Chapter 112

The caravan arrived just before dusk, the long line of vehicles snaking through pine-shadowed hills like a scar winding deeper into unknown territory. I watched through the dusty window as the sun dipped behind the ridge, casting long shadows over the road. We had traveled for hours in tense silence, the weight of the evacuation pressing down on every glance, every clipped word. People didn’t speak unless necessary, and even then, only in low tones that carried the weariness of the past forty-eight hours.

The road curved sharply, and then the forest began to fall away. There, nestled against the base of a granite slope, was the bunker. Sleek, fortified, and silent. It didn’t look like a shelter. It looked like a statement. Concrete and steel, half-swallowed by the earth, yet somehow commanding. As we drew closer, I could see the details: security towers positioned like teeth, hidden surveillance arrays embedded in the surrounding hills, and a central vault large enough to admit military vehicles.

The staff called it the Haven.

Crystal sconces lit the hallways in soft amber tones. Imported tile gleamed underfoot, so pristine it almost looked untouched. The scent of cedar and lemon oil clung to every surface. My boots clicked against polished stone as we entered the main corridor, and for a moment I felt like an intruder in a place built for someone else’s legacy.

I passed a corridor lined with portraits of council members and past generals rendered in strokes of oil and gold. Their eyes followed me as I walked, stern and expectant. One of them looked a little like Richard, which made my chest tighten more than I cared to admit.

“This was supposed to be for the next summit,” a staffer murmured behind me. “Jenny had it remodeled last year. Said the Pack House didn’t photograph well in daylight.”

From one of the upper terraces, I could see the ring of outer bunkers. They looked temporary. Their roofs sagged in places, and laundry flapped between tension wires. Smoke curled from makeshift cook fires. Children played barefoot in the dust, watched over by mothers who looked more exhausted than alert. Soldiers patrolled the perimeter with weary eyes.

That’s where David’s faction had ended up.

“They say it’s overcrowded,” Nathan told me as we passed a secured checkpoint deeper in the compound. “Loud, understaffed, short on food already. Blankets are being rationed. Some of his people are already accusing us of favoritism.”

I could imagine the way the narrative was being spun. Richard had abandoned the Pack House and retreated to a luxurious safehouse while the people suffered. David would use every ounce of it, build his martyrdom brick by brick. And the worst part was, I couldn’t blame the people who were angry. I’d be angry too if I had to sleep shoulder-to-shoulder in a shelter while the royals dined under chandeliers.

Inside the Haven, I felt the tension like static before a storm. Some staff moved with relief etched into every step. Others avoided eye contact, their lips tight, their expressions unreadable. There were whispers in corners, long pauses when I entered a room. My presence was no longer neutral.

It didn’t take long for Richard to find me.

I was outside the war room, pacing the hallway, staring down at the wine-colored runner as if it might offer answers. The hum of the generators filled the space between my thoughts. The entire building felt like it was holding its breath.

“You should’ve told me you were going to vote that way,” he said.

I turned. He stood a few feet away, arms at his sides. His voice wasn’t raised. That almost made it worse.

“I didn’t know I was going to be the deciding vote,” I said. “You saw how they turned to me.”

“You could’ve looked to me. Just for a second.”

“To what? Get permission?”

“To give me a chance to brace for it. To understand where you stood.”

I folded my arms. “I did what I thought was right. I didn’t have time to consider how it would make you look.”

His jaw flexed. He looked away for a beat, then back. “They needed a leader in that room, not a symbol.”

“They needed someone to protect them,” I said, voice sharper now. “And you weren’t going to make the call.”

Richard stepped closer. His presence filled the space like a second gravity. “You did.”

The words sounded neutral, but the sting behind them was anything but. I saw it in his eyes, the wounded pride, the restraint. He wanted to say more. I was too tired to ask for it.

He left without another word.

Later that night, he came to my room.

I was sitting on the edge of the bed, too wired to sleep, too exhausted to think. The door opened softly. Richard stood there, shirt wrinkled, the top buttons undone, as if he’d come straight from a strategy meeting and never stopped moving.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

I stayed silent.

“I wasn’t fair to you earlier.”

Still, I didn’t speak.

“You were right. About the vote. About what needed to happen.”

He said it like the words tasted wrong. Like they hurt coming out.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded once. He didn’t cross the threshold. Just stood there, as if weighing whether stepping into this room meant something more.

I didn’t ask him to stay. He didn’t ask to come in.

Later, I wandered down to the archives. I told myself it was to clear my head, but I think I was looking for proof of something. That we were still rooted in something older than this moment.

The air down there was cold and dry. The lighting was dim, motion-activated. Rows of storage drawers and touchscreen terminals lined the walls, organized by war, by region, by casualty count.

One name kept appearing. A surname I remembered from the file I found after my visit to the orphanage. I searched again, cross-referenced, tried different spellings. It was there, over and over, on casualty lists, mission reports, even old communication logs.

A half-formed thought prickled in the back of my mind.

The terminal flickered. Access denied. Clearance required.

Behind me, the lighting shifted. I turned.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Richard asked, voice quiet.

I shrugged. “Too quiet.”

He stepped inside. Didn’t ask what I was looking at. Just stood near the shelves, arms loosely crossed.

It started with a glance. A pause. A pull that had never really left since the moment I met him.

He touched my elbow. I turned.

We collided like magnets. His hands framed my face, then dropped to my waist, tugging me toward him with more force than hesitation. Our mouths crashed together, desperate and ungraceful, breathing through each other. I dug my fingers into his back. He kissed like he was still angry, and I kissed him like I was trying to erase it.

My back hit the archive table. He swept a stack of old records aside without even looking. I gasped as he lifted me up, his hands firm beneath my thighs. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer.

He pressed his forehead to mine for a second, breathing hard. Then his mouth moved to my neck, his teeth grazing, testing. I arched into him, whispered his name like it wasn’t allowed. His fingers slid under my shirt, tracing my skin, slow at first, then faster, rougher.

Clothes fell away piece by piece. I tugged his belt open, impatient. He kissed me again, slower this time, but it didn’t stay gentle. The tension between us didn’t allow for softness. It demanded something else, control, surrender, challenge.

He thrust into me in one motion, and I bit down on his shoulder to keep from crying out. The air smelled like old books and wood polish, and him. My nails scratched down his back. His breath hitched when I pulled his hair.

It was fast, brutal, greedy. My heels dug into his back. He groaned low against my throat. We fell together like a wave crashing against stone. I felt the moment he lost control, the way his rhythm stuttered, the way he buried his face in my shoulder.

I came with a sharp cry, clinging to him like the ground might shift beneath us. And when it was over, we didn’t collapse. We separated.

I sat back in the armchair, heart still racing. My hair stuck to my neck. The archives smelled like dust and sweat and something ancient.

Richard was already dressing again, moving slowly. Carefully. Like every button was armor.

And I realized, watching his back, that this wasn’t about anger or lust or even strategy.

He still didn’t trust me with the soft parts. He trusted my strength, my judgment, my presence beside him, but not the places where he felt small. Not where he was vulnerable.