Chapter 91

The room felt like it was holding its breath. A low hum came from the monitor as the security footage played for the fifth time, the blue-tinged screen flickering like it wanted to hide what we already knew. Jenny. Slipping into my room with her familiar practiced grace, her face tight with intention. I watched, silent and cold, as she pulled my journal from beneath the mattress and tucked Richard’s pen into her bag like it was nothing. Like she hadn't just committed the ugliest kind of betrayal.

Richard stood at the far end of the room, fists clenched and shoulders heaving as he paced. The air around him pulsed with restrained fury, a barely contained storm in human form. Nathan sat near the console, brows furrowed in concern, one leg jittering with barely restrained tension as his eyes flicked between Richard and the footage. Emma stood beside me, her hand resting lightly on my back, but I was too numb to feel it.

"I should send trackers after her," Richard said for the second time in ten minutes. His voice was a low growl, the kind that made even my wolf, skittish and half-formed as she was, bristle with unease. His voice carried the edge of someone who was no longer thinking like a father, but like a man pushed too far.

Nathan's voice was quick, soothing, like a balm to Richard's wildfire. "And what happens if that gets out? She's still your daughter. Public perception is fragile enough. If word leaks that you had her hunted down..."

I barely heard them. My breath was trapped somewhere between my lungs and my ribs, shallow and sharp. The journal. My thoughts spun violently around that one awful realization. My journal. She had my journal. My stomach churned. I suddenly felt like throwing up.

Every fear, every raw edge I tried to smooth out in front of others, every secret longing I hadn’t dared to speak aloud, written in that notebook. My feelings about Richard. About Jenny. About Adam. About the life I wasn’t supposed to have. About being wolfless and powerless and wanting something I could never let myself reach for.

It felt like someone had reached inside my chest and yanked out my spine. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.

"Amelia," Emma said softly beside me. "Breathe. You need to breathe."

I turned to her, hating how fragile I must've looked. My throat was raw with words I couldn’t say. She has it. She has everything. My secrets, my shame, my hopes. All in her hands. And she stole them.

Emma's hand tightened on my shoulder. "She can’t use it. Not really."

"She doesn’t have to use it," I snapped before I could stop myself. My voice cracked, shame coating the edges. "She just has to show it. The secret about Richard is already out, but the journal has other top-secret information. Things about our campaign strategy, the elders, sensitive timelines. Just one photo, one quote, one out-of-context line could unravel everything we’ve fought to protect."

Emma didn't flinch. "She won’t. Not if she actually reads it."

I blinked at her, confused and frustrated. "What?"

"She can’t release it without damning herself too," Emma explained gently. "You talk about her. About what she did. Her manipulation. Her lies. If she publishes it, she makes herself look cruel, small, and vicious."

Nathan nodded. "Emma's right. Strategically, she’d only hurt herself. The optics would be catastrophic."

I shook my head, still reeling. "But it isn’t just about her. That journal has details about campaign strategy, private conversations, things we said about other council members, internal disagreements..."

Richard turned toward me, suddenly still. I kept going.

"It has thoughts I had about Elders, notes on the bond theories, even doubts about how we planned to handle the media if Adam went rogue. If the public sees any of that, if any part of that gets taken out of context, it could undo everything. It could dismantle your whole campaign."

Nathan looked grave now. "Then we need to treat it like a stolen classified document."

Emma glanced between us. "But even then, she can't show it without exposing that she stole it. And if people read what Amelia wrote about her, they won't rally to her side. It would hurt her more than anyone."

But logic did nothing to calm the twisting in my gut. I felt exposed. Violated. Like she had peeled away every layer I’d so carefully built. I wrapped my arms around myself, biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My vision blurred. I didn’t want to cry. Not here, not in front of them.

"Even if she can’t release it without consequence," I whispered, "she still read it. She knows everything."

Richard stopped pacing. He looked at me, eyes sharp and focused. "Then we stop letting her dictate what happens next. We control what we want, not what we fear."

There was something steadying in the way he said it. Grounding. Like he was anchoring me, pulling me back from a cliff I hadn’t realized I was standing on the edge of. I looked at him and saw not just the King, but the man who had stood at my side through storm after storm. The man I had wanted long before I understood what that wanting meant. He crossed the room slowly, his voice quieter now, steadier.

"You are not your secrets, Amelia. And you are not powerless."

That cracked something in me. A fissure, small but deep. I nodded, swallowing down the tears I didn't want to shed in front of everyone. But my shoulders trembled with the effort.

Nathan and Emma quietly excused themselves, giving us space without making a show of it. I barely registered the click of the door closing. Richard reached for my hand, tentative at first. I let him take it.

We didn’t talk for a long time. He sat beside me on the edge of the couch, our hands clasped together, breaths gradually syncing. The silence didn’t feel awkward. It felt necessary.

"I used to imagine you reading it," I said eventually. My voice was hoarse. "Not like this. But finding it one day. Knowing. I think part of me wanted you to. Someday."

He smiled faintly. The kind of smile that made me ache. It made something inside me unravel.

We didn’t make some big decision or map out a war plan. Instead, he led me back to his suite. Not like the other nights. Not in hiding, not in fear. Just the two of us. Nothing to prove, nothing to hide.

In the warmth of his room, with the door locked and the lights dimmed, I sat on his bed and took a slow breath. The weight of everything pressed on me, but his presence eased it just enough to keep breathing.

"Can I stay?" I asked.

He looked surprised, then nodded. "Of course."

I stripped down to the oversized shirt I kept in his drawer now and slid beneath the covers. He changed quickly, joining me a moment later, and lay on his side facing me. The space between us disappeared slowly, piece by piece.

"You still trust me?" he asked softly.

"More than I trust myself."

He kissed me then. Soft and reverent. No flashbulbs, no chaos. Just lips and breath and the warmth of skin. It felt like exhaling after holding it in for years.

It started as a kiss, then another. Hands tangling and fingers threading through hair. The weight of his body above mine. The sharp inhale when his palm found the curve of my hip. My thighs parting, breath hitching. His mouth trailing down my neck. The low hum in my chest that was maybe the sound of my wolf stirring.

We moved slowly. Like we had finally found something steady to lean into. Something worth holding. Something we were building, moment by moment.

He murmured my name like he just wanted to feel it on his lips. I pressed my forehead to his and whispered his right back.

And when we fell apart together, gasping in the dark, it wasn’t desperation. It was something else. Something softer. Something whole.

Afterward, we stayed tangled together. My cheek resting against his chest. His fingers tracing aimless circles on my shoulder. The sheets twisted around our legs.

I didn’t think about the journal, or the footage, or Jenny.

I just thought about the way his heart sounded under my ear.

Strong and steady.