight in Oliver’s chest. He waited for the roar. The snap. The violence.
Instead, nothing.
Confused despite himself, Oliver turned.

Oliver had exposed Diana's true nature to Grey but Grey had always been obsessed with Diana. He might've only wanted to give her the cold shoulder for a while. Instead, he found her lifeless, her blood on Oliver’s hands.

Grey stood there, eyes locked onto him—not blazing with rage like Oliver expected, but dark, unreadable, burning with something far more dangerous. He stared for a long moment, jaw clenched, breath heavy, as if fighting an internal war Oliver couldn’t see.

For one reckless second, Oliver thought he’d miscalculated.

Then Grey moved.

Not forward to strike—
but to claim.

He closed the distance in two strides, hands gripping Oliver’s jacket, yanking him close. Arms wrapped around Oliver with crushing force, pinning him chest to chest before Oliver could even inhale—

And then Grey kissed him.

Rough. Violent. Starved.

Teeth clashed, mouths bruised, the kiss more like a collision than affection. Grey kissed him like he was furious, like he was grieving, like he hated Oliver and wanted him all at once. Like this was the only thing keeping him from tearing the world apart.

Oliver gasped into it, shock flashing through him before instinct kicked in—his hands curling into Grey’s shirt, heart slamming wildly against his ribs.

When Grey finally pulled back, their foreheads touched, breaths mingling—hot, uneven, dangerous.

“You think an arrest is what I want?” Grey murmured, voice low and shaking.

Oliver’s lips twitched, pulse still racing.
“No,” he whispered back. “I think you want vengeance.”

Grey’s grip tightened.

“Oh, I do,” he said softly. “Just not the kind you’re expecting.”