Chapter 18 - The Olive Branch

Alexei

I walk away from the training yard, the stunned silence of the Silvercrest pack a ringing in my ears. I should feel victorious. I won. I dominated. I put the pretty, untouchable Alpha on his back in the dirt and proved my point in front of everyone.

But the victory tastes wrong.

It’s not the fight I’m replaying in my head. It’s the after. The way he fled. He didn't stride away like an angry leader, he retreated like a wounded animal.

He did it with his head high and his expression blank, but I'm not a fool. I may be a brawler, but I know the difference between breaking a warrior's pride and breaking a man's spirit. I just did the second one.

I walk through the keep, ignoring the wide berths the pack members give me. They look at me with a new kind of fear, but it doesn't give me the satisfaction it usually does.

I’m thinking about Kieran's face. The way his polished mask of charm and wit didn't just crack, it shattered.

After seeing him in the ring, I realize it’s more than a bruised heart he suffers from. It’s a deep-seated fear of rejection, of being vulnerable, of wanting something and being punished for it.

And I, like an idiot, just spent two days proving his worst fears correct. I used his vulnerability to provoke him, then used my strength to humiliate him, all while his body was screaming its own traitorous confession.

Pushing him sexually now won't work. He’ll bolt. He’ll lock himself away behind that icy "Alpha" persona and I’ll never get close again. He'll never let me get another glimpse at the real Kieran.

The thought leaves a strange, hollow ache in my chest.

I realize with a jolt that I don't just want to win anymore. I don't just want to conquer the pretty prince and get him into my bed. I want... more.

I want to embrace the man who flinched in the armory. I want to kiss the romantic fool who sketches lonely wolves in his spare time. I want to be the one who finally makes him smile a real smile, one that isn't a performance, one that actually reaches those devastatingly gorgeous violet eyes.

This is a new, unsettling feeling. In the twenty years I’ve been alive, I’ve only ever known how to take what I want, through force or flirtation. This desire to earn something, to build trust... it's unfamiliar territory.

It’s the long game.

If I want to win the real prize, the man, not the Alpha, I have to change tactics. I have to stop being the barbarian at the gates and prove I’m not just another brute who wants to use him. I have to prove I’m an ally.

I need to find him.

His study is the obvious place, but it’s empty.

I finally track him down in the library. It smells of old paper and dust, and it feels like a quiet sanctuary compared to the rest of this place.

He’s not reading. He’s just standing in front of a tall window, staring out at the courtyard, his back to the room. He’s so still and perfect, he looks like one of the statues.

I stop in the archway, my boots silent on the thick rug. He doesn’t turn, but I can tell from the way his breathing changes that he knows I’m here.

“If you’re here to gloat, Basov,” he says, his voice flat, “Just get it over with.”

There’s no trace of the suave, together Alpha. This is just the raw, tired voice of the man left behind. It twists something in my gut.

I drop the act. No "pretty prince." No flirting. No arrogance.

“I didn't come to gloat.”

He turns slowly, his face pale, his eyes guarded and wary. “Then what do you want? Want to prove you can pin me again?”

“No.” I walk slowly into the room, stopping a safe distance away. I gesture to the small, framed charcoal sketch on the shelf near him. The lone wolf. He must have carried it here from his study.

“I came to talk to him,” I say quietly, nodding at the drawing. “The one who drew that. The one who’s not putting on an act.”

Kieran’s expression shutters. He looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. A defensive, self-protective gesture. “I don't know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” I say, soft but firm. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re hiding in here, beating yourself up because you lost a fight. Because you felt something you didn't want to feel. And because you think it makes you weak.”

He vibrates with fury. “Get out.”

“No.” I take another step. “You’re wrong. And Vorlag is wrong.”

That makes him look at me, his eyes sharp with confusion. “What?”

“He’s wrong, you know. Vorlag. All his whispers about you being soft, weak, not like your father.” I lean against a bookshelf, trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Not an easy feat when I’m me.

“You’re not weak because you show mercy. You’re strong because you give yourself that option. My old Alphas... Brannagh, Varek, Holt... they were basically all the same animal. They all acted like they had no other choice. They only had rage. They mistook brutality for strength. They had to kill and conquer, because it’s the only language they knew. If they ever showed mercy, their own packs would tear them apart for it.”

I meet his gaze, holding it, letting the sincerity of my words land.

“You’re actually trying to lead. To consider what’s best for your pack. You’re weighing options. You’re thinking. You chose to let me live, which was a stroke of brilliance. You choose every day not to be your father despite how much easier that would make your life. That’s not weakness, Kieran. That’s a kind of strength my old pack wouldn’t even understand.”

He’s staring at me, his mouth slightly parted, his defenses completely gone. He’s stunned into silence. This is the last thing he ever expected to hear from me.

I press the advantage, not as a brawler, but as a strategist.

“What happened in the sparring ring was inconsequential,” I say, shrugging. “This is a war. And you're fighting it on two fronts. Here,” I tap my own temple, “And out there.” I gesture to the door.

“You can't win the one out there if you're losing the one in here. You let Vorlag convince you that mercy is a flaw, and you’ll second-guess yourself right into a grave.”

Kieran just watches me, his eyes wide and searching.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper. “What’s your angle, Basov?”

“My angle?” I let out a rough laugh. “My angle is that I don’t want to die because my new Alpha is too busy fighting his own ghosts to see the enemy at the gate. I like breathing. And I’d like to keep breathing.”

I push off the bookshelf and move to the large table in the center of the library, running my hand over an old map of the territory.

“Those mining tunnels,” I say, switching tracks, treating him like the commander he is.

“You’re sending scouts to verify my intel. That’s smart, but Brannagh will expect that. He’ll expect a trap at the tunnel mouths. He’ll send a small, sacrificial team in first to spring it.”

Kieran straightens up, the fog of his self-pity clearing, replaced by the sharp focus of an Alpha. “What would you do?”

“I’d let them in,” I say simply. “I’d let the first team think they’re clear. Let them signal the main force. And when two hundred of Brannagh’s best warriors are deep underground, packed in tight where they can't maneuver... then you collapse the tunnel.”

I look up at him. “Not at the mouth. In the middle. Bury them alive. It’s brutal, but it ends the war in an afternoon, with minimal losses for Silvercrest.”

I watch him process this. I see the brief flicker of horror at the ruthlessness of the plan, followed by the cold, clear understanding of its effectiveness.

He nods slowly. “That’s a viable strategy. We’d need to know the tunnels’ weak points.”

“Which is why you need me,” I say, dropping the last of my cards on the table. “I’ve seen the maps. I know where the old support beams are. I know where the rock is weakest.”

I let the offer hang in the air. I’m not just a brawler. I’m not just a flirt. I’m his key to survival. I’m offering him my knowledge, Alpha to Alpha. Commander to commander.

I’ve laid my olive branch. Now I have to see if he’ll take it, or if he’ll beat me with it.

I turn to leave. He needs time to think, to put his armor back on.

“Basov,” he calls out as I reach the door.

I pause, looking back.

His face is still pale, still guarded, but the raw, wounded look is gone. “Why aren’t you taunting me with what happened when you pinned me?”

I let a small, genuine smile touch my lips. Not the predatory grin. Something else.

“Because I told you, Alpha,” I say softly. “I don't break things for sport. Only for pleasure. And you’re not ready for that.”

I leave him there, alone in the library, with the weight of my words and the first, fragile seed of trust planted between us. The long game has begun.