C5

"You’ve repeated that script of the innocent, tragic omega for so long that you’ve actually started believing your own lies, haven't you?"

I didn't lower my voice. I wanted every wolf in Silverfang Hall to hear the bite in my tone. Seraphina Duskryn’s face turned a violent shade of crimson, her scent souring with agitation.

"Xender! That is enough!"

Tristan stepped forward, his Alpha aura flaring in a pathetic attempt to intimidate me. He’d watched the whole scrap from the sidelines like a coward, only finding his voice now that the danger had passed. He was clearly fuming—not just because I’d insulted his mistress, but because he’d realized I had a seat at the table with Nyx Calderon, a connection I’d never breathed a word about during our three years of bonded silence.

"Xender, look at what you're doing," Tristan growled, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. "Seraphina was only showing concern for your safety, and this is how you repay her? By acting like a feral stray?"

Seraphina tugged at his sleeve, her eyes darting toward Nyx. She knew if this devolved into a pack brawl, the contract they were desperate for would vanish into the night.

"Miss Calderon," Seraphina said, forcing a sugary, trembling smile. "Please, ignore Xender’s outburst. Our private lounge is right this way. We should sit down and finalize the details of our alliance. I’ve worked so hard to bring our interests together."

Nyx didn't even blink. She just stared at them like they were something she’d stepped in on the sidewalk. "When exactly did I agree to sign anything with the Blackmoor Syndicate?"

"But... the messages? My petition?" Seraphina stammered.

"You’re a homewrecking leech, Seraphina. Don't let your delusions convince you that I’d ever link my atelier’s reputation to a moral void like you. Stop dreaming. My ink doesn't touch contracts signed by snakes."

The hall went silent. The words hit Seraphina harder than my kick had hit that loan shark. She looked like she’d been slapped, but she didn't dare growl back at a power player like Nyx. She turned that vitriol on me instead.

"Xender! The Blackmoor Pack is facing a border crisis! Instead of standing by your Alpha, you’re poisoning the well? You’re acting like a spiteful child because you can't handle the truth of our mate-bond!"

"Xender, have you finished sabotaging this pack?" Tristan added, his eyes icy. "Is this your revenge? Ruining a multi-million credit deal because your ego is bruised?"

I just let a slow, mocking smile spread across my face. Before I could even open my mouth, Nyx stepped into the gap.

"Tristan Blackmoor, stop flattering yourself. You think he’s the reason I’m rejecting you?"

Tristan’s face paled. Nyx rubbed her bruised wrist, her voice dripping with disdain.

"We’ve already secured a partner for the Nightfall weapons project. And unlike you, he’s a man of honor. He doesn't trade his loyalty for a cheap thrill or betray his blood-mate for a bit of flattery. The Moonshade Atelier doesn't work with gutter-trash Alphas who can't even keep their own dens in order. You’re a liability, Mr. Blackmoor."

"You... you dare—" Tristan’s voice shook with suppressed rage.

"Misunderstandings!" Seraphina chirped, frantically pinching Tristan’s arm to keep him from shifting. "Miss Calderon, please. Xender is just being candid, he’s... he’s hurt..."

"Enough," Nyx snapped. "I have zero interest in your excuses. Every word out of your mouth makes me lose what little respect I had for your lineage. Move out of my way before I have the Hall security remove you like the fools you are."

Tristan and Seraphina stood there, vibrating with humiliation as the other pack leaders in the hall began to whisper. I was about to enjoy the moment further when the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall swung open with a deafening thud.

The atmosphere shifted instantly.

A phalanx of black-clad enforcers marched in with military precision, their silver-tipped boots clicking against the stone. They were clearing a path for a man who didn't just walk—he commanded the very air in the room.

He wore a suit of midnight silk, his presence so heavy and divine it felt like the moon itself had descended into the room. His features were carved from ice and shadow, his eyes holding the depth of a winter's night. The crowd didn't just move; they recoiled in instinctive submission.

"Is that... Lucien Varkane?" Seraphina whispered, her eyes wide with terror and awe.

The Varkane Dynasty. They didn't just run territories; they owned the infrastructure of the entire shifter world—the hospitals, the tech, the shadow-banks. Since Lucien had taken the mantle five years ago, the Varkane name had become synonymous with absolute power in the Nightfall Territory.

Tristan’s posture crumbled. He looked small. We all did.

Lucien Varkane ignored the pack lords and the gawking omegas. He walked straight toward me, his voice a low, resonant chord that vibrated in my very bones.

"I’m sorry for being late, Xender. I hope these scavengers haven't been wasting too much of your time."