Chapter 31: Chapter Thirty

Amaris

By the time we’ve been here five weeks, Ravencrest stops feeling like a cage and starts feeling like a weapon I’m learning how to hold.

The pack still watches me. They probably always will. Wolves don’t stop watching what they don’t understand, and they don’t understand me.

Still, the watching changes.

Dutch stops staring like he expects me to snap and starts staring like he expects me to win. Riggin starts offering tips mid-spar instead of muttering under his breath. Winston still acts like he’s allergic to admitting respect, but he doesn’t challenge me anymore, and that might be the closest he gets to an apology.

Ember becomes a constant, loud presence in my space, like she decided I’m her personal project. She heckles me in the yard, steals bites of food off my plate, and threatens anyone who whispers too close.

Boone stays steady, training me like he’s training a soldier, not a myth.

Maxon stays close enough that the bond stays warm and grounded under my ribs, even when I want to scream at him for being too tense.

Kenton stays tense, too, but he’s changed. He looks at me like he’s trying to earn something instead of taking it. That doesn’t make the pull disappear, but it makes it less disgusting.

Most days, I can pretend we’re building toward something normal.

Then that something normal cracks.

It happens on a morning that should be ordinary: crisp air, the yard damp with dew, the smell of woodsmoke drifting from the lodge like breakfast. Boone runs drills, barking at warriors to stop slacking. Ember argues with him the whole time, just to keep him angry enough to stay sharp.

“You’re going to pop a vein,” Ember says.

“I’ll pop it on your forehead,” Boone shoots back.

Ember laughs like she loves him for it. “You’re obsessed with me.”

Boone’s expression doesn’t shift. “I’m obsessed with discipline. You are the opposite of discipline.”

“I’m the spice,” Ember argues.

“You’re the problem,” Boone corrects.

I snort, and it surprises everyone, including me.

Ember points at me like she caught me committing a crime. “She laughed,” Ember announces. “Write it down.”

Boone’s mouth twitches. “Do not encourage her,” he says.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the way the power under my skin hums faintly, not flaring, just present like a held breath. Maxon’s training has helped. When I focus, the light stays quiet. When I lose control, it becomes threatening.

I don’t like threats from my own body.

So I keep control.

Boone tosses me a practice blade. “Show me your footwork,” he says.

I do. I move fast, pivoting, letting the blade become an extension of my arm rather than something separate. Boone presses me harder, forcing me to defend, forcing me to choose, forcing me to think under pressure.

It feels good.

Then the sensation hits.

Not a pull like Kenton’s presence.

Not the bond with Maxon.

This is different.

It’s the feeling of being watched, and not by wolves.

I’ve learned what attention from wolves feels like. It’s heavy, layered, full of scent and intent. You can smell it as much as you can feel it.

This watching is silent and cold. As if the trees have eyes but no breath.

My blade hesitates for half a second.

Boone’s staff taps my wrist. “Dead,” he says.

I blink, irritated. “Again,” I snap.

Boone’s gaze narrows. “You drifted,” he says. “What?”

I keep my face neutral. “Nothing,” I lie automatically.

Boone doesn’t buy it. He never does. “You’re not dumb enough to lie to me when you’re holding a weapon,” he says.

Ember leans forward, suddenly serious beneath the humor. “You felt it too,” she says.

The words make my spine tighten. I glance at her. “You,” I say slowly. “Felt it?”

Ember’s grin fades. “I felt the air go wrong,” she admits. “Like someone stepped into the yard without carrying a scent.”

Boone’s eyes sharpen. Dutch and Riggin shift subtly, alert. Winston’s posture tightens, his gaze scanning the tree line.

Maxon appears at the edge of the yard like he was summoned. The bond under my ribs tightens, not calming this time, but warning, like he senses my spike.

He steps closer, eyes on my face. “Where?” he asks quietly.

I turn my head slightly, scanning the trees beyond the practice ring. The forest looks normal. Pine and shadow. Leaves shifting in the breeze.

Still, the wrong watching lingers.

I lift my chin toward a stand of trees beyond the outer fence line. “There,” I say.

Boone’s voice stays controlled. “We don’t panic,” he says. “We move inside.”

Ember’s eyes flash. “Or we lure it closer and kill it,” she suggests.

Boone shoots her a look. “Inside,” he repeats.

The pack listens to Boone’s tone, even when they don’t like it. Warriors start filing toward the lodge, moving faster than they pretend they are.

I don’t move, and Maxon’s hand brushes my wrist lightly. “Amaris,” he murmurs.

“I’m not running,” I snap.

Maxon’s eyes harden. “This isn’t running,” he says. “This is not giving it what it wants.”

I stare at him. “And what does it want?” I demand.

Maxon’s jaw tightens like he’s swallowing words he hates. “You,” he says finally.

The word lands heavily and cold.

Boone steps in front of me slightly, not blocking, but creating space. “Inside,” he says again, softer, more urgent. “We’ll set eyes on the tree line. We’ll keep you out of reach.”

My palm tingles, and I clench my fist before light can show. My anger surges because being watched makes my skin crawl, and being told to retreat makes it worse.

I hate feeling like prey.

I hate it enough that my wolf pushes forward under my skin, hungry to shift, hungry to show teeth.

Maxon’s voice cuts low. “Stay with me,” he says.

The bond tightens, and I feel him like an anchor.

I swallow the urge to fight the air itself and finally move toward the lodge, boots thudding on damp ground.

As we cross the yard, I glance back once.

The trees look normal.

Still, I swear I see movement that doesn’t match wind, a shift in shadow that feels like something ducking out of sight.

My stomach twists.

Because I’m not imagining it.

Someone is watching.

And the worst part is that the watching doesn’t feel like curiosity.

It feels like someone counting steps, measuring distance, waiting for the right moment to close a hand.