Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five
Amaris

After the bond, everything feels too close.
Not Maxon. Maxon feels like heat I can lean into, steady and real.
It’s everything else.
The sounds in the lodge feel sharper. The scent of wolves feels thicker. The air feels like it presses against my skin and asks questions I don’t know how to answer.
I wake on day thirty with Maxon’s arm around me and the strangest sense of comfort I’ve ever felt, not soft comfort, not safe comfort, but anchored comfort. Like I could walk into a storm and still know where north is.
Then I sit up, and the world answers back.
I feel him.
Not in the obvious way, not just the memory of his hands and mouth and the way my body still aches pleasantly, but a thread under my skin that tugs when he breathes, that steadies when he shifts.
It's intimate in a way that makes my throat tighten.
Maxon wakes a minute later, eyes dark, focused immediately. “You all right,” he asks.
I exhale. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I feel like you’re in my ribs.”
Maxon’s mouth tightens. “That’s not wrong.”
I glare at him. “That’s not comforting.”
“I’m not trying to comfort,” he says. “I’m trying to tell you the truth.”
I drag a hand over my face and stand, pulling my clothes on with quick movements like getting dressed can make me feel normal. Normal is a joke, but my body likes routines, so I give it one.
Maxon watches me without speaking, and I can feel his attention on me like a steady weight, not heavy, not controlling, just present.
That presence helps.
It also makes me feel exposed.
By the time we leave the room, the pack can smell the change.
I hate that about wolves.
They smell everything. They notice everything. They catalog it and whisper about it and decide what it means without asking you.
The hallway goes quieter when we step out. A couple of warriors glance up, eyes narrowing, scenting. Ember is leaning against the railing, and her grin goes sharp.
“Oh,” she says, voice loud enough to be obnoxious. “You two smell like bad decisions and satisfaction.”
I freeze, heat rising in my face. “Ember.”
Maxon’s posture stays steady, but his eyes turn colder. “Stop,” he says.
Ember holds up her hands. “I’m celebrating. This place needed something fun. Everybody’s been acting like the sky’s about to fall.”
Boone appears behind her, expression unimpressed. “Sky might fall,” he says.
Ember shrugs. “Then at least they got laid first.”
I am going to throw her off a balcony.
Maxon’s hand brushes mine, subtle, grounding.
Boone’s gaze flicks to me, then to Maxon, then back. “How do you feel,” he asks, practical and calm, because Boone doesn’t waste time.
I swallow. “Different,” I say.
Boone nods like he expected that. “Different how?”
I hesitate, because explaining this feels impossible.
Then my palm tingles.
Not numb. Not asleep. Tingling like pressure builds under the skin, like something is pushing outward.
I look down.
A faint light pulses in the center of my hand.
It isn’t bright, not yet, but it's unmistakable, pale and cold like the sky just before lightning.
My breath catches.
Maxon’s gaze snaps to my hand instantly. His whole body goes rigid.
Boone swears under his breath, low and controlled.
Ember goes quiet for the first time in days. “Okay,” she says slowly. “That’s new.”
The light flares once, sharper, then dims like it’s teasing me.
I curl my fingers into a fist and glare at my own skin like it betrayed me.
Maxon steps closer, voice low. “Don't fight it,” he says.
“I am not letting something live in my body without my permission,” I snap.
Maxon’s eyes stay locked on mine. “It’s already there,” he says. “Fighting it will make it spike.”
Boone’s tone stays steady. “We take this somewhere private,” he says. “We don't give the pack a show.”
Ember nods once, unusually serious. “Agreed.”
We move fast, back into the small room, and Boone shuts the door behind us. The quiet hits, and my hand tingles again like it heard the word private and decided it liked it.
Maxon crouches in front of me, careful, eyes on my palm. “Open your hand,” he says.
I glare. “No.”
Maxon’s voice stays calm. “Amaris.”
The way he says my name makes it harder to resist, because it carries steadiness, not authority.
I swallow and open my hand.
The light pulses again, a little brighter, like a heartbeat.
I stare at it, jaw tight. “What is that?”
Maxon’s throat bobs. “Power,” he says.
“That’s not an answer,” I snap.
“It’s the truth,” he replies. “And it woke when we completed what we completed.”
My stomach twists. “So I’m a walking bomb now.”
Maxon’s eyes flick up to mine. “No,” he says firmly. “You’re a weapon that belongs to you. That's the difference.”
The words land, and I hate that they work.
Boone’s expression stays tight. “Can you stop it,” he asks.
I try, because the idea of glowing hands makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I close my fingers slowly and breathe, forcing my mind into a narrow tunnel. \[Stop. Stop. Stop.\]
The light flickers, hesitates, then dims, like it’s listening.
My chest tightens with sudden relief.
Then the fear hits.
Because if it listens, that means it’s alive in some way, and that means I’m not just dealing with grief and wolves and pack politics.
I’m dealing with something in my blood that answers.
Maxon stands and cups my face, forcing my gaze up. “Look at me,” he says.
I meet his eyes.
“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “You feel me, remember.”
The bond thread under my ribs tightens slightly, like it agrees.
I swallow. “That’s what scares me,” I admit, voice low. “I don’t like needing anyone.”
Maxon’s gaze softens. “Needing isn't weakness,” he says. “It’s reality.”
I huff a broken laugh. “Reality keeps being a nightmare.”
Boone clears his throat. “We keep this contained,” he says. “We work on control. Quietly.”
Maxon nods. “Yes.”
I stare at my hand again, palm still tingling faintly, and my throat tightens.
Because the afterglow from yesterday is gone.
In its place is a new kind of fear.
Not fear of being hunted.
Fear of becoming something I can’t steer.
On day thirty-one, the light returns twice more, both times when my emotions spike, once when I hear a warrior whisper about lore, and once when I think of Axel’s face and the grief tries to swallow me again.
Each time, it answers like my body is translating feeling into force.
Maxon stays close, not smothering, just present, and the thread under my ribs steadies me.
I hate that it helps.
I also cling to it, because clinging is better than drowning.