Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby
Chapter 133: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

Chapter 133: An Offer You Can’t Refuse

With a short but weighty speech, Matthias Halden Graventhal, the Arbiter of the werewolves, instantly commanded the attention of everyone present in the coliseum. Though his tone was measured and formal, each word carried immense authority and reverence. His voice didn’t need to rise above a steady pitch; it simply rippled through the crowd like an unseen force, bringing the chaos to a respectful stillness.

There were no cheers, no claps... only silence. A shared silence that bore the weight of tradition, power, and sacred expectation, as well as admiration.

After finishing his address, Matthias bowed slightly to the audience as a mark of mutual respect and stepped down from the podium. He walked with solemn grace to his seat among the other council members, where the remaining high-ranking werewolf leaders sat in quiet anticipation.

Moments later, the silence was broken by a booming voice that echoed across the coliseum like a sudden thunderclap.

"The Arbiter has spoken," the voice declared. "Now let the challenge commence!"

It was the event announcer, a member of Clan Graventhal himself, though he remained unnamed and unseen. His voice alone was enough to shape the tone of the ceremony. Deep, commanding, and precise... it was a voice carved for coliseums and battlefields.

"Now presenting, Lucian Greymoore of the Greymoore Clan!"

A roar of applause and wild howls erupted from the upper eastern gallery, where the Greymoore Clan proudly stood in unified support. Over a hundred members of the clan leaped to their feet, waving, clapping, and shouting Lucian’s name.

Lucian Greymoore strode into the arena like a conquering prince. His walk was confident, each step purposeful. Dressed in a sleeveless black combat tunic with the Greymoore crest emblazoned across his chest, he looked every bit the prodigious young alpha warrior he was hailed to be. His golden-brown hair was slicked back, revealing a face full of youthful pride and barely restrained arrogance. His muscular frame moved with a panther’s grace, and his fire-lit amber eyes scanned the crowd like a predator surveying his domain.

He raised one arm and waved proudly to his supporters, smirking as their cheers grew louder. He acted as though victory was already his. He acknowledged the crowd, basking in their admiration, and then turned toward the central circle of the arena.

Just as he lowered his hand, the announcer’s voice rang out again:

"Now presenting, Ethan Raynor of the Raynor Clan!"

The cheers diminished into a murmur of curiosity. Everyone leaned forward to catch a glimpse.

Ethan Raynor emerged slowly from a shadowed corridor beneath the galleries. His pace was calm, almost casual. He wore a simple black robe, the hood pulled low over his face so that only the lower half of his jaw and chin were visible. His appearance was starkly different from Lucian’s; there were no ornate crests, no visible muscles or intimidating posture. Just a quiet man in black, walking into the moonlight.

He did not exude the aura of a warrior. If anything, he looked like a mild-mannered scholar or a corporate analyst. Slim and toned, but not powerfully built, Ethan’s demeanor made him seem entirely unfit for a sacred werewolf duel. The murmurs turned into puzzled glances. Some even chuckled.

He looked like a tourist who had wandered into the wrong place.

But that impression didn’t last long.

No one could say exactly who started it, but a single voice from somewhere in the southern galleries shouted, "Ethan!"

Then another voice joined in. Then another. And soon, the entire southern and western galleries erupted into a chant.

"Ethan! Ethan!! Ethan!!!"

The voices grew louder, wave upon wave, echoing throughout the stone coliseum. The chorus of support grew so powerful that even those who had doubted him earlier began to cheer.

Lucian, stunned, glanced around in disbelief. His smirk faltered.

The entire Greymoore Clan looked bewildered. They hadn’t expected this. For a so-called underdog to garner this level of support was more than surprising... it was unsettling.

For the first time, Lucian felt a seed of doubt take root in his mind. It was small, but it was there. And it would grow, inevitably.

The announcer’s voice returned, now with a tone of finality.

"The rules of the Holy Duel are as follows: You must rely solely on yourself and your powers. No external interference is permitted. Clans are permitted to send a representative in place of the challenger, but the replacement must not exceed an age gap of ten years."

The crowd listened In respectful silence. The time for spectacle had passed. Now it was time for fate to unfold.

***

Ladbroke Estate, Notting Hill, London.

In the heart of Notting Hill stood a majestic detached mansion... an architectural jewel of the 19th century. It was a double-fronted home built in the classic Italianate style, its white stucco façade adorned with finely sculpted cornices and tall sash windows. The grandeur of the structure spoke of an era long past, yet its presence was timeless.

Behind the house stretched one of Notting Hill’s exclusive communal gardens, enclosed and serene... a green oasis known only to a select few. From the upper windows, one could see the neat lines of hedges and flowerbeds, a private paradise reserved for the elite residents of the Ladbroke Estate.

Inside, the mansion’s rooms soared with high ceilings and heavy crown moldings. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls of crystal. Large windows flooded the rooms with sunlight in daytime, illuminating every detail... the mahogany furniture, the antique carpets, the paintings that had witnessed generations pass.

This was the grand home that Baron John Constantine of Notting Hill inherited from his ancestors.

Chairman of the Opposition Party Board and a man of logic, Constantine rarely gave in to irrational thoughts. But today was different.

Three omens had crossed his path since morning.

First, a single magpie had landed on his garden fence just after breakfast. Then, while walking through his study corridor, he had accidentally broken a mirror at noon. And just a few minutes ago, during dinner, he had knocked over the salt pot, spilling salt across the table.

At first, he dismissed the events. But after the third omen, his mind involuntarily connected the dots. Pagan blood ran through his veins, and though he called himself a modern man, now his old instincts had resurfaced.

His stomach churned with dread. A deep, inexplicable fear gnawed at him. Something was coming, something terrible and he felt it.

To clear his mind, he retreated to his study... his sanctuary.

He sat down in the leather chair by his mahogany desk and closed his eyes, trying to breathe slowly and center himself.

That’s when he heard a unknown deep voice of a man in front of him.

"Mr. John Constantine. Please open your eyes and look at the file in front of you."

His eyes snapped open.

Sitting across from him was a man covered entirely in black. The figure was calm, seated, almost elegant in posture. And in front of John, where moments ago there had been nothing, now lay a single black file.

His heart pounded in his chest. He opened his mouth to shout, but years of political discipline held him back. Instead, he drew in a deep breath and studied the figure.

"What... Who are you?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. It trembled slightly despite his efforts.

The man In black did not answer. Instead, he gestured slightly to the file on the table.

The man in black did not speak. Instead, he made a small gesture with his gloved hand, pointing toward the black file resting on the table.

John Constantine hesitated for a moment, then reached forward with slightly trembling hands. He opened the file, and his eyes instantly locked onto the contents. A wave of dread washed over him as he began to read.

He flipped through the pages hurriedly, his breath growing shallow. Each sheet revealed a new layer of his darkest secrets... meticulously documented, neatly printed, impossible to deny. Offshore bank transactions. Shell company transfers. Unexplained assets. The money laundering trail was mapped out in horrifying clarity.

Then came the photographs.

Indecent photos of him and his secretary... images he didn’t even know existed. Candid, damning, and potentially career-ending.

His fingers froze. The hair on the back of his neck bristled. A cold sweat broke out along his temples. He turned another page. Then another. Each document tightened the noose a little more.

When he finally reached the end, he closed the file with slow, deliberate care. He leaned back into his chair and shut his eyes again, trying to collect his thoughts. But it was no use. The calm he sought wouldn’t return.

He opened his eyes and looked at the man in black, whose expression remained unchanged... cold, composed, unreadable.

"Who are you?" John asked, his voice low and shaky. "Why are you doing this?"

The man finally lifted his chin, revealing eyes that gleamed with quiet authority.

"We have no intention of harming you," he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. "As long as you follow our instructions, we will protect you. You’ll retain your power, your influence... and your life."

There was a long pause before he added, "This is an offer you can’t refuse."

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