My Fated Alpha's Cruel Game (Elena and Marcus) novel Chapter 367

Chapter 367: Chapter 367 Before Total Warfare

Marcus’s POV

Isolation.

Something I have never witnessed before.

"How close?" I demand.

"Near enough for direct surveillance."

He wants us to see him.

I walk through the door onto the western deck, the storm-cleansed air biting at my throat, and search the mountain ridge.

One figure stands outlined against the brightening horizon.

Not Benedict himself.

His second-in-command.

Arms crossed over his chest.

Staring.

Pure provocation.

"Hold back," I whisper.

We maintain our positions.

The Beta lingers for what feels like an eternity before melting back into the darkness.

"He is trying to draw us out," Kian observes.

"Exactly."

"He wants us to give chase."

"Exactly."

But there is something else in that stance.

Arrogance.

He shows no concern about being spotted.

"He believes time will wear us down first," I say under my breath.

"Agreed."

Which means he thinks he has the luxury of patience.

That assumption could destroy us.

I pivot back toward the main house.

"Begin reverse pressure," I order.

Zora raises an eyebrow.

"Clarify."

"We stop defending," I explain. "We start attacking."

"How?" Malcom presses.

"Through indirect means."

The room falls silent.

"If he targets our resources," I continue, "we target his reinforcements."

Northwood Ridge’s Alpha watches me intently.

"You think he is expanding his forces."

"Without question."

"He would never risk open warfare without superior numbers."

"Then we shrink those numbers."

The pack bond thrums with unified purpose.

"We eliminate perimeter scouts silently," I state. "No signals. No sounds. No drama."

"Erosion against erosion," Kian summarizes.

"Precisely."

He weakens us.

We weaken him.

Over the following days, carefully coordinated teams move past the ridge shadows with surgical precision, avoiding direct confrontation while cutting off external patrol routes and forcing silent withdrawals.

Two of Benedict’s advance guards never make it back.

A third unit pulls back early under invisible pressure.

We broadcast nothing about our victories.

We announce no retaliation.

We let doubt seep toward his inner circle.

After several evenings of this reverse strategy, fresh intelligence arrives, the messenger’s voice more strained than usual.

"Benedict spotted at northern cliff face," the scout reports. "Closer than any previous sighting."

He advances again.

Personal appearance.

I travel to the northern ridge with controlled backup, halting just before the cliff where he stands across a narrow gap of broken terrain.

He makes no attempt to hide.

He makes no aggressive moves.

He simply observes.

"You changed your approach," he shouts across the void.

"True," I respond steadily.

"You developed patience."

"You were an excellent instructor."

His lips twist into a slight smile.

"You believe erosion will defeat me," he states.

"No," I answer. "I believe it disturbs you."

His eyes narrow fractionally.

"You confuse silence with vulnerability," he declares.

"And you confuse endurance with weakness," I counter.

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