Chapter 278 73 Steps – Amelia’s POV

Chapter 278 73 Steps – Amelia’s POV
I made it exactly seventy-three steps down the corridor before the anger curdled into something dangerously close to tears. That was fucking unacceptable, so I walked faster.
The guards matched my pace without complaint. Six of them moved in tight formation, weapons visible, with the coordinated restraint of people who had just watched their queen call their king an arsehole and wanted no part in the aftermath. Servants pressed against the walls as we passed. Whispers followed, because royal arguments became palace gossip approximately six seconds after they ended.
Fucking hell, Kaela snarled. Her massive black form stalked the edge of our shared mind, hackles raised and fury matching mine. That self-righteous, controlling bastard. I’d like to take a chunk out of his royal arse. And Skoll can stop looking confused. Keeping secrets from your mate is not complicated. Wolves. A hundred years old and still learning the basics.
“Not helping,” I muttered, too low for the guards to hear.
I’m not trying to help. I’m expressing the creative variety of rage circulating through us. There’s a difference.
The suite welcomed me with obsidian and quiet. Aleksandr lingered faintly on the pillows, cedar and leather, and his absence should have felt like victory. Instead, the room seemed built for two people and abruptly too large for one.
I headed straight for the bathroom. I did not pause on the bed to examine the argument, the hurt or the fact that my husband had chosen to treat me like a child instead of a partner. The lock clicked behind me. I turned both taps to full until the pipes groaned in the walls.
Steam rose. The massive tub, pool-sized and ridiculous, began to fill. I poured in half a bottle of something expensive and floral, and bubbles spread across the surface in white clouds that smelled like gardenias and poor financial decisions.
Clothes off. Boots, trousers, jumper. I stood naked before the mirror and did not look away. Twenty-one years old. Dark hair coming loose. The firm curve beneath my navel, thirteen weeks and four days along, twenty-six to go. Silver-knife scars crossed my back in pale lines, proof that my body had carried worse and survived.
I covered the curve with my palm. Warm. Firm. Two pups growing without the slightest awareness that their father had just fundamentally misunderstood what it meant to be married to their mother.
“I’m sorry,” I said to them. The words came out rough. “I’m trying. I really am. But your father is currently the most frustrating man, and I may need to shout at him again before this is resolved.”
I slipped into the water. Heat climbed my legs and eased across my abdomen until the change in temperature made me gasp. Bubbles gathered along my arms and collarbones, shifting with each breath. I sank deeper and let the water carry muscles weakened by seven days in bed and an argument I had not finished.
Better, Kaela grumbled. Her restless movement slowed until she sat at the edge of our shared awareness, watching steam blur the room. Baths are pointless. But warm. I’ll allow it.
“Generous of you.”
I’m nothing if not magnanimous. Especially when hot water is involved. Now. Back to the subject of your husband’s monumental stupidity.
I closed my eyes. The anger remained, white-hot and lodged behind my sternum, but the bath pushed the outside world to arm’s length. For several minutes, nothing reached me except warmth, foam and the distant hum of pipes.
The knock came eight minutes into the illusion. Three sharp raps, Dominic’s rhythm, followed by the careful neutrality of a man who had no desire to conduct this conversation through a bathroom door.
“Your Majesty. It’s Dominic. Just checking you’re... stable. Physically. Emotionally is above my pay grade, but Sylvia would appreciate confirmation that you haven’t collapsed in a tub.”
I almost laughed. The sound snagged on the way out and emerged as a wet snort that sent bubbles skittering across the water.
“I’m fine, Dominic. No collapsing. No drowning. Just... bathing. With aggressive floral products.”
A pause. I could practically hear him deciding whether this qualified as sufficient medical data. “Right. Well. I’ll be on the suite door if you need anything. Food. Water. Someone to shout at who isn’t the King. The usual.”
“Thank you.” The gratitude was genuine, which made the whole thing worse, because Dominic Frost offering to be shouted at was approximately the kindest thing anyone had done for me all day, and the bar for kindness should not be that low. “I appreciate it.”
“Of course, my Queen.”
His footsteps retreated. The suite door closed softly, and steam reclaimed the bathroom while Kaela stretched one paw in our shared mind. She understood that human emotions were complicated and baths were temporary.
I stayed until the water cooled, my fingertips wrinkled and the bubbles dissolved into a thin film. Then I pulled the plug, stood on unsteady legs and reached for a towel large enough to qualify as bedding in most reasonable households.
Drying off was mechanical. Arms, legs, hair wrapped in a second towel that immediately dripped across the obsidian floor. I wiped a clear patch in the fogged mirror and faced a woman with damp hair, exhausted eyes and no idea what came next.
The bedroom met me with the same silence. I ignored my clothes, pulled Aleksandr’s robe from the floor and climbed onto the bed. The sleeves swallowed my hands. Exhaustion claimed the rest of me.
The tears came without permission. One hot track, then another, until the pillow went damp and my breathing broke into uneven pulls. I had held the anger upright for as long as it could stand. Hurt took over when it fell.
I curled onto my side with one hand over my abdomen through the robe. The pups offered no opinion on marital arguments. Their continued warmth and weight were enough to remind me that whatever happened next, I was not making decisions for only myself.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. To them. To myself. To the empty half of the bed where Aleksandr should have been and wasn’t. “I’m trying. I really am.”
The shift took me without warning. One moment I was human and crying into silk. The next, transformation burned through bone and muscle until Kaela occupied the bed in my place.
She landed with enough weight to make the frame groan. Massive and black, Kaela absorbed the dim light rather than reflecting it. She was only slightly smaller than Skoll, the difference meaningless on a bed built for humans and currently occupied by a furious wolf.
Kaela curled around our abdomen with one paw resting over the pups, claws carefully retracted. Her head dropped to the pillow. A long breath left her nose, translating roughly to: the world is shit, but this bed is comfortable. Then she watched the empty doorway, resting without surrendering vigilance.
Outside, the city continued its morning. Several thousand werewolves chose sides based on the calculated lies of two men speaking from anonymous rooms. Inside, on a bed too large for one person and nearly right for one furious wolf, Kaela guarded the lives we carried and waited.