Chapter 144

Alexander

The stone prison was colder than it had any right to be—an unforgiving, bone-deep chill that seemed to seep straight through skin and settle in the marrow. The walls dripped with condensation, and every slow, echoing footstep sent a ripple of sound through the hollow silence.

Torches lined the corridor, but their flames sputtered low, casting more shadow than light, as though they too had grown weary of this godforsaken place. The glow they gave off was a sickly orange, dancing weakly across damp stone, barely holding the dark at bay.

The air was thick with the stench of wet iron and dried blood—old, crusted, long-absorbed into the stone. It clung to me like a second skin, slick and metallic, crawling across my senses no matter how shallow I breathed. It was the kind of place that didn’t forget pain. The kind of place that had seen too much of it.

And he was waiting for me.

GrimMaw sat shackled to the floor, unmoving. The silver-lined cuffs locked around his wrists shimmered faintly, etched with ancient runes that pulsed like a heartbeat—steady, unrelenting. He looked up as I stepped closer, the firelight catching in his eyes. They gleamed—not with fear. Never fear.

Amusement.

That same twisted smile curled his lips, infuriatingly calm, like he’d been expecting me all along. Like he knew exactly how this would go. And maybe he did.

“You look like shit,” he said casually, like we were two old friends catching up over a drink instead of standing on opposite ends of a war—and a prison cell.

In a way, we were.

I didn’t answer. Just crossed my arms and let the silence stretch. I knew he hated that. Hated not being able to read me. Hated that he couldn't poke and prod and find something soft to bleed.

“You won,” he drawled, settling back against the stone wall like this was some minor inconvenience. “Your mate’s still breathing. Your name still holds weight. Congratulations.”

I ignored the bait. “Gingi. Where would she go?”

That made him laugh. Actually laugh. A real, throaty, cruel sound that echoed in the stone chamber like a dog barking in a graveyard.

“Always business with you,” he said with a grin. “Even now. No gloating? No righteous fury? No speech about honor and justice and the weight of the title you never wanted but always wore so well?”

“She’s not finished,” I said, cutting him off. “She knows too much.”

He went still for a moment. Then nodded. “No. She’s not.”

There was a long pause. The kind where something dangerous shifts beneath the surface.

“And I will find every last one of your rogues,” I continued, voice low. “Not in anger. Not in haste. But methodically. One by one. Until there’s no one left to bury her secrets.”

GrimMaw didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw tightened.

“She’s not coming back for me,” he said eventually, too easily. “If that’s what you’re hoping. Gingi was in it for the research, not the rebellion. Not the bloodshed. Just the experiment. That woman would dissect her own reflection if it meant an answer. So rest easy, Alpha—she’s probably holed up in the Alps again, chasing the next monster she can poke with a stick.”

I frowned. There was something off in the way he said it. Too relaxed. Too resigned. My instincts prickled, the hairs on the back of my neck standing like soldiers waiting for a command.

“You’re lying.”

GrimMaw tilted his head slowly, the chain around his throat clicking as it followed the motion. He looked like he was trying to decide whether it was worth denying or just funnier to let me doubt myself.

“Am I?”

I stepped closer, arms still folded, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “Where are the rest of your rogues?”

He gave a lazy shrug. The shackles on his wrists clinked softly, deceptively gentle.

“Scattered. Some dead. Some in hiding. Some… waiting for someone new to follow. But me?” He gave a tired, broken smile. “I’m done. All I want now is to see my son again.”

That twisted something sharp and bitter in my gut. The disgust that had been simmering just beneath the surface came roaring back, hot in my throat. I took a step back before I could do something I’d regret.

“You won’t see Theo again,” I said coldly. “You were never exactly good with kids. I would know.”

The smirk faltered. Just a flicker. But I saw it.

“I just want to talk to him,” he said, softer this time. “Is that so terrible?”

“You had years to talk to him. You had years to be a father,” I snapped. “And you spent every second turning him into your weapon. You trained him like a soldier before he could read. Beat him like a threat before he could fight back. You think he wants anything to do with you now?”

He leaned forward, eyes glinting with something cruel. “You think you did better?”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“You think you’re some kind of savior now?” His voice was sharper, louder. “You had no idea your daughter even existed for half her life. You let your Luna nearly die. Both of them. Even if the second one played yo like a fiddle. You were tricked like a fool. And while you were too wrapped up in your own guilt to act, Owen took the brunt of it. He wore your failures like a second skin.”

I felt the words hit. Not because they weren’t true. Because they were—at least in part.

But I didn’t flinch. I’d already bled over those truths. I’d stood in that fire, looked every shame in the face, and climbed out the other side carrying my scars like armor.

So I looked at him. Calm. Grounded. Controlled.

“You’re a fool,” I said, voice quiet but firm. “This? All of this? It was never about me.”

I took a breath and let the weight of it land like stone.

“It’s always been about my family. My wife. My children. And yeah…” A grim smile pulled at my mouth. “I had to learn that the hard way. I made mistakes—big ones. But I own them now. I changed because of them. Sacrificed for them. You wouldn’t understand that. Because that’s what being a father actually means. Not control. Not power. Not fear. Giving. Protecting. Letting go and leading.”

I turned toward the door, boots echoing with every slow step.

Behind me, the chains clinked again as he shifted, not to chase—just to shout.

“You think that makes you better than me?!” he barked, voice cracking with venom and something almost like desperation.

I paused at the doorway, hand on the iron handle. Didn’t look back. Didn’t need to.

“No,” I said, letting the words cut clean. “But it’s why my son still wants to see me… even after all my fuck-ups.”

And then I stepped into the light and let the heavy door slam behind me with the kind of finality that feels like justice.