Chapter Fourty Seven

Chapter Fourty Seven
“Isn’t it obvious?” Patrick snarled. “I’m the one who orchestrated the whole thing. I ruined that bitch’s image and exposed her disloyal ass to the entire pack.”

Grey was given a seat. He took it unhurriedly, crossing one leg over the other, his grey eyes cold as steel as they bore down on Patrick. Under that gaze, Patrick instinctively shrank back. “Oh, really?” Grey drawled. “And tell me—why?”

Patrick paused a bit, as if surprised by the question, but then his head snapped back as he erupted into a round of cruel laughter. His shoulders shook violently, lips trembling as the sound grew louder and uglier, until he was nearly choking on it. He didn’t stop.

Matthew stepped forward without hesitation. His fist connected with Patrick’s jaw in a sickening crack. Bone shattered. Patrick’s body was hurled across the room, slamming into the wall with brutal force. The stone caved in, leaving a gaping hole smeared with blood. Patrick collapsed to the floor, scrambling uselessly, his body refusing to obey through the pain. He twisted his ruined face into a sadistic grin—nose broken, blood streaming freely, teeth missing. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground before speaking.

“Don’t make me laugh,” he rasped. “Do I even need a reason to take revenge on that pretentious wench?” His eyes gleamed feverishly and hatefully. “She plays soft. Kind. Sweet. Acts like she wouldn’t hurt a fly—when she’s nothing but poison. She kills omegas like us and frames them whenever it suits her, then washes her hands clean. That hateful bitch deserved everything that just happened to her.”

He laughed again, low and broken. “And this?” he added softly, eyes burning. “This is only the beginning.”

Patrick smirked, tilting his battered head back to look at Grey as if he’d already won. He didn’t bother masking the hatred burning in his eyes.

“Not just her,” he said hoarsely. “You too.”

The words landed harder than any blow.

“That wench murdered my family because they dared to call her out,” Patrick continued, voice shaking—not with grief, but with venom. “They tried to stop her—to make her see reason. But she was already beyond it, ready to destroy a young girl whose only crime was stealing a piece of jewelry to survive, for fuck’s sake—an omega barely old enough to understand what was happening to her.”

He laughed softly, broken and ugly.

“My family stepped in. That was their crime. And she slaughtered them without a second thought.”

Patrick’s gaze sharpened, locking onto Grey with surgical precision.

“She hurt omegas for years. Broke them. Framed them. Disposed of them. And she didn’t do it alone—your precious non-omega pack members helped her every step of the way.” His lips curled. “And you? You knew. Don’t lie. You always knew.”

Grey’s fingers clenched, but he didn’t interrupt. It was as if he was determined to find out the truth, even if it was going to hurt

“You did nothing,” he spat. “Worse—you stood beside her. You shared her table. You protected her power. And when your own mate was dragged through the dirt—humiliated, crushed—you joined in.”

His smile turned razor-sharp.

“You bullied your mate to death alongside her,” Patrick whispered. “Tell me, Alpha… aren’t you ashamed?”

The room went deathly still.

After a long moment, a painful smile slowly formed on Grey’s face. He rose to his feet, turning his back on everyone present, as though facing them had suddenly become unbearable.

“I see,” he said quietly. “I’ve heard everything you have to say.”

He paused, drawing in a slow, unsteady breath.

Images of Diana surfaced. Diana as he had known her. Diana, as she had shown herself to him.

A woman who spoke softly and never raised her voice. Who smiled with gentle grace, her laughter light and restrained. Who knelt to tend wounded omegas with careful hands, fingers warm, eyes full of concern. She carried herself with elegance, kindness etched into every movement, every word chosen with thought and restraint.

The woman who bowed her head humbly in his presence.

Who thanked him for his protection?

Who claimed she only wanted peace for the pack.

Diana with her gentle smile.

A woman the pack adored—kind, likeable to a fault.

The woman who bowed her head demurely, who spoke of loyalty and devotion, who looked at Grey as though he alone held her heart.

And then the memories shattered. The warmth bled out of them, replaced by something cold and obscene. A different image burned itself behind his eyes: the recorder.

Diana’s voice—breathless, unrestrained, nothing like the woman she pretended to be. Her composure gone. Her grace stripped away. Her laughter distorted into something raw and mocking as she tangled herself between two men, clinging to them shamelessly—

Moaning his name.

Hah, he was foolish.

Just minutes ago, he had asked himself why he felt nothing as Diana shared her bed with other men, week after week. Now he understood why. He had never felt anything for her—not desire, not love. Deep within him, the mate bond had never existed at all.

Grey turned toward Matthew.

Matthew met his gaze and nodded once. Matthew’s voice didn’t waver. “It was obvious from the very beginning. From the moment she framed your mate and pushed him until he was forced to hurt her.”

Grey stiffened.

“I tried to tell you,” Matthew continued flatly. “I told you she was setting Oliver up. But you were blinded. You chose her tears over his truth.”

Silence cut deep.

“Reports came in,” Matthew said. “From omegas. Not many—because most were too afraid. Those who spoke were already marked.” His jaw tightened. “I couldn’t confront her openly. Not when you stood behind her.”

Grey didn’t speak.

“So I did what I could,” Matthew went on. “I kept them away from her. Reassigned them to distant quarters. Buried them in labor posts she’d never visit. It was all I could do cause I knew you wouldn't believe me.”

After a long stretch of silence, Grey turned and walked out of the cell.

“Release him. Take him back to his room,” he said without looking back. “Call Maria to treat his wounds.”

He paused at the door.

“Matthew—follow me.”



“I told you to investigate the Alpha of Iron Fang,” Grey said coldly.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes closing briefly as if the weight in his skull had become unbearable. His posture sagged just enough to show exhaustion, a faint crease forming between his brows. “What did you find?”

Matthew hesitated before speaking. “Honestly, I didn’t understand why you wanted me to dig into Iron Fang’s movements from three years ago. We’ve investigated that pack countless times—nothing ever surfaced.”

Grey didn’t open his eyes.

“I thought it would be even harder,” Matthew continued, “because back then, Iron Fang had no influence. They were nobodies—just a small group trying to form a pack. The time frame was… oddly specific.”

Matthew paused and then he sighed.

“But I followed your orders,” Matthew said. “And I managed to get one of Iron Fang’s members to talk.”

Grey’s eyes opened slowly.

“They told me everything they knew about their Alpha.”

“The Alpha of Iron Fang,” Matthew said, “and roughly sixty percent of their members are omegas who escaped from this pack three years ago.”

Grey wasn't surprised. He had suspected it.

“According to one of their members,” Matthew continued, “the escape was orchestrated. Planned down to the last detail. Their leader at the time died during it,” Matthew said evenly. “He stayed behind to save one of them when things went wrong.”

“That omega survived,” Matthew went on. “But the trauma shattered his memories. He didn’t remember who he was—or where he came from.”

Grey’s fingers tightened against the armrest.

“That omega survived,” Matthew said. “And he became something else.”

Grey’s fingers curled slowly.

“He was taken in by the others,” Matthew went on. “Trained alongside them. Fought with them. Learned to survive without knowing who he used to be. Over time, he proved himself—again and again.”

A pause.

“When Iron Fang was finally formed,” Matthew said quietly, “they chose him as their Alpha.”

"I see," Grey said, a beautifully soft smile curving his lips—stealing Matthew's breath in an instant.

When had the Alpha last smiled like that? Three years ago?

"That's great to hear."

Matthew couldn't tear his gaze away. Grey seemed... at peace. Like a massive burden had finally lifted from those shoulders.

And what exactly does he mean by 'glad to hear that'?

As Matthew wanted to ask, Grey leaned forward slowly, his broad shoulders tensing as if bracing against an invisible storm. Then, without warning, he bent double, a guttural cough ripping from his chest. Dark blood erupted from his mouth in a thick, viscous spray, splattering the polished floorboards with a wet splat that echoed in the dim room.

Matthew's heart slammed against his ribs. He bolted forward, fumbling a crisp handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it toward his Alpha. "Here—take it. Alpha, please—"

Grey lifted his right hand, palm out—a sharp, commanding signal that froze Matthew in place. Blood smeared his lips, but his voice emerged steady, almost casual. "Don't worry. I'm fine. It's just... some minor complications."

Matthew's eyes widened, disbelief warring with terror. Minor? He forced himself to meet Grey's gaze, but faltered as he spotted them: the huge black wolf marks, pulsing like veins of shadow, inching relentlessly up Grey's neck. Each one carved deeper, etching pain into his Alpha's stoic features. "Minor complications?!" Matthew's voice rose, raw with panic. "Look me straight in the eyes and tell me that, Alpha. Those marks... the curse... It's spreading."

Grey said nothing at first. He drew a ragged breath, cold sweat beading on his forehead and trickling in rivulets down his temples, soaking the collar of his shirt. Dark blood dripped from his nose in lazy, ominous drops, staining his chin. With deliberate effort, he pushed to his feet, muscles straining against the invisible weight dragging him down. The room seemed to hold its breath as he gripped the edge of the table for support, knuckles whitening.

Then, in one fluid, defiant motion, he peeled off his shirt. The fabric whispered to the floor, exposing the full horror: A massive claw mark tore across his back, starting at the base of his neck and dragging downward to his lower spine. The flesh was split open, swollen and raw, edges blackened as if burned from the inside.

Grey turned fully toward Matthew, who stood rooted, face drained of color, a dreadful pallor settling over him like fog.

Grey's eyes—cold, piercing steel—locked onto his beta's. The glare pierced straight through, an alpha's unyielding command that made Matthew's knees buckle. The air grew heavy, charged with primal power, as Grey's skin began to split along the scar. Thin rips opened like cracks in parched earth, revealing raw, glistening muscle beneath. Agony flashed in Grey's eyes for a split second, but he crushed it, standing taller, unfazed.

Yet Matthew knew. He alone witnessed the torment his Alpha buried beneath that iron facade—the searing fire that the curse ignited every time it surged.

Grey took a slow step forward, then another, closing the distance. The atmosphere shifted, thickening with his dominance, the faint metallic tang of blood mingling with the room's stale tension. "What is with that look, Matthew?" His voice was a low growl, dark blood pattering softly with each measured word.

Matthew gulped, throat dry as sand. 

"Do you believe because of its size," Grey pressed, his tone deceptively calm, "I wouldn't survive it... as I have the others?"

Matthew swallowed, his throat burning.

That was exactly what he believed.

The curse had a name—spoken rarely, feared always.

And....

He's right—I do think it's too big this time. The curse... Bond decay. It was born when an alpha violated a mating bond repeatedly—betrayal piled upon betrayal, love worn down into cruelty. When the mate finally recoiled, instinctively rejecting what continued to hurt them, the bond did not sever.

It rotted.

And the Moon Goddess took notice.

Those she judged unworthy were punished slowly. Their strength bled away. Their bodies turned traitor. The pain came in cycles, each one worse than the last. Matthew knew healers could slow the curse’s growth—manage its spread, delay its end. It could not be cured. It could never be removed.

But Grey refused them all.

He believed the punishment was deserved. Every pulse of agony, every loss of strength, was a debt paid for the pain he had inflicted on the one he loved. If this suffering was the Moon Goddess’s verdict, then he would accept it without resistance. Until it ended him. Perhaps then—only then—he would be permitted to kneel in the afterlife and beg for Oliver’s forgiveness, since he had been too blind, too cruel, to earn it while alive.

And now, staring at those encroaching marks, Matthew feared Grey had reached the end: the final stage, where the decay devoured the soul itself, leaving nothing but a hollow shell.