Chapter 33

I woke up in my own bed, but I wasn’t alone.

Richard’s arm was draped around my waist—heavy, warm, completely unconscious. His face was buried in the crook of my neck, his breath soft and even against my skin. For a second, I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My brain short-circuited with the fact that this had never happened—not like this. Not here.

He’d fallen asleep on the far side of my bed last night, after I'd spent hours combing through war records and troop logs, my brain too wired to rest. I hadn’t expected him to stay—although he had been more drawn to my bed recently. In his bed, lines blurred sometimes, especially in the quiet of late nights. But in mine, it always felt like he was careful. Like this space belonged to me in a different way, and he didn’t want to cross too far into something that was mine. That, somehow, it would mean more.

But here he was. And maybe he didn’t even know.

I’d struggled to fall asleep. My thoughts had been restless, wound tight—not just from the investigation, but from the way he'd looked leaning against the doorframe, the gentle cadence of his voice, the weight of him in the room. There was something about the nearness that made my skin feel too sensitive, my breath too shallow.

And now? Now his hand was low on my waist, not grabbing, not holding me in place, but settling there like it belonged. Like I belonged.

He looked younger like this. Less guarded. Tired and undone in a way he never let anyone see. And I didn’t care if it meant reading too far into a sleep-driven accident—I soaked it in.

He’d never touched me in my bed.

That had always felt deliberate. Intentional. Like the space between us mattered more in my room. But now—whether he’d followed me in half-asleep or I’d mumbled something in the dark—he was here, and he looked like he needed me.

Not want. Need.

His brow was furrowed even in sleep, like his whole body hadn’t let go in days. Weeks. I took it in: the tension in his jaw, the scruff brushing my shoulder, the way his hand had settled low on my waist without grabbing, just... holding. Anchoring.

I stayed there as long as I could, memorizing the moment, letting the warmth of him press into places I usually kept locked.

Then slowly, carefully, I eased out from under his arm and let the chill hit me.

It was going to be a long day.

The light outside my window had shifted to early gray when I slipped into a hoodie and padded into the sitting room. The coffee was halfway to cold by the time I realized I was still thinking about the night before—the box of files, the quiet weight of Richard beside me, the accidental press of his hand on my waist that somehow felt like a promise, or maybe a crack in his armor.

I didn’t know if he remembered. I didn’t know if he even realized. But I felt it, and the feeling stayed with me.

Eventually, needing to move, I sat at my desk and powered up my terminal. I logged into the summit’s internal database and started scanning for references to Red Fang. Most documents were either locked or redacted beyond recognition, but I kept going. There—tucked deep in an old mission report from over a decade ago—a single reference to Sector Delta. That name had shown up in the anonymous folder too.

Sector Delta.

I clicked the tag and found a crosslink to a logistics manifest. Location: Archive Sublevel 3. Access Level: Restricted.

Of course it was.

I messaged Emma: Need a reason to poke around Sublevel 3. Can you clear me for logistics file retrieval?

Her reply came within minutes: Say less. Sending you in under a misplaced transit sheet review. You’ve got one hour. I’ll cover if it runs over.

I grinned. “Remind me to name my first-born after her,” I mumbled to no one.

Sublevel 3 was quiet—too quiet. The lights buzzed overhead, flickering occasionally like they knew they weren’t supposed to be on. Most of the cabinets down here were sealed with analog locks, the kind that required a key instead of a swipe badge. But Emma had delivered, and the one I needed was marked clearly: SECTOR DELTA – FIELD LOGS.

I opened it slowly. Inside: folders packed tight, labeled in ink that had faded to rust-brown. I found what I was looking for by instinct more than logic. A troop movement map, some field notes, a list of personnel IDs. Half the pages were smudged, water-damaged, or half-erased—but names were still there.

I snapped photos of everything I could. No flash. Just quick, silent clicks. Then I closed the drawer, adjusted it to make it look untouched, and slipped back out the way I came.

By afternoon, I was back in my room, standing in front of the board. I pinned up the troop map and started matching names. Some were unfamiliar. A few popped up again and again: Red Fang. Clearwater. Sector Delta Commander Kaye. And one woman whose name kept appearing next to ‘casualty reports’—someone who had vanished two weeks before the war’s final withdrawal.

I remembered the name from an earlier note. She’d been bonded to someone from Clearwater.

I stepped back from the board and crossed my arms. “What were you covering up?” I whispered.

A knock pulled me out of it.

Simon.

“Hey,” he said. “Quick thing. I ran a check on access logs like you asked. Someone remote accessed your terminal last night.”

My stomach dropped. “Last night?”

“About twenty minutes after your last login.” He held up a tablet. “The credentials used were masked, but they piggybacked off a static IP I traced to the staff admin lounge.”

I didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

“Adam,” I said.

Simon nodded. “Jenny’s covering for him again. Says he’s ‘just under pressure.’ But I thought you should know.”

I stood. “Where is he now?”

“Skipped today’s prep meeting. Again.”

I found Adam in the east wing, hunched over a console in the media room like he wasn’t trying to look suspicious. He jumped when I walked in.

“Jesus, Amelia. You scared me.”

“You accessed my terminal.”

“What? No. Why would I—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He blinked, tried to recover. “You’re being paranoid. I don’t even know how to spoof an IP.”

“You’re sloppy,” I said. “Not stupid.”

He straightened, indignation slipping over his face like armor. “You think you’re so clever. Just because Richard likes you.”

My blood boiled, but I kept my voice calm.

“Stay out of my files—or I will burn every bridge between you and this council.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t scare me.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you won’t flinch when the fallout hits.”

That night, I was still reeling when someone knocked softly on the guest suite door. I cautiously opened it to find Richard standing there with a worn cardboard box in his arms.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt. I found these in a storage closet. My early tenure case files. Figured you might find something useful. Or at least some decent coffee stains.”

He set the box down on the desk. I opened it and thumbed through the folders, a wave of scent rising—dust, ink, something vaguely citrusy.

He hovered behind me. I pulled out a folder labeled CROSS-PACK INCIDENTS and opened it halfway. A page slipped out. We both reached for it at the same time.

Our fingers touched.