Accidentally Mated To Four Alphas

Chapter 295: _ Farewell

~Morgan’s Point Of View~

The silence that follows the sound of tearing flesh is louder than any howl.

Morgan stands perfectly still, his hands tucked into his pockets casually. He watches and doesn’t blink. He can’t afford to. The rogue leader’s claw is yellowed, jagged, and caked in the filth of a dozen kills. It dips into Grayson’s chest with a sickening squelch. It’s the sound of a boot sinking into wet mud, only the mud is his brother’s lungs, and the boot is an executioner’s hand.

Grayson doesn’t scream. He hasn’t the air for it. Instead, he looks at Morgan and mouths a: Will always love you... brother.

It’s a look and words that Morgan will carry into the depths of hell: a mixture of profound sorrow and a weird, lingering hope that Morgan might still, at the very last millisecond, pull a rabbit out of a hat.

But there is no rabbit. There is only the spray of crimson hitting the dark forest floor and the way Grayson’s pupils blow wide, reflecting the pale moonlight one last time before the light in them simply... goes out.

The brotherly bond doesn’t just snap; it shatters like a glass cathedral. A cold, sharp vacuum opens in Morgan’s chest, right where Grayson’s heartbeat used to echo.

Finally, Morgan thinks, trying to summon the victory he’s been dreaming of for years. The lucky one is dead. The shadow is gone.

But it doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like someone just removed half of his own lungs. The "victory" tastes like ash and old copper. He stares at Grayson’s lifeless body, waiting for the surge of joy, the triumphant laughter of the vengeful son. Instead, there’s just a dull, throbbing ache that makes him want to vomit.

"Well," the rogue leader grunts, pulling his hand back and wiping the gore on his pants.

He looks at Grayson’s corpse with the bored appraisal of a man who’s just finished a shift at the docks. "That’s one Bellamy down. Messy business, family."

Morgan clears his throat, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. "Right. Sensational. Five stars on Yelp for the execution. Now, about the plan. We still have Darien to deal with, and Amias is going to be a real headache when he finds out his favorite punching bag is dead. I can lead you right to—"

"Actually," the rogue leader interrupts, his eyes flicking to the rest of his pack.

The dozen or so wolves begin to close the circle, their hackles rising, their teeth bared in a way that suggests they aren’t interested in business proposals.

"We’ve been thinking. A Bellamy is a Bellamy. And you? You’re the one with the scary eyes and the attitude. Seems like a liability to leave the ’smart one’ alive."

Morgan’s brows lift. He lets out a short, dry laugh. "Oh, come on. Guys. Corporate synergy! We were doing so well. Don’t tell me you’re going to let a little thing like fratricide get in the way of a beautiful partnership. I’m the ideas guy! You’re the... well, you’re the muscle. Mostly the smell, actually. Do you guys ever bathe, or is the ’essence of wet dog and failure’ a stylistic choice?"

The rogues don’t laugh at his joke. They attack.

"So much for the diplomatic approach," Morgan mutters.

Inside him, something that has been humming like a live wire finally snaps. It’s the Demon Core—that obsidian knot of forbidden magic he’d swallowed like a secret. It doesn’t just pulse now; it roars. It feels like a thousand serpents uncoiling in his gut, their scales scraping against his ribs.

"Unleash me," the Core whispers. "Stop pretending to be a wolf. Wolves die in the dirt. Demons rule it."

"Fine," Morgan hisses. "Have it your way."

Thus, he doesn’t shift or growl as expected of a wolf. He simply opens his arms, and the air around him screams.

Black lightning, thick as tree trunks and smelling of ozone and sulfur, erupts from his skin. It isn’t magic; it’s a physical erasure of space. The rogue leader doesn’t even have time to look surprised before the darkness hits him, disintegrating his chest into a fine mist of charcoal and bone.

Morgan feels a surge of power so absolute it makes his wolf feel like a yapping puppy. He pivots, his movements blurred by shadows. Every time he strikes, the air cracks.

A rogue tries to leap at his back, and Morgan doesn’t even turn; a whip of violet-black energy lashes out from his spine, snapping the wolf’s neck like a dry twig.

It’s a massacre. It’s art. It’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever done.

Within seconds, the clearing is silent again, save for the smell of charred meat and the crackle of burning leaves. The dozen rogues are gone,not just dead, but shredded, their remains scattered like burnt confetti.

Morgan stands in the center of the carnage, his chest heaving. His vision is swimming, the world tilting at a forty-five-degree angle. Suddenly, a warm, thick liquid drips onto his lip.

He reaches up and wipes his nose. His hand comes away soaked in blood. Not just a trickle, but a heavy, dark stream.

His bones feel like they’ve been replaced with lead. His core—his actual, wolf-born mana—is screaming in agony, feeling drained and hollowed out, as if the Demon Core had reached into his soul with a straw and drank everything it could find.

What... what was that? he asks the Core, his thoughts sluggish. You said power. You didn’t say it would melt my internal organs.

The Core doesn’t answer. Instead, his phone rings.

The sound is jarringly normal. A bright, chirpy ringtone in a graveyard. Morgan fumbles for his pocket, his fingers trembling so hard he nearly drops the device. He sees the caller ID. It’s a series of shifting symbols that shouldn’t exist on a digital screen.

He slides it open. He doesn’t even have the energy to say hello.