Chapter 275: Ten Seconds – Amelia’s POV
I watched Aleksandr’s back disappear through the door and counted to ten. Not because I was trying to calm down. Because I was giving him exactly ten seconds to get far enough away that he wouldn’t hear me swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
“You promised,” he had said, his palm against my cheek and his attention fixed on me with the intensity of a man who treated compliance as both request and expectation. “Two more hours. That’s all I’m asking. Sylvia said bed rest until noon, and it’s ten in the morning, Amelia.”
“I promise,” I had said, and meant it for approximately the thirty seconds it took him to kiss my forehead and leave. Then the suite closed around me, silent and expectant.
Seven days. Five in medical, two in our suite. A full week of horizontal existence, of Aleksandr checking my abdomen every twenty minutes as if the pups might vanish between inspections, of Dominic examining door hinges before allowing Mira inside with a tray. I understood the concern. Someone had poisoned me and tried to take my children before they were born. The vigilance was warranted. But it had curdled into something dangerously close to containment, and my patience had expired at approximately 9:47 that morning.
The door opened without a knock. Mira slipped through with cheerful efficiency, a tray balanced on one hand and honey-blonde hair escaping its messy bun in at least six directions.
“You’re sitting up,” she said, setting the tray across my lap with a flourish that nearly sent the orange juice flying. “That’s progress. Sylvia will be thrilled. She’s been placing bets with the kitchen staff on how long you’d actually stay horizontal.”
“I’m a terrible patient.” I reached for the plain buttered toast. The kitchen had decided that a queen nearly killed by a chocolate pastry should eat only foods incapable of hiding poison, which meant two days of toast, broth and apple sliced thin enough to see through. “How are you?”
“Worried about you. Terrified of Dominic. The usual.” She perched on the edge of the bed, legs swinging, and watched me eat as though nutrition were a spectator sport. “You look better, though. Less... corpse-like.”
“Thank you. That’s exactly the compliment every pregnant woman wants to hear.” I took a bite of toast. It tasted like toast, which after a week of hospital food qualified as gourmet. “I feel more human. Less like something that’s been run over and left for dead.”
“That’s the spirit.” Mira’s smile was warm enough to make the obsidian suite feel less like a fortress and more like somewhere people lived. “Have you seen it yet? The livestream?”
I stopped chewing. The toast turned to paste in my mouth, and cold gathered beneath my ribs.
“What livestream?”
Mira’s smile vanished. Her expression cycled through alarm, calculation and renewed alarm before settling on horror.
“Oh fuck,” she said. “He didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what, Mira?”
“Kane and Blackthorn did a livestream two days ago, after you were discharged.” The words tumbled out while Mira straightened the tray and adjusted the napkin, desperate for any task that was not this conversation. “They condemned the poisoning. Called it heinous and a violation of tradition. Then they pivoted. Said your supposed wolflessness was still the real problem. Said the royal line couldn’t afford defective genetics. The poisoning was wrong, apparently, but your presence was the underlying issue.”
The cold vanished beneath a rush of heat. Fury travelled outwards until my fingertips tingled.
“Fucking hell.” One curse was nowhere near sufficient. “Fucking absolute hell. That sanctimonious, calculating, self-righteous piece of shit. Aleksandr sat on this bed for two days, held my hand, told me everything was fine, and somehow forgot to mention that the councillors calling me a genetic defect had gone on public record to say I shouldn’t exist?”
“To be fair,” Mira began, then immediately regretted it, “he may have been trying to protect you. You were recovering. Sylvia said stress wasn’t good for the pups...”
“Don’t.” I set the toast down. The plate clicked against the tray with more force than necessary. “Don’t defend this, Mira. He doesn’t get to decide what I can handle. Not this. Not ever.”
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. The cool floor met my bare feet, and my body protested with a chorus of small aches. Seven days horizontal had left my muscles uncertain about being vertical. None of it mattered. My husband had looked me in the face and chosen silence because he had decided I was too fragile for the truth.
“Your Majesty.” Mira’s sudden formality carried its own warning. “Sylvia’s orders were very clear. Bed rest until...”
“Sylvia isn’t the queen.” I crossed to the wardrobe and chose simple clothes: linen trousers, a loose jumper and boots I could manage without bending. My hands shook as I dressed. I called it anger because weakness was not an option. The curve of my abdomen pressed against the waistband, firm and warm, and I covered it briefly in reassurance.
Thirteen weeks and four days. Twenty-six to go. And somewhere in this building, two men who’d broken out of prison were telling an entire kingdom that my children shouldn’t exist.
“Where are you going?” Mira appeared at my elbow, hands hovering near my shoulders in case I fell. Her concern was genuine, which made it worse. Everyone in the castle had collectively decided I was made of glass.
“To have a conversation with my husband.” I shoved my feet into the boots and headed for the door. “About the definition of partnership. And the many, many ways he’s currently failing to meet it.”
The guards formed around me the moment I entered the corridor. Six of them, weapons visible, faces carefully blank. None seemed eager to stand between an angry queen and her king, regardless of what the security manual recommended.
Mira jogged beside me, hair coming completely loose as she struggled to match my pace. “Amelia, please. At least slow down. Sylvia will have my head if you collapse in a corridor because I mentioned a livestream you were going to discover anyway.”
“I’m not going to collapse.” The words came through clenched teeth, and my pace did not slow. The corridor stretched ahead, familiar and suddenly offensive in its stillness. Beyond it waited Aleksandr’s office, its floor-to-ceiling windows, massive oak desk and king who thought he could decide what his wife was allowed to know.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” Mira’s voice had gone small. Worried. The friend rather than the staff, and it nearly undid me, because Mira Bennett worrying about me was a weight I hadn’t prepared to carry on top of everything else.
“I’m fine.” I stopped and faced her. Whatever she saw made her retreat half a step. “I need to tell my husband he’s an arsehole. That’s all. You can go back to whatever you were doing. I have guards, two functioning legs and sufficient rage to remain conscious. I’ll be fine.”
She did not believe me. The scepticism was fair from someone who had watched me collapse once and had no interest in a repeat performance. Still, she nodded, accepting that this battle was not hers.
“Be careful,” she said. Then she hurried back down the corridor, probably heading straight for Dominic to report that the queen was mobile, furious and approaching the palace like weather.
I turned towards Aleksandr’s office. The guards adjusted around me, two ahead and four behind, while servants flattened themselves against the walls and pretended not to watch.
My palm settled over the pups through the jumper. Warmth and firmness met me, two lives continuing without concern for the kingdom-wide debate surrounding them.
“We’re going to have words,” I murmured, too low for the guards to hear. “Lots of them. And your father is not going to enjoy a single one.”
Kaela uncurled in our shared mind, one eye opening as she assessed my direction and mood. Approval rolled through the bond, dry and unmistakable.
That’s my girl. Show the bastard what happens when he handles you with kid gloves.
I kept moving. At the end of the obsidian corridor, Aleksandr Brecc was about to learn why keeping secrets from his pregnant wife was categorically fucking stupid.