The Omega and The Arrogant Alpha (by Kylie) novel Chapter 266

They don’t come quietly.

That’s the first thing that tells me this isn’t a request.

The message arrives through three channels within the span of an hour, layered like pressure instead of communication. A formal notice routed through council protocol, stamped urgent without explanation. A clipped follow-up from a liaison who never contacts me directly unless something’s already in motion. And finally, a knock at my door that doesn’t wait long enough to be polite.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

Just impatient.

“A delegation is here for you,” the runner says when I open the door. He doesn’t meet my eyes. That’s new.

“A coalition?” I ask.

He nods once. “They said it couldn’t wait.”

Of course they did.

I don’t bother pretending surprise when I step into the meeting room and see them already seated. They’ve arranged themselves carefully, spread out just enough to suggest equality while still forming a loose front. Six representatives. Different packs. Different regions. All of them standing close enough to power to smell it, none of them willing to be the first one burned if this goes wrong.

Their posture says urgency.

Their expressions say calculation.

This isn’t about collaboration.

It’s about leverage.

“We appreciate you seeing us on short notice,” one of them says, already rising halfway out of his chair like courtesy is something he can perform on command and discard just as easily.

“You didn’t give me a choice,” I reply, taking my seat anyway.

The chair is solid. Heavy. Meant to make people feel anchored. I sit straight, hands resting loosely in my lap, my body language calm enough to be misleading.

A flicker of discomfort moves through the group.

Not guilt.

Recognition.

They know exactly what they did.

Another man clears his throat. “We assumed you’d understand the urgency.”

“I understand pressure tactics,” I say. “Urgency is usually an excuse.”

Silence, brief but sharp.

They exchange a look before another speaker takes over. Female. Older. Sharp eyes that don’t miss anything. She’s done this before. Negotiations. Pressure campaigns. The quiet kind of coercion that never makes it into official records.

“We’ll be direct,” she says. “Negotiations are moving forward.”

I don’t respond.

“With or without your involvement,” she continues smoothly. “But they will carry more weight if your name is attached.”

There it is.

They don’t ask.

A pause follows.

Then a carefully neutral shrug from the man beside him, the kind meant to deflect responsibility without outright denial.

“The situation exists regardless,” he says. “We’re responding to it.”

“No,” I say. “You’re exploiting it.”

A few shoulders stiffen.

“You want my name,” I continue, closing the folder, “so you can say these negotiations were overseen.”

“Yes,” the woman replies without hesitation. “You’re trusted.”

I almost laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

Because it’s absurd.

“You’re asking me to endorse something I haven’t shaped,” I say. “Something I don’t control.”

“We’re asking you to lend credibility,” she corrects.

“No,” I say. “You’re asking me to absorb blame.”

The room tightens. A few jaws set. Someone shifts in their chair.

“This is where they expected resistance, not refusal.”