Chapter 66

Richard

We made the decision together.

It wasn’t a planned conversation, or one of our increasingly rare closed-door strategy sessions. It happened late the night before, in the hallway outside the records annex. I was on my way to flag a discrepancy in a supply ledger, she was returning from an impromptu meeting with the outreach team. We almost passed each other without speaking, but something in her posture made me stop.

"Are you avoiding me now, or just this hallway?" she asked, not looking up.

I let the silence linger. She leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "They think I should disappear for a while, don’t they? Go quiet. Let the gossip settle."

I nodded slowly. "That’s what they want."

She turned her head, finally meeting my eyes. "But what do you want?"

"I want you visible," I said. "Untouchable. Unapologetic."

She didn’t speak right away. Her fingers lingered on the file, knuckles white with tension. "So we don’t hide."

"No," I said. "We don’t. We go straight through it. We make the story look so irrelevant it burns itself out."

She stared at me, quiet and unreadable. For a moment I thought she might argue, but instead she let go of the folder and crossed her arms.

"If I do this," she said, her voice low but even, "I need you to stop disappearing every time things get hard. I need you to be behind me, publicly, not just in the shadows when it’s convenient, not just when no one else can see."

I nodded. "I will be. Fully."

She didn’t thank me or offer reassurance. She simply nodded once, turned, and walked away, her footsteps quiet against the stone. In that moment, the decision was made.

After everything, the storm, the stillness, the unspoken tension, we hadn’t said the words that would shatter whatever boundary remained between us. But we agreed on one thing: retreat wasn’t an option.

To pull Amelia from public view now would be a signal, an implicit confession that there had been something to hide. The only way through was forward, shoulders squared, chin high, eyes unwavering. If the story being circulated was that she had been elevated for image, then the only way to kill it was to make that image so powerful, so indisputable, that it couldn’t be touched.

Let them think we were too confident to flinch. Let them talk. Let them choke on it.

The next morning, we ran through scenarios in the strategy room. Nathan laid out the polling trends, detailed the council’s shifting alliances, and flagged Packs that were showing signs of drifting toward David’s camp. Several aides weighed in with messaging strategies, most of which sounded like thinly veiled apologies or retreat in polite language. They talked about optics. About delays. About containment.

Amelia sat across from me at the far end of the table. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t scribble notes. She didn’t twitch or blink or sigh. Her pen rested still beside her empty coffee mug.

One aide finally turned to her and said, "Would you be open to stepping back from public events for a few weeks? Let us redirect the focus and bring things back under control."

She lifted her gaze slowly, deliberately. "No. The only thing that makes me look like a liability is treating me like one."

Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. No one interrupted her after that.

That afternoon, she stood at the podium in the central rotunda of the House. The seating tiers were filled with council members, aides, and visiting dignitaries. The press was present but forbidden from asking questions. It wasn’t an open discussion, it was a demonstration of strength.

I stood behind her with my arms folded, saying nothing. She spoke.

And she was flawless.

"In moments like this," she began, her voice measured and clear, "a Pack must decide what it values most: appearances or results, tradition or truth. We cannot serve both."

She didn’t list her credentials. She didn’t defend her role. She didn’t once mention the accusations or rumors. She talked about duty. About service. About the burden of leadership and the importance of conviction.

Her wolf lingered just beneath the surface, visible in her stance, the sharpness of her gaze, the rhythm of her breath. The girl they had dismissed as an intern was gone.

Midway through, she paused and met the eyes of one of the Alphas who had led the push for her removal. Her expression didn’t flicker. Then she moved on, her voice gaining weight.

By the time she finished, the room was holding its breath. When she stepped down, applause began slowly. A few council members stood. Then more, reluctantly and respectfully.

She walked past me without a glance. I didn’t expect one.

That evening, the House hosted a formal council dinner. The tables gleamed under soft light, every setting precisely arranged. The florals were understated, the music subtle. Every element was designed to convey civility.

Amelia was seated two chairs down from me, directly across the table. She wore a black dress with a high collar and fine embroidery at the cuffs. Her hair was swept back. She looked composed. Controlled. Untouchable.

We didn’t speak. We didn’t look at each other. But I could feel the tight line strung between us, humming with things unspoken.

Jenny was louder than usual, her laughter cutting through the room. She drank more than she usually did and leaned toward every Alpha who would listen. At one point, she clinked her glass too hard against someone else’s and offered Amelia a compliment on her speech.

"Such clarity," she said. "You have a real gift for making complex things sound simple."

Amelia didn’t blink. "That’s because they are simple," she said. Then she turned her attention to the Pack leader beside her and shifted the conversation to land use legislation.

I watched the way they listened to her. Closely. Intently. A few leaned forward as she spoke.

Even I had to resist the urge to smile.

After dinner, I returned to the strategy room. I wasn’t ready to sleep. I wasn’t sure I could. I skimmed briefing notes, pulled up travel itineraries, flagged a few security memos.

And then I saw it.

A journal.

Leather-bound, worn around the edges, tucked half beneath a stack of policy printouts. It wasn’t one of ours.

It was hers.

She must have left it behind earlier. I stood over it for a while, unsure whether to touch it. Eventually, I did.

I shouldn’t have opened it. But I did.

The first few pages were filled with meeting notes, task lists, and revisions. Efficient. Organized. Impersonal.

Then it shifted.

Today I sat through a room full of men who know less than I do and watched them ignore me. Again. I smiled anyway. Again.

Sometimes I wonder if my presence makes things harder for him. Sometimes I hope it does.

I don’t know who I’m supposed to be when he’s looking at me like I matter, and then walking away like I don’t.

I think the bond is starting to ache. I think I’m starting to resent that it won’t break.

In between policy drafts and map sketches were scraps of her, quick notes, half-drawn wolves, a sketch of my signet ring. On one page, a single line scratched out so deeply it tore the paper. I tilted it under the lamp until I could just make out the words beneath:

I think I miss him more than I want to be angry.

I closed the journal slowly and sat down. The leather cover was still warm from where her hands had rested.

She had been holding more than anyone knew. And she had been holding it alone.

I didn’t know what we were yet. But I knew, without question, I would no longer be something she had to carry in silence.

Not anymore. I couldn't hurt her anymore.