Accidentally Mated To Four Alphas-Chapter 292: _ Weakest Link

~Grayson’s Point Of View~

Grayson leaves the hotel room without announcing it. He doesn’t slam the door, doesn’t throw a look over his shoulder. He doesn’t make a joke or mutter something self-deprecating on the way out, even though that’s usually his thing. He just... goes quietly like a man slipping out of his own life because he doesn’t belong in it anymore.

The hallway outside the lodge is cool and softly lit, all neutral colors and expensive. His bare chest still aches beneath the hastily wrapped dressings while every breath tugs at bruised ribs that haven’t quite decided whether to forgive him yet.

Behind him, through layers of concrete, glass, and denial... Heidi moans.

It’s loud. It’s unfiltered. It’s so Morgan. Grayson flinches like he’s been struck.

He presses a hand to his sternum, right over his heart, as if that might quiet the sharp, humiliating ache spreading through him. His wolf whines low in his chest and hell, it’s not only anger. It’s worse. It whines in longing. In confusion. In that awful, pathetic sound wolves make when they know they’ve lost a fight they didn’t even get to finish.

He was invited.

That’s the part that makes it hurt more.

Morgan had grinned and said something like, You’re welcome to join if you want. Darien had looked like he was chewing broken glass but hadn’t stopped it. Heidi, sweet, dangerous Heidi had flushed and not said no.

And Grayson had smiled. Had nodded. Had pretended he could stand being a pushover. But he can’t. Not like this.

Not when his body is still stitched together by his wolf and stubbornness. Not when his wolf is lagging behind the others, slower to heal and rise. Not when standing beside his brothers feels less like solidarity and more like being the weakest link in a chain everyone else is dragging forward without him.

He’s always been strong. Just... not that strong. Not Morgan-strong. Not Darien-strong. Certainly not Amias-strong.

The elevator dings softly when he calls it, the doors sliding open like a mercy he doesn’t deserve. He steps inside and leans back against the mirrored wall, staring at his own reflection.

God, he looks like shit.

There’s dried blood in his hair, shadows under his eyes, his skin still pale beneath the faint golden glow of healing magic that hasn’t finished its job. He looks like the aftermath of a battle everyone else already walked away from.

The weakest of four Alpha heirs, his mind supplies cruelly.

The elevator descends. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just knows he can’t stay.

The lobby is quieter now, late-night calm settling over the hotel like a held breath. The concierge glances up, hesitates, then looks away again, wisely deciding he doesn’t want to make eye contact with a half-naked, bandaged man who smells like blood and sex and supernatural trouble.

Grayson pushes through the revolving doors and steps into the night.

The city air hits him, carrying exhaust, damp pavement, distant food carts, life going on without him. Somewhere above, Heidi’s voice still echoes in his head, tangled with Morgan’s low, satisfied growl.

He laughs under his breath. "Pathetic," he mutters to no one.

He walks.

Down the sidewalk. Past closed shops. Over a bridge where the city lights ripple in the dark water below like shattered stars. His feet carry him forward on autopilot, his mind spiraling in that familiar, useless loop.

You’re hurt. You’re slow. You’re always the one who gets taken out first.

He remembers the fight earlier; all the fangs, claws, fire, and the moment he’d gone down hard, lungs screaming, vision swimming, while Darien and Morgan had kept moving like gods of war.

He remembers Heidi hauling him up afterward, saying, You did good. He remembers not believing it. He remembers feeling like a loser.

The concrete thins beneath his feet without him noticing. The streetlights are spaced out. Trees creep closer, their shadows longer, darker. The city doesn’t vanish so much as it... loosens its grip.

Grayson begins to smell the wet earth, and feral wolves before he hears them. He slows down. His hand drops instinctively to his side, fingers flexing even though he doesn’t have a weapon. His wolf stirs, hackles rising, warning him...

However, it was too late. They come out of the trees in a blur of motion and teeth. There are about a dozen of them. Rogues. Scarred, lean, eyes burning with that feral edge that comes from surviving too long without a pack to soften you. One slams into his side, sending him skidding across dirt and leaves. Pain explodes through his ribs, white-hot, stealing the air from his lungs.

"Found him," one snarls.

Grayson rolls, barely getting his arms up before another kick catches him in the gut. He groans, tastes blood, forces himself upright anyway.

"Easy," he rasps. "Not looking for trouble."

The leader steps forward, thick-necked and broad, his grin all teeth and promise. "Funny. We are."

The fight that follows is ugly. Grayson holds his own at first—he always does. Muscle memory kicks in, training and instinct carrying him through slashes and counters. He breaks one rogue’s nose. Claws another across the thigh. But his body betrays him, slower than it should be, pain flaring every time he twists too hard.

They notice and press it to their advantage. By the time he drops to one knee, gasping, there are bodies down—but not enough. Never enough.

The leader circles him, savoring it. "Bellamy blood," he inhales. "Smells like debt."

Grayson spits. "I’m not my father."

"Oh, we know," the rogue says pleasantly. "That’s why this hurts more."

A blow knocks him flat. The world narrows to dirt and breath and the crushing weight on his chest as a clawed hand pins him down. He can feel his heart hammering, feeling the rogue’s claws reaching for it.

So this is it, he thinks distantly. Figures.

Just then, he smells Morgan.

The scent hits him like a shock of electricity. Ash and iron and something darker, something that makes his wolf surge despite everything. Grayson’s head snaps up.

"Morgan!" he shouts hoarsely. "Morgan—help!"

The rogues freeze, heads turning toward the trees. "Who’s there?" one snaps.

Silence answers back before Morgan steps out of the shadows. He looks... too calm for a person whose twin was about to have his heart carved out just seconds ago. He has his Hands loose at his sides. Expression unreadable. His eyes flick from the rogues to Grayson, lingering there just a pinch too long.

Relief floods Grayson so hard it almost knocks him out to know that this wasn’t ’it’. He wasn’t going to die... not today and certainly not by the hands of filthy feral rogues. That’s a shameful way for an Alpha wolf to go.

"Thank the Moon," he breathes. "Get them off me."