Chapter 26

The day of the final debate arrived far too early.

I got in before anyone else, the main chamber still dim and quiet, chairs not yet filled with the sharp angles of power. I set up at the central table with Richard’s talking points in hand—a clean folder of annotated printouts, highlighters tucked into the pocket like they’d do something to settle my nerves.

I was seated at the table beside key pack representatives, right in the line of fire. Directly across from David’s lead advisor. The seat hadn’t been random.

The first half of the debate was an exercise in restraint. Every question from David’s camp had teeth, thinly veiled behind policy jargon and polite smiles. They prodded at Richard’s leadership—"emotional instability" this, "internal favoritism" that. The word "transparency" was wielded like a knife, thrown again and again with just enough plausible deniability to avoid outright accusation.

A representative from the Western Border Pack leaned forward, fingers steepled. "There’s been talk of accelerated promotions," he said. "Unusual access. Assignments that don’t reflect traditional protocol. Can the King explain how those decisions were made?"

Richard kept his voice measured. "During a staffing shortage, we relied on individuals willing to go above and beyond. Any appointments made reflected urgency and capability."

The representative turned to me next, clearly not finished. "And do you feel your current position was earned by merit alone, Miss—"

"Yes," I said before he could finish. I straightened. "We were short-staffed. I volunteered. I’ve worked double shifts, handled high-clearance logistics, and coordinated emergency response while others backed away. That’s leadership, not favoritism."

He blinked, taken aback by the clarity. "And your proximity to the Alpha King? You believe that had no impact?"

I could smell the sexism.

"I don’t have any access that a man in my position would not also be granted," I replied flatly. "Ask the people I work beside. Every step I’ve taken, I’ve earned."

There was a pause. Murmurs. Then one councilwoman nodded. "That aligns with what we’ve observed."

Richard didn’t turn, but I saw the side of his mouth twitch, the tension in his shoulders ease.

David sat still across the table, smiling with too many teeth, like he was already planning his next move.

A representative from one of the border packs raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. "We’ve heard reports of certain... irregularities in the selection process for key summit roles," he said. "Some have suggested personal relationships are factoring into assignments. Care to respond?"

I saw Richard’s jaw tighten, but before he could speak, I leaned toward the mic.

"We were short-staffed," I said calmly. "I volunteered. That’s leadership, not favoritism."

"I believe I earned my place by stepping up when others didn’t," I replied. "Ask anyone who’s worked beside me."

The room stilled. A few council members exchanged looks. One even nodded faintly. But the questions kept coming, their wording different but their aim the same.

It was like these people couldn’t comprehend a pretty young woman in a position of power without assuming she was sleeping with her boss. And, okay—technically, I was sleeping near him. But that wasn’t the same thing, and either way, it was none of their damn business.

Again and again, they returned to the idea of favoritism, of personal bias, of Richard's so-called instability. It felt endless—each inquiry bleeding into the next like a deliberate attempt to wear us down. What had started as a debate turned into an interrogation, the same handful of accusations dressed up in different vocabulary.

It went on for what felt like hours.

By the time the moderator finally called for a recess, my neck ached from holding myself so straight, and my fingers had cramped from gripping my notes. But I didn’t let any of that show. I didn’t give them the satisfaction.

At the break, I slipped out the side doors, needing air. The garden walk was quiet, filtered sunlight flickering through the iron trellis and summit moss. I found Richard there, standing with his hands braced on the stone railing.

"You didn’t need to defend me," he said without turning.

"Maybe not," I replied. "But I wanted to."

The silence stretched just long enough to become something else before Emma’s call buzzed through.

There was a discrepancy in the summit’s financial logs—an archive glitch tied to older documentation. I left the garden and headed to the subfloor records room, where the problem unraveled faster than expected. The error traced back to a file batch Jason had originally uploaded—months ago.

Nothing definitive yet. But my stomach turned.

That evening, the tension hung low over everything. I reviewed Richard’s closing remarks while he pushed food around his plate. He didn’t finish it.

Later, when I checked on him, he looked worse. Warm skin, shallow breathing. The symptoms were subtle, but I knew what they meant.

"You need proper rest," I told him.

He sat back against the headboard, eyes tired. "I sleep better when you’re near," he said. "You don’t have to—but stay?"

I hesitated in the doorway. Then nodded.

He was already in bed by the time I curled in beside him, pulling the blanket up to my shoulder. I lay as close to the edge as I could manage without falling off, trying to ignore how loud the quiet felt.

But the room was heavy with something else—something alive. The space between us pulsed. I could feel him breathing. I could feel myself breathing, too fast, too shallow, my senses tracking every subtle shift in the mattress, every shared inhale.

My eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, but my mind was racing. He was close enough that the heat from his skin bled into mine. I remembered the press of his mouth against mine like it had just happened—how firm and desperate it had been. I thought about the moment it had stopped. About what might’ve happened if it hadn’t.

His sheets smelled like cedar and something darker—like spice, like stormclouds, like the memory of wanting something I shouldn’t. I could feel the restraint coiled in my limbs, the awareness of every place our bodies didn’t touch. I wanted to lean back. Just a little. I wanted to feel what would happen if I didn’t hold back anymore.

But I didn’t move, and neither did he.

We didn’t speak. Just breathed. And that silence was louder than anything I could have said.

In the early morning hours, I stirred—restless, unsure. The blanket had shifted, and the cool air raised goosebumps along my arms. I was about to roll away when I felt it: his arm sliding around my waist, slow and deliberate.

He pulled me gently back against him, no hesitation, no second-guessing—like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand found a place low on my stomach, fingers splayed like he’d done it before, like he knew exactly where to rest them to short-circuit my brain.

It wasn’t inappropriate. But it was intimate. Too intimate. The kind of touch that made my pulse skip, that made my breath catch before it even left my lips.

His chest was pressed to my back, solid and impossibly warm, and every steady exhale from him fanned across my neck, made me shiver despite the heat. I could feel every contour of his body, the faint scratch of stubble against my shoulder blade where my shirt had ridden up, the barest tightening of his arm as he adjusted his hold like he hadn’t meant to move but couldn’t help himself.

I lay there, frozen but hyperaware—of him, of me, of everything that wasn’t being said. The restraint in the room crackled like static. I wanted to lean into it. I wanted to ask him if this was comfort or confession. I wanted to turn and see what was written on his face.

Instead, I stayed still. Let the moment stretch, too afraid to end it. Let the silence speak for us.

And somehow, it felt louder than any yes could’ve been.

I froze, heart pounding.

This wasn’t about sleep. Not entirely.

He didn’t move further, didn’t push. But the tension radiating between us was impossible to ignore. Every nerve in me was lit up, painfully aware of how easily one shift—one word—could change everything.

And still, I didn’t move.

And I let him. Let the moment wrap around me like his arm. Let myself imagine, for just a second, what it might feel like if he wasn’t holding back. If I turned toward him and saw all that heat in his eyes and let it finally spill into something real.

His thumb moved slightly—barely—but it skimmed over the hem of my shirt, a whisper of contact that sent heat crawling up my spine. It wasn’t on purpose. Maybe. But it made my breath hitch, and I could feel the air catch in his lungs too.

We were both awake. Pretending. Wanting. Not acting on it.

I didn’t dare look at him, but god, I wanted to.

Neither of us mentioned it in the morning.

As I finished dressing, I found something new under my door.

A single piece of paper. A name written in sharp red ink: Clearwater.

I stared at it, heart racing. That name.

David’s words echoed in my head—the stairwell, the warning: Then we’ll both find out what they remember.

Did David know I was sleeping here? Was the message for Nathan?

Whatever this was, it wasn’t over. Not yet.