Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen
Kenton

Eventually, the pack stops pretending Amaris is going to vanish if they squint hard enough.
They still watch her, because wolves watch what they fear, but the watching changes shape. It shifts from suspicion into calculation, from calculation into respect, and respect into something more dangerous if it turns into devotion. Devotion makes wolves stupid, and I can't afford stupid right now.
I also can't afford the way my wolf reacts every time she walks past me.
The pull has not eased. If anything, it's sharpened, like the longer she stays on Ravencrest land, the more my body insists she belongs here. My brain keeps rejecting that insistence because belonging isn't something you take, and she made her boundaries clear in the council room with teeth bared and eyes blazing.
I've repeated those boundaries to every warrior who looks at her too long.
No touching. No cornering. No stupid tests.
Boone repeats them too, and Boone’s repetition carries a quieter threat than mine does, because Boone has a way of making it clear he will break bones for pack stability without raising his voice.
Still, the greatest threat to those boundaries remains me.
Because I want to touch her. I want to step into her space and see what happens to the air when I do. I want to put my hands on her shoulders and feel the strength there, the tension, the refusal. I want to pull her close enough to breathe her in and understand why her scent sits under my skin like a brand. But I don't want to just stop there, I want to know what her lips taste like, what she feels like when she trembles for me, how she sounds when she's on the verge of climax, and so damn much more.
But wanting something isn't being given permission. So I force myself to do something harder than wanting, I speak to her like she's a person, instead of a problem.
I find her on the training yard at dusk one evening, sweat on her temples, hair pulled back, hands wrapped, posture lit with the kind of satisfaction that comes from earning bruises on purpose. Boone is nearby, talking to Dutch and Riggin. Ember is perched on the fence, mouth running, as usual.
Maxon stands at the far edge of the yard like he thinks distance equals control. It doesn't. I can smell him anyway, and I can smell the way his attention stays locked on Amaris like he thinks she might vanish again if he blinks.
I walk toward her slowly, making sure she sees me coming.
She turns before I reach her, eyes sharp, like she always expects conflict. That expression makes something in my chest tighten, not with anger, but with regret. No one should live that ready to fight. Yet she does, and she does it well.
“Kenton,” she says, voice flat.
“Amaris,” I answer, and I keep my tone calm. “I want to talk.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Talk about what?”
“About the fact that you keep training until your hands bleed,” I say. “And about the fact that you flinch when wolves whisper.”
“I do not flinch,” she snaps.
Ember laughs from the fence. “She doesn't flinch. She just radiates homicide.”
Amaris shoots Ember a look. “You love hearing yourself talk.”
“I do,” Ember agrees brightly. “It’s my favorite hobby.”
I ignore Ember because if I engage, this becomes a circus, and I'm not here for entertainment. “You don't have to prove yourself every day,” I say to Amaris, and her eyes narrow. 
“I'm not proving. I'm preparing.”
The same words she threw at me days ago land again, heavy. “Preparing for what?”
Her jaw tightens. “For the next thing that decides I am a target.”
My wolf surges, furious at the concept of her being hunted, even though she has already been hunted by us, which makes the surge feel like hypocrisy. I keep my face neutral anyway. “You're not a target on Ravencrest land,” I say.
Her laugh is sharp. “You can't guarantee that.”
“I can,” I say, and I hate how absolute it sounds. I soften it. “I can try. I can enforce order. I can stop my wolves from making mistakes.”
“And you,” she says, eyes bright with challenge.
The word stings because she's right to include me.
I take a slow breath. “And me,” I admit. “I can stop myself from making mistakes.”
Her expression shifts, surprise flickering beneath the anger. She studies me for a long beat, then turns slightly away, like she doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of seeing that admission land.
“You chased me,” she says.
“I did,” I answer.
“You cornered me.”
“I did.”
“You looked at me like you had a right.”
My jaw tightens. “I did,” I say again, because denial would be an insult to both of us.
The quiet between us stretches, filled with the distant thud of training in other rings, the rustle of leaves, the pack’s low murmurs. Maxon’s attention burns at the edge of my awareness like a threat.
Amaris finally speaks, voice lower. “Why?”
The single question holds more weight than any accusation, because it asks for truth, not defense.
I keep my eyes on her because if I look away, I'll feel like I'm lying. “Because something in me reacted to you before I had words for it,” I say. “And I've spent my whole life teaching myself that instinct isn't always right, but that day it hit so hard it felt like the earth moved.”
Her mouth tightens. “That sounds like your problem.”
“It is,” I agree. “And I'm not putting it on you.”
She watches me, wary, like she expects the sentence to twist at the end into a demand.
It doesn't.
I take another step forward, still careful not to crowd her. “You set boundaries,” I say. “And I'm telling you that I will respect them.”
Her eyes narrow. “Even if you don't like them.”
“Especially if I don't like them,” I say, because liking boundaries isn't the point.
Ember makes a sound from the fence. “Look at that, Kenton learned to bend.”
“Ember,” Boone warns, voice low.
Ember raises her hands like she is innocent. “I'm proud. It's disgusting.”
Amaris’s mouth twitches, almost a smile, then it disappears fast.
That flicker does something to me. My wolf presses forward, wanting more, wanting to see if I can pull another fraction of softness out of her without taking anything she doesn't offer.
I don't push.
Instead, I hold out my hand, palm open, not touching her, just offering. “If you want, we can spar,” I say. “Not to prove anything, or to try to impress you. But to learn how to fight someone your size.”
Her gaze drops to my hand, then returns to my eyes, sharp and suspicious. “My size? You're double my size," she huffs, then adds, "You want to put your hands on me.”
The bluntness makes my throat tighten. “I want many things,” I say, voice low. “I'm offering a choice.”
She stares at me for a long beat.
Then, unexpectedly, she steps closer, and her fingers brush my throat.
It‘s not a grab or violence, but it is a test.
Her fingertips press lightly against my skin, right where my pulse hammers. The contact sends a shock through me so sharp my knees nearly betray me. My wolf surges, and for a moment, I forget air exists.
Amaris watches my reaction like she's reading a truth written in my body.
“You feel it,” she says quietly.
I swallow. “Yes.”
Her fingers slide away. “Then don't confuse feeling with permission,” she says, voice turning sharp again. “I decide what happens to me.”
“I understand,” I manage.
She steps back, wraps her hands tighter, and turns toward the ring again, like the conversation's done on her terms.
It should feel like rejection.
Instead, it feels like a line drawn in the dirt that I'm grateful exists, because lines keep wolves from becoming monsters.
As she walks away, Boone steps up beside me, voice low. “Better,” he says.
I keep my gaze on Amaris. “I'm trying.”
Boone’s tone stays blunt. “Try harder. That male watches you like he's waiting for you to slip.”
I don't look at Maxon. I don't need to. I can feel him in the air, cold and controlled and ready to turn violent if he thinks she is threatened.
“I won't slip,” I say.
Boone huffs. “You are an Alpha. You don't get to be careless.”
I know.
That knowledge sits heavy as night falls, and the pull in my chest tightens again, not with entitlement, but with a fear I won't speak aloud.
Because if something else is coming for her, then my restraint might not be enough to keep her safe.