Chapter 169

The rally had gone better than anyone expected, but the quiet that followed wasn’t clean. It buzzed with uncertainty, fractured by reactions that hadn’t had time to land until now. We’d stood in front of them with proof, with history, with unity, and still, by morning, there were murmurs spreading across the edges of camp.

Some said I’d been created in secret, not born. Others whispered about bloodlines and curses and whether the Council would use this to strip protections from any future hybrids. A photo of my eyes reflecting red in the plaza lights had made it to one of the influencer gossip accounts, twisted with just enough color correction to make me look fully vampiric. They didn’t see hybrid. They didn’t see wolf. They saw something other.

I didn’t engage. There were more urgent things to handle.

I walked the shelter rows myself, checking the rotation sheets and inspecting the temporary radio lines. Each tent had a cot, fresh blankets, and a flash-printed instruction card laminated in three languages. Every evacuee would know where they were and what they were allowed to ask for.

I signed the muster rosters and tested the relay comms twice before heading back to base.

Richard was already there, shoulder to shoulder with Nathan and Emma in front of a projector wall. Evacuation grids lit the room in pale blue. He traced his finger over the weakest zones, double-checking fallback routes and cross-verifying each channel.

Simon passed me on the way in, arms full with three medkits and a portable cooler.

"Transit nodes are stocked," he said. "Antidote kits are at every quarter mile. No one’s dying on our watch."

I nodded, grateful. He looked exhausted but alert. We all did.

Liora was in the archive chamber, finishing her sworn video statement. She wore her formal robes for the recording, the Mooncut crest embroidered on the collar. Her voice was firm, her words careful as she authenticated the charter and confirmed the identity of Serena as the Mooncut-bearer. She used my full name. Twice.

By the time I got back upstairs, the wind had shifted.

Training rotations were still scheduled, and I threw myself into them with sharp focus. I was stronger now. It wasn’t just instinct or adrenaline. It was precision. I could feel energy snapping through my limbs before a strike. I saw faint outlines of motion before my opponent moved. The instructors noticed, but didn’t say anything.

I didn’t either.

Toward the end of the second round, I heard my sparring partner’s heartbeat before she advanced. I pivoted just before she struck, not because I saw her muscles move, but because something inside me had already known.

Her wrist stopped an inch from my face. She blinked. I blinked.

The air was thick with frost despite the late season. I pushed through it, arms and legs fluid, breath steady. At the end of each form, the blood in my mouth pulsed hotter. Something deep in me uncoiled when I moved like this.

Across the room, Richard watched.

He had just arrived for final inspections, clipboard still in hand, but he wasn’t reading it. His jaw was tight. One hand curled around the edge of the clipboard. His breathing had changed.

I finished the final series and turned toward him. That’s when he abruptly handed off his notes to Emma and said something low.

Then he left. He didn’t move briskly or with frustration. He left quickly and without explanation.

I followed.

I said nothing as I trailed him into the east corridor, down past the side offices and into the lower-level equipment storage. The lights hadn’t been turned on yet. The motion sensors activated as we walked through.

He pushed open the supply door and stepped inside. I followed without hesitation.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a split second I stood there, confused. He hadn’t looked angry when he walked out, just… intense. Focused. But he hadn’t said a word to me, and I thought maybe I’d done something wrong.

Then I saw it. The unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his pants, straining beneath the fabric as he turned toward me. My stomach flipped.

“Oh,” I whispered aloud, just before he reached me.

His hands grabbed my waist like he couldn’t stop himself. His mouth found mine, hard and hot. There was no hesitation now. His hand slipped beneath my shirt, fingers splaying against the bare curve of my back as he pulled me into him like he’d snap in half if he didn’t.

"You don’t know what you look like out there," he said into my mouth.

I exhaled against his throat. "You think I don’t feel it?"

His grip tightened. He walked me backward until my hips bumped a padded bench, and I sat without needing to be told. He dropped to his knees in front of me, pushed my thighs apart, and tugged down my training pants in one smooth motion.

I braced on the bench with one hand, the other sliding into his hair as his mouth met me. The pressure of his tongue made my spine arch. I was still flushed from the exertion of training, muscles tight, breath uneven. The floor was cold under my bare feet.

He licked into me with purpose, moving with steady pressure and rhythm, unhurried but intense. His thumbs kept my thighs wide. When I shifted, he growled and pulled me closer to the edge, sucking hard.

"Richard," I gasped, head tipping back. My voice echoed slightly off the walls.

He stood, hands gripping my thighs, and pulled me up with him. He kissed me again, rougher now, turning us so my back hit the cool wall of the supply locker. The metal was cold against my spine, but it grounded me. His pants were already unfastened. I could feel how hard he was through the thin fabric still between us, the zipper grazing my inner thigh as he moved.

He pulled my shirt up and over my head, kissing down my collarbone as he did. I reached between us, unbuckled his belt, and shoved his pants low enough to free him. He hissed as my palm brushed along him, hips rocking forward without meaning to.

He didn’t ask. I didn’t need him to. I wrapped my legs around his hips as he adjusted me against the wall, one hand gripping my ass to angle me just right. The other held my thigh high and firm as he pushed inside me in one deep, steady stroke.

The stretch hit perfectly. I clenched instinctively, and his body stuttered against mine.

He pressed in harder, rocking us both against the locker door. It rattled with each thrust. My back slid slightly on the smooth metal. He caught me with both arms, forearm braced beneath my ass as he drove up into me again.

The pace he set was brutal and focused. His jaw clenched. Sweat beaded at his hairline. I tilted my head and bit his shoulder through his shirt. He groaned into my ear.

“Fuck, Amelia—”

His voice cracked, and it shattered something in me. I clung to him tighter, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the collar of his shirt until the fabric strained.

He pressed his forehead to mine, breathing ragged.

“I needed this,” he muttered. “Needed you.”

His rhythm faltered as I tightened around him again. The pressure built fast, drawn tight from the training high and the heat of his body. My whole spine bowed.

When I came, I gasped so hard my lungs ached. Nails scraped down his neck and shoulders as I jerked against him. He held me there, buried deep, and followed with a low, broken groan that shook both of us.

For a moment, all we did was breathe.

He didn’t let go. Even as his body softened, he kept holding me up, hands steady, arms still wrapped tight around me like he thought I might disappear if he blinked.

Eventually, we straightened, adjusted, cleaned up with whatever towels we found in the locker room drawer. My thighs were sore. His lips were swollen. We didn’t speak.

But in the hallway, as I looked at his profile under the harsh fluorescent lights, I saw the weight still there. He hadn’t shaken it off. He had just needed somewhere to put it down for a while.

That night, when I curled up beside him in our bed, I could feel something inside him pulling back. Not from me, but from the fear of losing what he’d built.

"You think they’re going to choose David?" I asked, my voice low in the dark.

He stayed quiet for a long moment before answering. "They might."

I turned on my side and touched his jaw. "And what if they do?"

He exhaled slowly. "Then they do. And I lose. And someone else takes the title."

"That doesn’t make you less of a leader. It doesn’t make you less of who you are."

His mouth twisted faintly. "It makes me a liability. To you. To all of this. If I can’t protect it, why am I still here?"

"Because you built it. Because it exists because of you. Even if they take the crown, they can’t take that."

He didn’t answer, but he reached for my hand and held it against his chest.

I kissed the scar on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes.

And finally, he slept.