Chapter 142

Richard

We’d been tracking him for three days. Every surveillance drone we could spare, every movement observed. Amelia had marked a weak point in the warehouse quadrant, where the patrols rotated just wide enough to allow passage. Darius had always been careful. Slippery. But that was the first time he doubled back.

The storm rolled in fast. Rain slicked the scaffolding until it gleamed like wire, every surface a threat. I followed him across the eastern yard’s rusted catwalks, the metal groaning under my weight. He moved fast, but not recklessly. This wasn’t a panic sprint. He thought he had an exit. And he didn’t know we’d rerouted the eastern gate lockdown to seal behind him.

He’d taken the bait.

I controlled my breathing. My jaw ached from clenching. But rage didn’t catch men like Darius. Strategy did. I stayed two levels above him, tracking his position across the beams, forcing him toward the narrow spine that fed into the containment grid.

He made the turn just as I’d calculated. Rain sheeted across the high platform. His boots skidded. He caught himself. But he looked up and locked eyes with me.

I dropped down behind him.

We struggled. Metal screeched underfoot. He tried to throw me over the edge, but I ducked the momentum and slammed him into the rail. A clean hit. He groaned and collapsed.

“Now,” I said into my comm.

Four guards swept in below to extract him. I stood there, soaked and shaking, watching Darius go limp under silver cuffs again. My hands were still balled into fists. I didn’t unclench them until the van rolled away.

Elsewhere, Nathan was tailing a utilities tech. Amelia had flagged him earlier for odd energy spikes and perimeter badge misuse. The guy walked straight from a city substation carrying a ring of keys and a bag that tested positive for wolfsbane residue. Nathan sent me a live image, him crouched behind a rusted stairwell while the man ducked into a boarded-up duplex near the industrial park. The safe house.

The whole web was tightening. Every piece clicking into place. Evidence stacked against evidence. We had routes, names, funding channels, and finally, people. We were getting closer to something, but I couldn't shake the feeling that we weren’t moving fast enough.

It should have felt satisfying. But it didn’t.

When I got back to the House, Amelia was already back and pacing the hall outside my study. Her hair was half up like she’d been distracted mid-styling, cheeks flushed despite the cold.

“You got him all the way back?” she asked, too bright.

“We did.”

She smiled. The smile didn’t reach her eyes. She didn’t even wait for me to shower. Just reached out, fingers tracing the line of my spine like she couldn’t help herself.

“I missed you today.”

“You were in comm range.”

“Not like that.”

I grabbed her wrist. Gently. Her pulse pounded.

“Amelia.”

She stepped closer, other hand sliding under my shirt. “Let me help you relax.”

“I need to debrief first. This isn’t the time.”

She didn’t push. Not directly. But her fingers lingered. Her breath was shallow. She looked at me like she was starving and couldn’t understand why I wasn’t already inside her.

When I finally got her to let go, she stepped back too quickly. I saw her watching me like she was cataloging every movement, searching for the moment I’d let my guard drop.

She was hyper-aware of me in a way that used to feel flattering. Now it felt dangerous.

Later that night, I worked through three reports in the sitting room while the bell towers outside fell silent again. Around midnight, a tone buzzed low and strange from the secure channel. Not a warning. Not one of ours.

I stood, heart suddenly pounding.

A coded broadcast. Short. Sharp. But unmistakable.

The Hollow still had access.

I locked the room down and sent the data to Nathan. No response yet. It was late.

I stood there for a while, staring at the muted bell tower through the fogged window. My reflection blurred beside the dark silhouette of the spire.

I almost went to wake her. To tell her. To ask if she’d seen anything, sensed anything. But I didn’t.

I found Amelia already in bed, curled onto her side facing the wall. I undressed quietly and joined her.

She didn’t move. But she wasn’t asleep. I could feel it in the way she held her breath. I turned away and closed my eyes.

Amelia

He hadn’t brought it up again. The healer.

I’d waited all day for him to say something. Even when I touched him, even when I all but begged. But nothing. No reminder, no appointment, no push.

Maybe he’d forgotten. Or maybe he thought I’d already gone.

I rolled over in the dark and looked at him. He was asleep now. Hair damp. Brow furrowed even in rest. The room smelled like stormwater and iron. Like sex and sweat and blood. But none of it was fresh.

I could still smell the blood from earlier. His pulse. The way it surged under my tongue.

I shouldn’t have wanted him again so soon. But I did. I burned for it. My whole body ached like it hadn’t ended. Like I was still stuck in heat and just pretending I wasn’t.

I didn’t want to wake him. I didn’t want to scare him. He hadn’t said the word again. He hadn’t brought up the healer. If I left it alone, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d forget entirely.

I watched him breathe. Thought about slipping into his arms. Thought about grinding against him while he slept, just to see how far I could get before he noticed. The idea sent a jolt through my thighs.

Instead, I got up. Quietly. Slipped out of bed and put on his shirt, then padded barefoot down the hall to my office. Closed the door behind me. Locked it.

I didn’t turn the lights on. Just pulled his shirt from my body. The one from two days ago. The scent clung to the fabric, cedar, sweat, blood, the faint edge of silver. It made my head spin.

I sat on the floor with it clutched in both hands. Breathed deep. Pressed it to my face like it could suffocate me.

My hand was already moving between my legs. There was no forethought. Just sensation. Just heat and craving. I used my other hand to twist the fabric into a knot and shoved it between my teeth.

I came fast. My breath stuttered. I bit the shirt hard. Rocked my hips until it crested again, harder. The second one ripped through me like I was being consumed. Like I was starving for something I couldn’t name.

I gasped into the dark, knees drawn up, thighs shaking. I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not even when my whole body began to ache. My clit throbbed with the sharp edge of overuse and I kept going.

The smell of him soaked into my skin. I pressed the shirt between my legs and ground into it like I was possessed. My whole body flushed. I clenched around nothing and whimpered into the dark.

It didn’t feel good. Not really. It felt like falling apart. Like burning out from the inside. But I still didn’t stop.

When it was over, I lay there panting. Shirt clutched to my chest. Skin hot and damp.

I didn’t want to go to a healer.

I didn’t want to be told this was wrong.

I didn’t want anyone muting this. Flattening me. Calling this a symptom.

This was the only time I felt real.

I wanted it sharp. I wanted it bright. I wanted to feel the way I did when he bled and I could taste it on my tongue.

I wanted this forever.

Eventually, I stood. Washed my face in the cold water from the bathroom sink. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror.

When I slipped back into bed beside him, he stirred faintly. One of his hands brushed my thigh.

I curled away from it, eyes wide open in the dark, and didn’t sleep until morning.

I thought I’d feel better. Lighter. Instead, I felt wired and restless. Like something inside me had just begun to wake up.