Chapter 33: Chapter Thirty-Two

Maxon

The pack starts whispering louder again, and it makes my skin crawl.

Not because I’m afraid of gossip in the simple sense. I’ve lived among wolves long enough to know gossip is as inevitable as breathing.

I’m afraid of what gossip reaches.

Words spread and travel. They become signals to the wrong ears.

Amaris refuses to be hidden, and I respect it even while it terrifies me. She walks into the main hall like she owns her space. She eats without lowering her gaze. She trains in the yard with her jaw set, taking hits and giving them back. She laughs at Ember’s mouth when it surprises her, then looks irritated that laughter happened at all.

She’s alive in a way that makes the world want to test her.

The whispers follow her anyway.

“You really think she's the White Wolf?”

“Those things are legends, old stories.”

“They're not real.”

They keep it in disbelief language, because nobody is brave enough to declare anything as certainty, but disbelief doesn’t stop it from becoming a beacon.

I try to intercept where I can.

I catch Winston and two younger warriors talking near the back stairwell, and I stop in front of them without raising my voice.

Winston’s posture stiffens. “We didn’t say anything,” he starts.

I cut him off with a look. “You said enough,” I answer.

One of the younger wolves swallows. “We’re just… trying to understand,” he mutters.

“Understanding doesn’t require broadcasting,” I say.

Winston’s jaw tightens. “She can hear us anyway,” he snaps.

“That doesn’t make it harmless,” I reply.

Winston’s eyes flick toward the hall where Amaris’s scent lingers. “You’re acting like she’s fragile,” he says.

The comment hits wrong, and my temper flares hot. “I’m acting like predators exist,” I say, keeping my voice low.

Winston’s eyes narrow. “Predators like you,” he shoots back, and he means it as an insult, as if my closeness to her is automatically possession.

I step closer, just enough that Winston feels the threat. “Predators don’t ask,” I say, voice cold. “Predators take. If you want to compare me to that, you'd better be prepared to back it up.”

Winston’s mouth opens, then closes, because he isn’t suicidal.

Boone’s voice cuts in from behind me, calm and sharp. “That’s enough,” he says.

I step back, because Boone isn’t the problem here.

Boone’s gaze flicks to the younger wolves. “Get out,” he orders, and they scatter.

Winston stays, jaw tight, eyes flashing. Boone watches him a beat, then turns his gaze to me. “You’re tightening,” Boone says quietly.

“I’m watching mouths,” I answer.

Boone’s expression stays steady. “You’re tightening around her,” he corrects.

The words land because they’re true.

I exhale slowly. “They keep talking,” I say.

Boone nods. “And she hears,” he says. “And she hates it.”

“I know,” I answer.

Boone’s gaze sharpens. “So stop trying to shield her like she’s a child,” he says. “Shield the pack from making her angry enough to do something nobody can undo.”

My jaw tightens. “She won’t hurt them,” I say.

Boone’s voice stays blunt. “She won’t mean to,” he corrects.

That sentence sits heavy against my ribs as I walk away.

I find Amaris outside near the tree line, arms crossed, gaze scanning the woods like she’s trying to catch the watching in the act. The moment she senses me, she turns, eyes sharp.

“You’re tense,” she says.

“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.

Amaris’s mouth tightens. “Don’t,” she says. “I can feel you.”

The bond inside of me tightens like it agrees with her.

I take a slow breath. “They’re talking again,” I admit.

Amaris’s eyes flash. “Let them,” she says, fiercely.

“That’s easy to say,” I answer. “It’s not them I’m worried about.”

Her gaze narrows. “Then who?”

I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “The woods,” I say. “The seams. The things that don’t care about pack rules.”

Amaris’s chin lifts. “So you want me to hide,” she says, voice turning sharp.

“I want you alive,” I answer, and the honesty comes out harder than I intend.

Amaris steps closer into my space deliberately, challenging. “I’m not shrinking for anyone,” she says.

The sentence lands like a vow.

It also lands like a threat to my control, because she means it so completely.

I hold her gaze. “I’m not asking you to shrink,” I say. “I’m asking you to be strategic.”

She laughs once, humorless. “Strategic sounds like the polite version of controlled.”

“It isn’t,” I say. “Not when you decide the strategy.”

Her eyes narrow, and I can see the fight in her, the refusal. I can also see the exhaustion under it, the constant bracing that never ends.

I soften my voice without softening the truth. “Amaris,” I say. “If something comes through those seams, it won’t care that you don’t want to be a myth. It’ll care that you exist.”

Her palm tingles faintly, and she clenches her fist like she’s forcing the light down by spite alone.

She steps even closer, so close that I can feel her breath on my chest. “Then teach me how to kill it,” she says, voice low.

The statement shouldn’t make me want her, but it does, because her rage is pure, and my wolf responds to it like it’s fire calling to fire.

I keep my hands at my sides anyway. “I’m teaching you,” I say. “And Boone is teaching you. And Kenton’s warriors are teaching you.”

Amaris’s eyes flash at the mention of Kenton, but she doesn’t argue. Instead, she tilts her head. “And you,” she says. “What are you teaching yourself?”

The question is too sharp. It digs under my ribs.

I answer anyway. “I’m teaching myself not to turn fear into a cage,” I say.

Amaris’s expression shifts, just slightly, something like understanding flickering. “Good,” she says. “Because if you cage me, I’ll burn it down.”

I believe her. I also believe she won’t apologize for the ashes.

She turns back toward the woods, scanning again, and I step to her side, close enough that the bond steadies, not as a chain, but as an anchor.

The trees look normal.

Still, my wolf stays too still inside me, listening for something I can’t quite hear.

And in the quiet between her breaths, I can’t shake the sense that the world is narrowing toward Samhain like a blade sliding into place, and we’re all pretending routine will stop it.