Chapter 24

Amelia

I woke up in his bed again.

I hadn’t started the night there—just like the other nights I told myself I was going to sleep on the couch. But somehow, I always ended up here. Nestled beneath his blanket, my cheek against the pillow that smelled like him, warmth surrounding me like he’d wrapped the night around me with intention.

And now, every morning, I woke up here. Even when I started on the couch, I ended up wrapped in his sheets. It was like he waited until I was fully asleep before reaching for me—holding all my weight in his arms, carrying me to the one place I could actually do something. To where I made a difference. To where he needed me.

And I liked it. I liked knowing I helped. That even if nothing else made sense, this did.

Still, when I opened my eyes and the hush of morning settled around me, the realization always hit the same way—a strange mix of comfort and panic, soft heat and a sharp edge.

I never knew what to say when he was awake. I never knew if he’d be looking at me, or pretending he wasn’t. And I didn’t want to ruin whatever quiet trust we’d built by saying the wrong thing. I didn’t know what to say in the mornings. I never did. So I did what I always did—I snuck out. Quiet as possible. Careful not to disturb the stillness he wrapped around himself like armor.

I arrived early. Too early.

The double doors to the council room were still closed, but voices murmured inside—low, clipped, important. I smoothed my hands over my blazer and stood to the side, pretending I wasn’t vibrating with nerves. This wasn’t just any meeting. This was the closed-door policy roundtable, and I’d been asked to observe.

When the doors opened, the space beyond looked exactly like I’d imagined—sleek, cold, and full of power. Council representatives, Alphas, senior aides. All seated. All watching.

Beta caught my eye and gave a quick nod, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. I hesitated only a second before taking the seat, opening my tablet and pulling up a fresh note file. I was here to listen. That was it.

Richard entered last.

He didn’t look at me, not right away, but when he did, it was brief—one nod, one glance—and something in my chest tightened. He took his place at the head of the table, and the meeting began.

At first, I was only taking notes, my stylus tapping a steady rhythm against the tablet. But it didn’t last. I kept looking up. Not at the graphs or the names scrolling across the holoscreens—at him.

Richard sat at the head of the table like he’d been carved to fit there. Calm. Sharp. Utterly in control. He wasn’t speaking often, but when he did, the room shifted to make space for it. His voice was low, deliberate, and completely magnetic.

And it was a problem. Because I couldn’t stop noticing him. The way his sleeves were rolled up just past his elbows. The way he absently rubbed his temple when someone repeated an already-resolved point. The way his jaw tightened when someone got too political, too vague.

I kept remembering the kiss. The press of his mouth against mine. The way his hand slid into my hair like he’d done it a thousand times in his head. I knew where it had stopped. But I also knew where it almost went.

And I hated how easy it was to picture it again. To imagine his hands lower. His mouth at my neck. The sound he’d made when I gasped into him.

I didn’t let myself think about those things when I woke up in his bed. I couldn’t afford to. But now, in this room, with a dozen powerful people and a glass of water sweating in front of me, all I could think was how badly I still wanted more.

I was deep in it, spiraling in my own head, when his voice snapped me out of it.

"Amelia’s been overseeing logistics. She can walk you through the structure," he said.

My head jerked up.

Twenty heads turned to me.

I inhaled slowly. "We implemented a three-tiered routing system to prioritize evac protocols in the new wing," I began, voice steady. "All emergency response lines are tied to direct ID scanners. We’ve also centralized supply caching to eliminate hallway congestion."

I kept it clear, efficient. The kind of answer that didn’t ramble or apologize. When I finished, a few of the reps nodded approvingly. Even Simon shot me a subtle thumbs-up beneath the table.

I blinked and looked down before anyone could catch me smiling.

The meeting stretched on for two hours. By the end, my fingers were cramping from note-taking, but I stayed quiet, focused. When the session closed, Beta leaned toward me.

"Stay a moment," he murmured. "We’ve got something else for you."

Emma was waiting near the door, coffee in hand and a grin tugging at her mouth. "Congratulations. You just got voluntold."

"For what?"

"Final documentation," she said, handing me a stack of files. "We need someone to help draft the summit’s official recommendations. And you’re terrifyingly competent."

The rest of my afternoon disappeared inside a secondary command room. It was barely more than a storage space with two desks, a flickering screen, and three takeaway containers by the time we were done.

Emma kept things light. "You’re rewriting summit history, aren’t you?"

"I’m just trying not to misspell 'infrastructure,'" I muttered.

When the first draft was done, I printed it—old school, on paper—and walked it to Richard’s office. He looked up as I entered but said nothing until he’d finished reading. His eyes moved slowly across the page.

Finally, he glanced up. "You captured what mattered."

Our hands nearly brushed when I took the papers back, and even that—barely a whisper of contact—made my pulse spike.

It was maddening, how just the thought of touching him could undo me. I couldn’t explain it. It wasn’t just physical—it was like something uncoiled inside me every time we got too close, something ancient and electric and wildly out of control.

I couldn’t touch him without feeling like I might come apart. Like my skin remembered more than it should, and my body didn’t care what the rules were. Every accidental graze, every shared glance, made the memory of that kiss flare to life in brutal clarity.

So I pulled my hand back quickly and held the papers tighter than necessary, hoping he didn’t notice the way my breath caught in my throat.

I nodded, unable to trust my voice. He didn’t say anything else, but his gaze lingered as I turned to go.

Back at the suite, I found something pinned to my door. A copy of the summit schedule. My name—circled in red marker—next to a new line item:

Assistant Liaison, Final Briefing.

My breath caught. Not fear. Not quite pride. Just the overwhelming sense that things were changing.

That night, as I passed the west hallway, I saw Richard through the glass wall of the strategy office. He was sitting at his desk, sleeves rolled, eyes narrowed at something on the screen.

He looked up.

Our eyes met. No wave, no smile.

But neither of us looked away.