Chapter 97

Amelia

When the orphanage director appeared on the morning broadcast, my hands froze halfway through my braid. The woman was in her sixties, with neatly pressed curls and a face lined with decades of care. Stern but kind, always consistent in her expectations and love, and grounded in a moral certainty that came from years of raising children without promises from the world.

“I’ve known Richard since he was barely older than the children we raise. He’s donated every year, quietly. He helped us expand to three locations. He’s a good man. A protective man. And Amelia is not the first young woman he’s lifted up with opportunity. She is simply the first he’s ever let himself love.”

The segment played on loop for hours. It broke the rhythm of the day, unspooled something tight inside me, unraveled a tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding in my chest. Videos from the western territories began flooding the Pack’s digital channels. Footage, blurry and wind-scraped, showed warriors standing in rows with fists raised, their voices echoing off stone walls and open hills, pledging loyalty not just to Richard, but to us. They said his name. They said mine too.

They called him Alpha King.

The shift was slow but palpable, like watching frost melt from glass. Some elders, ones who had avoided comment or hedged behind political neutrality, began to publicly soften their stances. A few even went on record, carefully worded statements delivered with just enough conviction to suggest they were preparing for whichever way the wind blew. One declared, “Richard has always governed with strength and vision. Personal choices don’t erase decades of leadership.” Another added, “The mating bond is a sacred thing, and sacred things do not obey campaign cycles.”

But as always, just when it felt like we could breathe, the other shoe dropped.

Jason spoke.

He appeared at a midday press event in the city’s marble-and-gold civic hall, wearing a navy suit and a smile sharp enough to cut glass. When a reporter asked about me, he didn’t hesitate. Not even a pause to temper the effect of what he was about to say.

“Amelia is radiant,” he said. “She’s endured challenges most people can’t imagine, and she carries it all with extraordinary grace. It takes a special kind of woman to rise the way she has. And I think we all owe Richard a thank you for recognizing that potential in her.”

It was delivered sweetly. Polished. Perfectly phrased to sound like a compliment while implying something else entirely. Richard and I watched it on the couch later that evening, the screen washing the room in flickering blue light. My stomach knotted with every second of that smug, measured performance, each word dripping with the kind of backhanded validation that suggested I was a product of someone else’s merit.

“I was his project,” I muttered. “That’s what he wants them to think.”

Richard didn’t look away from the screen. “He wants them to doubt you. He wants them to believe you were chosen out of convenience. That your rise isn’t yours, just a benefit of proximity to power.”

The campaign dinner that night felt like walking into an arena, not a room meant for alliances and diplomacy.

We dressed in silence, the air between us heavy but shared, filled with quiet understanding. My gown shimmered like moonlight, pale blue with silver threading along the hem, the neckline modest but elegant. Richard wore gray, not black, a deliberate choice. Less aggressive. More human. He helped me zip the dress with steady hands and kissed the top of my head before we left, his touch soft but grounding.

At the venue, everything sparkled with curated elegance. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across polished oak floors, and the dining tables were set with gold-edged china and deep red centerpieces. But beneath the glamour, the tension vibrated like a wire pulled too tight.

“So,” one woman asked, pausing with her wineglass halfway to her lips, “when exactly did the relationship begin?”

Richard tensed, but I stepped forward.

“We’re not hiding anything,” I said, my voice clear and level, practiced but sincere. “But the mating bond doesn’t operate on a schedule. It happened when it happened. And we’re not rewriting the truth to appease political narratives.”

She blinked slowly, then nodded. “Bold,” she said, and sipped her wine.

Across the table, Richard gave me a look that said everything. Gratitude. Pride. Love. It was only a glance, but it was a tether. It reminded me that I wasn’t alone in this.

The gala came later, all velvet gowns and orchestras, the music swelling as we stepped into the ballroom. I’d changed into another gown, deeper blue, heavier fabric, off the shoulder. It hugged my figure and made me feel untouchable, like armor spun from satin.

Cameras flashed as we entered, the room’s collective energy shifting to follow us like a tide turning.

And then Richard kissed me.

There was no subtlety. He took my face in his hands and kissed me like we were the only people in the room. No apology. No hesitation. It wasn’t staged or practiced. It was possession.

We broke apart only when the crowd stirred, the moment loud and bright and too full to hold.

“Too much?” I asked, voice quiet and breathless.

He smiled, eyes dark with something dangerous. “Come with me.”

We slipped through a side door, past catering staff and servers balancing trays. He guided me into the kitchen, then to the walk-in fridge at the back. The stainless steel door clicked shut behind us, sealing us into a space that felt colder and quieter than anything outside.

The air hit me first. Crisp. Cutting. I shivered through the velvet, my skin erupting in goosebumps as the chill sank in. It made everything feel more real. More alive.

Metal shelves surrounded us, stacked with fruit crates, dessert trays, and endless bottles of champagne. The hum of the compressor filled the silence, a steady background rhythm to the sharp anticipation rising between us.

Richard stepped in close. His palms ran up my arms, trying to warm me, his breath steady as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the side of my neck. Everything about the moment felt suspended, like we had stepped into a separate world held in frost and fire.

He lifted my dress inch by inch, hands reverent but unrelenting. My thighs trembled as the air kissed bare skin, the exposure making every nerve hyperaware. Every inch he revealed heightened my awareness, the cold only magnifying the heat curling in my core.

When he dropped to his knees, the metal floor echoed beneath him. He kissed up the inside of my leg, slow and deliberate, until I had to steady myself with both hands gripping the nearby shelf. His tongue traced a path up my inner thigh, warm against the shocking chill, a contrast that made my whole body flinch with want.

“I want you like this,” he said, voice rough against my skin. “Trembling. Overwhelmed.”

He took his time, worshipped me with slow circles, each pass making my legs weaker, my breath shorter. The contrast was unbearable in the best way. The chill on my thighs, the heat of his tongue, the way the air felt like static brushing over soaked skin.

When I came, my whole body jerked. I couldn’t help the cry that slipped out, my hips twitching forward, my hand muffling my mouth. He stood quickly, his mouth still slick with me, and kissed me like he had waited hours for it, fingers already fumbling at his belt.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, clinging to him, and let him lift me. My legs locked around his waist. The cold shelf bit into my back as he pushed inside me in one long, hard thrust.

I gasped at the stretch, the delicious pressure, the fullness. He started slow, deliberate, but it didn’t stay that way. He moved faster, rougher, his hands gripping my thighs to keep me steady while his hips slammed into mine with rhythmic intensity.

“You feel, God Amelia, you feel incredible,” he said, voice hoarse and breathless.

Every movement sent my body arching, the shelf behind me creaking under the weight of it all. The cold metal shocked my skin, but all I could focus on was the burn between us, the friction, the sharp slam of bodies meeting with nothing held back.

I buried my face in his shoulder. He groaned when I clenched around him, the pleasure rolling over me in waves that kept cresting higher.

“Don’t stop,” I whispered, the words breaking apart as I felt it build again. “Please. Don’t stop.”

He kissed me again, lips hard and hungry, and thrust harder. When I came the second time, it was a lightning bolt that ripped through me, hot and devastating. My voice caught in my throat, echoing in the cold space. He followed soon after, groaning as he stilled, his breath catching against my neck, every muscle pulled tight.

We stayed there, tangled in heat and breath, surrounded by the scent of citrus and frost. Our bodies pressed together, trembling from both cold and aftershock.

Eventually, he kissed my temple. Then my jaw. Then the corner of my mouth, softer now.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we take our time.”

“Next time,” I whispered, “we don’t hook up in a walk-in refrigerator”

He chuckled, his voice low and warm. “Let's go get you a drink.”