Chapter 61

I didn’t realize how late it was until the knock came.

It wasn’t frantic or loud. Just a quiet, deliberate sound, three knuckles against the wood. I was on the couch, still dressed in the same leggings and oversized sweatshirt I’d pulled on after work, too drained to care about appearances. The lights were low. A single mug of cold tea sat untouched on the coffee table.

I didn’t move at first. Just stared at my apartment door.

Because I already knew who it was.

Only one person knocked like that, like he owned the world and was still too polite to barge in.

I finally opened it, slowly.

Richard stood in the hallway, unshaven, shadows carved beneath his cheekbones. He wasn’t wearing his usual pressed uniform or even the half-casual councilwear he defaulted to on nights like this. Just a dark henley and jeans. Simple. Disarming. Infuriating.

"It’s late," I said.

"I know."

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "If you’re here to check in, you could’ve sent Nathan. Or Emma. Or literally anyone else."

His gaze didn’t waver. "I owe you more than that. A lot more."

I studied him in silence. The lines around his mouth were deeper than they had been last week. His injury must still be healing. I should’ve cared more. But I was still too angry.

"You want to come in?"

He hesitated. "If that’s okay."

"Not really," I muttered. But I stepped aside.

He moved past me quietly, his scent brushing against my skin, cedar and something darker tonight, like burned cloves. I shut the door behind him, slower than I needed to.

He stood in the middle of the small living room like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Like he hadn’t been in my space a hundred times before. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides.

"I heard what you said to Simon," he said finally.

"When? The time you nearly died? Or the time when I found out from a council aide that Elsa's back in the picture and the rumors are already spinning themselves into headlines?"

His mouth tightened. "I shut that down."

"Not fast enough."

He exhaled. "That’s not why I came."

"Then why did you come, Richard?"

He didn’t answer.

I turned away, walked to the edge of the kitchen, gripping the counter like it might steady me.

"I remember most of it, you know."

His head jerked slightly. "Most of what?"

I turned, heart pounding. "That night. The Mate Ball. I didn't remember at first but I've been getting snippets of it. The way that guy followed me. What he tried to do. I remember your voice. Your arms. The way I felt in the car. On your lap."

His eyes darkened.

"I remember you carrying me into your house," I whispered. "I remember the way your hands felt. The sound you made when I kissed your throat."

He closed his eyes. Just once. "Amelia."

"You kissed me back. Didn't you? When I was in your lap, begging you not to leave me. You kissed me."

He didn’t deny it.

"You kissed me and you let me rub against you. You let me tell you what I wanted, and you carried me inside. You laid me on your bed and I kissed you again. And then—"

His voice was ragged. "I stopped it. I stopped it, Amelia."

"Why?"

His jaw flexed. "Because you weren’t sober. Because your body wanted me, but I didn’t know if your mind did. Because I knew if I kept going, I wouldn’t stop."

My breath caught. Heat spread low in my belly.

"Tell me what happened," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "All of it."

He took one step closer. Then another. Until he was close enough for the air between us to crackle.

"You pressed yourself into my lap in the car and moaned when my hand brushed your thigh. You begged me not to leave. Told me you were wet. I carried you inside, and you started kissing me like you were starving. You clung to my shirt, clawed at me like you couldn’t get close enough."

His voice dropped further, gravelly, desperate. Then he stopped himself, jaw clenched. "I shouldn't be saying this," he muttered. "This is already too much."

"Keep going," I said, my voice low but firm. "I want to hear it. All of it."

"You straddled me on that bed and begged me not to stop. You bit me, Amelia. You left your mark on me right here—" He tugged the collar of his shirt down, revealing the faint red scar just below his collarbone. My mark, barely visible. "You whispered my name over and over like it was the only word you knew."

My thighs clenched. I was swaying.

"I held you while you rocked your hips against me in your sleep," he continued. "Even after the sedative kicked in, your body didn’t stop. You ground against my thigh, whispering my name, rubbing yourself on the sheets like you were still chasing the high. You didn't even know I was watching. And it took every ounce of control I had not to touch you again."

I was trembling. My knees barely held me up. My wolf surged beneath my skin, restless, hungry.

"You should've touched me," I whispered.

His eyes darkened to storm gray.

"Say that again."

"You should’ve touched me, Richard. I wanted you to. I still do."

He stepped in until we were almost chest to chest. His hand hovered at my waist but didn’t settle.

"If I touch you now, I won’t stop."

"Good."

He exhaled, ragged and shaking. "You don’t know what you’re asking for."

"I do."

My wolf howled in my chest, high and wild.

He’s ours.

"She wants you," I whispered. "She’s awake. She’s been quiet for so long, but tonight... she's screaming for you."

His fingers brushed my waist. My breath hitched.

"Amelia."

"I feel it. The bond. The way my skin buzzes when you're near. The way I ache when you’re not. I’m not imagining it anymore."

He nodded slowly. "Neither am I."

"Then why are we still standing here?"

He leaned in, breath warm against my jaw. "Because if I fuck you tonight, I’ll want to claim you. And I’m not— I can't."

I pulled back sharply, the burn of rejection rising faster than I could stop it. "Right. Of course. Because it's always something. Politics. Danger. Strategy."

"Amelia, that’s not—"

"It’s because of Elsa, isn’t it? She's back in the picture, and now suddenly this is too much."

His eyes widened. "No. Amelia, it’s not—"

"Don’t lie to me." My voice cracked. "Why do we always get so close and nothing ever happens? I throw myself at you, I beg you to stay, and you still walk away. You're still in love with her, aren't you?"

He looked pained. "No. Amelia—"

"Get out."

He flinched like I slapped him. "Amelia."

"Get out, Richard. I can’t do this again."

I closed my eyes.

And then he turned and left.

The door clicked shut. I stood in the silence for a long time, hand on my chest like I was holding in something that might otherwise break free.

My wolf curled beneath my skin, humming with need and satisfaction.

And I hated her for it.

She clawed toward the door like she wanted to chase him. Like she didn’t care that he’d left me again. That he’d held me, touched me, said all those things, and still chose to walk away.

He wants you, she growled.

"Then why does he keep leaving?" I snapped aloud.

She snarled, angry now, pacing under my skin. You pushed him away.

"Because he was going to do it first! Because he always does!"

She bared her teeth in my mind, frustration radiating like heat.

He should have claimed us, she said. And you should have let him.

I staggered back from the door and pressed my hands to my face, breathing hard. My whole body still pulsed with want, but my chest felt hollow. Bruised.

I wanted to scream. To shift. To rip something apart.

Instead I collapsed onto the couch and curled into myself, shaking.

"I can’t keep doing this," I whispered into the silence.

But no one was left to hear it.