Chapter Fourty One

Chapter Fourty One
Oliver knew exactly what he was doing when he chose this outfit from the sea of perfectly respectable options. What he wore wasn’t indecent by any rule—but it flirted shamelessly with the line. Tailored to be undeniably provocative, it earned the label slutty yet decent—provocative enough to invite sinful thoughts, proper enough to give no one a legitimate reason to complain.

A fitted black shirt cut low enough to tease the sharp line of his collarbones, the fabric clinging to his torso like it knows exactly who’s in charge—and who isn’t. The sleeves are rolled just past his forearms, exposing strength without shouting it. His trousers sit scandalously low on his hips. Leather boots ground the look, polished but worn enough to suggest experience. Nothing is outright improper—yet every line, every choice, invites the eye to linger a second too long.

Oliver was more than prepared. Oliver was prepared—more than he’d ever been. He took the suppressant again, marking the first time since he’d started using them that he’d taken a second dose within the same week.

He didn’t do it lightly.

The last time he’d relied on a single dose, he’d slipped into Red Moon Pack territory to see his siblings… and then, foolishly, into Grey’s room. Even with the suppressant in his system, being near Grey had proven dangerous. A few touches had been enough—his control slipping, his scent leaking before he could stop it. That mistake had cost him his anonymity. It was how Grey had been able to pinpoint that he was his dead mate.

Oliver wasn’t planning on repeating it. If being near Grey meant his body betrayed him, then this time he would be careful—extra careful.

He turned to leave—then paused.

With a quiet exhale, he retraced his steps, moving deeper into the room toward the small drawer beside his bed. He opened it and slid his fingers inside, searching without looking, until they brushed against what he wanted. He closed his hand around it, pulled out the condom, and tucked it neatly into his pocket.

Then he was gone.

A heartbeat later, he reappeared in the same place where they had met the night before, the air barely rippling around him.

Grey was already there.
His gaze lifted the moment Oliver materialized. His gaze slid over him and stalled—caught on the open line of Oliver’s throat, the bare hint of chest the shirt refused to hide—before he forced it away, sealing his expression into something colder. Too bad Oliver was already a little thrown by the sight of Grey waiting for him; he missed that small lapse entirely. If he’d caught it, he would’ve teased Grey without mercy—just enough to get under his skin.

“You’re late,” Grey said flatly.

Oliver’s lips curved, slow and unapologetic, as he straightened. “Am I?”

Grey’s jaw tightened—not at the words, but at the tone. Too calm. Too amused. As if Oliver hadn’t kept him waiting on purpose. “You are,” Grey said, voice low. “I don’t like being kept waiting.”

Grey didn’t say anything more as they walked, and Oliver didn’t try to fill the silence.

The moment they crossed deeper into the pack grounds, the air thickened with scent. Not Grey’s—not fully alpha—but the layered pheromones of his pack. Betas, lower alphas, a few omegas. Ordinary. Once, that mix alone would have made Oliver’s skin prickle, heat pooling low in his stomach whether he wanted it or not. It used to knock the breath from him, leave him flushed and too aware of his own body.

Now it did nothing.

The scents brushed past him and slipped away, powerless. Oliver walked through them like rain—present, unavoidable, and irrelevant.

Pack members turned as they passed. Some slowed. Some stopped entirely. Oliver caught the glances without acknowledging them, his expression calm, his stride easy. He stood straight, shoulders relaxed, neither shrinking nor posturing.

Grey walked beside him, tall and unmistakably alpha. Dark clothes, sharp lines, authority worn the way some men wore skin. Where Grey was rigid control, Oliver was quiet confidence—soft fabric against clean lines, composure instead of dominance.
Together, they looked… right.

Oliver felt it in the way heads turned, in the way even guards glanced twice and maids forgot their tasks for half a second too long. They didn’t touch, didn’t speak, yet the contrast between them drew attention all the same.

Ridiculous, Oliver scoffed inwardly, and kept walking.

Grey’s office was tucked away from the main hall, guarded and private. Once inside, Grey gestured toward a chair.

“Sit.”

Oliver did, crossing one leg over the other without thinking much about it.

Grey moved behind his desk. “I’ll have something brought up. Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee’s fine,” Oliver said easily.

Grey nodded and turned toward the door. “Bring coffee,” he told the maid waiting outside. “Espresso.”

The maid glanced at Oliver.

“Mocha,” Oliver added, just as casually.

Grey looked at him then—brief, assessing—before repeating the order and dismissing her.

“Start by stating your identity,” Grey said, tone neutral. “Alpha of Iron Fang.”

His gaze hardened as he continued, voice dropping.

“Then tell me why you know too much.”

Oliver tilted his head, considering Grey for a moment as if this were mildly entertaining rather than dangerous. Then he smiled—not wide, not sweet. Easy. Confident. Like he’d already decided how this would go.

“Theodore,” he said. “Theodore Miles.”

He let the name settle, watching Grey the way one watched a reaction they already expected.

“That’s my full name.”

No hesitation. No stumble. The lie sat on his tongue like truth.

Oliver leaned back slightly in the chair, relaxed, one arm resting against the armrest, posture loose enough to look careless—except nothing about him actually was.

“As for knowing too much,” he continued lightly, “I wouldn’t flatter myself. Information just… finds me. People talk. Patterns repeat.” His eyes flicked up, amused. “You’d be surprised how predictable packs become from the outside.”

Grey didn’t return the smile.

His gaze stayed fixed, sharp now, alpha pressure pressing forward just enough to test. “You’re very comfortable for someone being questioned.”

Oliver’s smile widened a fraction. Not nervous. Never nervous.

“I’m sitting,” he said mildly. “You offered coffee. So far, this feels more like hospitality than an interrogation.”

Oliver chuckled softly and rose from the couch opposite Grey, the sound light, almost amused. He crossed the space between them without hurry, confidence in every step, until he stopped close—too close to be accidental. Then he sat beside Grey instead of across from him, claiming the space as if it had always been his.

His fingers followed, uninvited.

They traced a slow path from Grey’s abdomen downward, skimming muscle and heat until they paused at the line of his belt, lingering there just long enough to make the intent unmistakable.

“Alpha,” Oliver murmured, voice low and smooth, “you might want to tell your servants to bring the coffee tomorrow morning.” His lips curved faintly. “I have a feeling we’re going to be… busy tonight.”

The touch was light, almost careless—but it sent a sharp, electric awareness through Grey’s body, each point of contact igniting something he’d spent years learning to restrain. Desire stirred, unwelcome and fierce, threatening to crack the control he wore like armor.

Grey moved fast.

His hand closed around Oliver’s wrist, grip firm, unyielding, stopping him cold. His jaw tightened as he turned, eyes dark and dangerous.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Grey demanded.

Oliver only laughed, soft and pleased, utterly unbothered by the restraint.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

"I have a mate, Alpha of Iron Fang," Grey barely gritted out, "A mate who could get hurt if I cheated. I would never do that, so I'd advise you to give up."

Oliver froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over Grey's bare chest. I see... Was their bond still diamond-hard? Unbreakable, even after everything?

"A mate who could get hurt if I cheated," Grey repeated, eyes blazing with desperate fire. "I'd never—"

Laughter bubbled up in Oliver's throat, sharp and bitter, nearly spilling out. Don't make me laugh. Since when did Grey give a damn about his mate's pain? The words yanked Oliver back to that night—Diana's moans echoing through the pack house, Grey buried deep inside her without a flicker of remorse. The scent of her cheap perfume clinging to his skin, the casual way he'd dismissed Oliver's shattered pleas the next morning. Rage coiled in Oliver's gut like a venomous snake, hot and ready to strike. One wrong memory, and he'd drive a claw straight through Grey's traitorous heart. But no... not yet. The bitterness twisted deeper, a poison he savored even as it burned.

Grey's words landed like a fresh wound, stoking Oliver's hatred into a white-hot blaze. The hypocrisy burned: invoking faithfulness after shattering Oliver's own bond without a backward glance. Yet that same lie twisted into craving, a dark urge to claim Grey anyway—fuck the devotion right out of him, make him choose ruin over pretense. But revenge demanded layers, starting with her.

Diana first. He'd force her to swallow the same poison: He'd make Grey fuck him senseless, flooding her mate-bond with the agony: that soul-deep rip of betrayal, every moan and thrust echoing in her mind like knives. Then slowly, he would replace her until she snapped and fractured—lash out, and then he'd expose her true venomous witch's blood. Worse than vampires, witches meant instant death in pack law—dragged out, ended swiftly and mercilessly. Oliver's lips curved, cold. That's her end.

Oliver itched to watch it all unravel, but this bastard was digging in harder than expected. Frustration clawed his gut, hot and impatient.
His fist tightened around the condom in his pocket, crinkling plastic biting into his palm. Always wondered: what if he cracked the suppressants just enough? Let a whisper of pheromones slip—raw omega honey laced with his true scent. Would it hit Grey like a gut-punch? Shatter that stubborn armor, drag the hunger roaring to the surface? Fuck, let's find out.