Chapter 145

Amelia

I had never worn these heels in the council chamber before. My steps echoed differently in them, sharper than boots, more deliberate than bare feet. They weren't practical, but nothing about this day was.

The chamber was full, humming with tension that coated every surface like oil. Every seat was taken, and the overflow had been funneled into side halls where live feeds broadcast the proceedings. Some people stood with arms folded, others scribbled notes or whispered into recorders. The air buzzed with anticipation, like a trial was about to begin.

Because it was.

A motion for Richard’s suspension had been circulating for days. Whispers had turned into hallway rumors, rumors into scribbled notes passed in folded hands, and those notes became official petitions. The Hollow attacks, the disappearances, and Richard's retreat during the rut had fractured the foundation he had once ruled from.

Trust had eroded, and no amount of ceremony or honorifics could cement it back together. I was expected to stand beside him and fix it, as if my mere presence would glue the kingdom back into place.

But I wasn’t just a shadow of him anymore.

When I took the floor, there was no applause. Just the low click of camera shutters and the scratch of pens. The silence was dense, like it was waiting.

I didn’t hesitate.

“By Pack code, Clause Twelve, a Luna or acting adviser may assume executive presence during council review provided they meet two out of three qualifying factors: strategic success, uninterrupted Pack loyalty, and valid military command.”

I let the silence settle for a beat, letting my eyes sweep across the rows of elders, officers, and scribes before I added, “I meet all three.”

A few heads turned. A few jaws tightened. One councilor looked down, refusing to meet my gaze.

I continued. “The recent operations at the cathedral site and the successful containment of Hollow operatives have met Pack standards for military command. My presence through the entirety of the bell crisis, my refusal to retreat, and my ongoing partnership with the Alpha King are all documented and verifiable. I request the suspension motion be tabled indefinitely.”

A pause.

Then came the murmurs, the paper-passing, the low huddle of elders unsure how to vote. Voices dropped into whisper-range, heads leaned together. I could smell the uncertainty, bitter and faintly metallic.

During the recess, I moved quietly. I didn't pace. I didn’t linger. I didn’t plead. I sought out the swing elders, the ones who hadn’t fully bent to Richard or David. I reminded them of the old promises, the unfulfilled economic projects, the parents still waiting on financial restitution for lost children, the service members poisoned by tampered filters. I gave them exact figures. I gave them a plan. Financial transparency within the quarter, a new relief program for families affected by Hollow sabotage.

They wanted certainty. I gave them numbers. I gave them power. I gave them the chance to hold it with both hands and say they chose something better than fear.

What I didn’t account for was how strong my scent had gotten.

Across the chamber, Richard met my eyes. He looked calm, unreadable to anyone else. But I saw it in the way his gaze dipped to my throat, the subtle tension in his posture. He could smell it again. I had done everything to hide it, bathing in blockers, layering oils, swapping out fabrics, skipping breakfast to control how my body reacted to even a glance. But the heat was still there, pulsing under the surface, low and greedy.

I thought I could ignore it. I thought I could will it away. But he knew now. And worse, he looked hurt. Not angry. Hurt, like I had been lying to him and to myself, and he didn’t know which part was worse.

Still, I held my ground. I clenched my thighs and focused on my breathing, on the rhythm of the fan above me, on the pinched voices around the room until the final vote was called.

When the tally came in, the motion was defeated. The shift was subtle but immediate. I was no longer just a placeholder. I was acknowledged. I was the acting Luna.

Richard

I watched her stand straighter when the results came in. Her back didn’t move an inch, but something in her spine let go, like she’d finally unclenched a muscle held too long. She didn’t smile. She didn’t look at me. But I could feel the warmth rolling off her body in steady waves.

She had held it together. Barely. And now she was doing what I should have done weeks ago, carrying the weight of the Pack in public while I dealt with it in silence.

But I wasn’t the only one watching. Two of the elders behind me leaned toward each other, speaking too low for human ears.

“Something’s off with her,” one said. “There’s a weight to her now. Something not entirely Pack.”

“The King’s not the same either.”

“She’s got her claws in him.”

I didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But I memorized their faces, their intonations. I knew exactly how these things started, with whispers, with soft accusations, with fears that seemed reasonable. And if I was honest, I wasn’t sure I disagreed. Not entirely.

They wanted to know why she didn’t kill Darius herself. Why she let him die by his own hand. Why she had stood over him and pulled back at the final moment. Some thought it was mercy. Others thought it was weakness. And some thought it was something worse.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it either.

The look in her eyes that day, distant, like she was somewhere else. The way she’d stumbled back as if she didn’t recognize her own hands. And after, when she pressed against me as if to anchor herself but never spoke about it again. I wondered if she even remembered. Or if she was trying so hard to be fine, to be functional, that she’d buried the whole thing deep enough to forget.

Amelia

At the formal dinner that followed, I wore black. Not seductive, not modest. Just intentional. Everything was a statement now. I sat beside Richard at the high table, where we were expected to nod at toasts and look calm for the reporters flitting along the walls.

I didn’t touch my food. My stomach was too tight, too restless. The wine tasted sour. The laughter from the councilors grated against my skin.

Richard leaned in, brushing my wrist with his thumb. It looked casual. Supportive.

It wasn’t.

His hand slipped beneath the tablecloth.

“Are you done pretending?” he said quietly, eyes still on his plate.

I didn’t answer. My breath stuttered when his fingers found the edge of my thigh, then moved higher, tracing the curve of my hip. Slow, methodical, too practiced to be anything but intentional.

“Tell me no,” he murmured. “And I’ll stop.”

I couldn’t say it.

My knee bumped the underside of the table. I tightened my grip on the linen and pressed my free hand against my thigh. Council members talked politics three seats down. The steward was pouring wine. But I could barely hear any of it. My heart was pounding too loud.

He pushed two fingers inside me, unhurried but deliberate. I gasped so softly it could have passed for clearing my throat.

I was already soaked. And it wasn’t just arousal, it was need, carved so deep I hadn’t even noticed how close to the edge I’d been walking.

His knuckles moved with the practiced rhythm of someone who knew my body too well. To anyone else, I was still. Maybe flushed. Maybe tipsy. But he knew. He felt the way I clenched around him. He felt the tremble I couldn’t disguise.

“You should have told me,” he whispered. “You should have said it didn’t stop.”

“It did,” I said sharply, too quickly.

His fingers stilled. “If it had, you wouldn’t be letting me do this under a table full of council members.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. It hit too fast, too hard, and I nearly dropped my glass. I came around his fingers with a shudder I disguised as a shift in my seat.

He pulled his hand away like nothing had happened, wiped his fingers on the inside of his napkin, and raised his glass in a silent toast.

It was the most dangerous thing we had done since the bond took hold.

And I still wanted more.

I was still trying to slow my breathing when Nathan caught me just outside the hall.

“Three of the clerks are gone,” he said. “Vanished after accessing archived bell tower records. All of them from the same sector. No calls out. No confirmed exits.”

I blinked. “Gone?”

He nodded. “They’re not just silencing soldiers anymore. They’re cleaning up the paper trail. Financial, technical, historical. Anything that points back to the Hollow’s access points.”

My pulse, still unsettled from earlier, began to climb again.

“This wasn’t just a cover-up,” he said. “It was a systems breach. And someone inside that chamber tonight helped make it happen.”