POV Matthias
Holding her is like holding lightning in a bottle—electric, dangerous, and absolutely fucking necessary.
She's trembling in my arms, sweat-damp from whatever nightmare just ripped through her subconscious, and my wolf is approximately two seconds from losing its shit.
The need to protect, to comfort, to claim is so intense it's taking every ounce of Alpha control not to pin her down and demand she tell me what's wrong.
"What did you dream about?" I ask instead, going for gentle when what I really want is answers.
"Can't remember." Her voice is small, muffled against my chest.
Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. But I let it slide because pushing her when she's vulnerable isn't how this works.
Even if my patience is wearing thinner than gas station coffee.
The walk from the garden to our bedroom feels both endless and too short. Every step, she burrows deeper into my hold, like she's trying to merge with my ribcage. My wolf purrs—actually purrs—at the contact. Pathetic bastard.
I lay her on our bed with the kind of care usually reserved for priceless artifacts, which isn't far off. She looks small against the dark sheets, fragile in a way that makes my chest tight.
"I'll get you something to eat," I offer, already calculating what might help her regain strength. "You need—"
Her fingers wrap around mine, desperate and demanding. The touch shoots straight to my spine.
"Stay."
One word. Completely devastating.
"I missed you," she whispers, and Goddess, there goes my last functioning brain cell.
How do I explain that I miss her even when she's right next to me?
That there's never enough of her—her scent, her voice, her presence? That my wolf spends every waking moment cataloging ways to keep her closer?
"I'm here," I say instead, settling beside her on the bed. "Not going anywhere."
She curls into me like it's the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is.
Maybe this is what mate bonds exactly feel like—this constant pull, this need that borders on obsession. My wolf whispers ‘mine, mine, mine’ like a broken prayer.
The thing is, I know she's keeping secrets. The frog incident was just the tip of the iceberg.
There are a dozen tiny inconsistencies, behavioral changes, moments where she forgets to be whatever she's pretending to be. My analytical brain keeps a running tally, filing away evidence for some future confrontation.
But then she sighs against my neck, content and trusting, and I think: fuck it.
The secrets can wait.
* * *
The next few weeks are an exercise in beautiful torture.
We fall into pack life like she was born to it.
Newborn blessings where young parents beam at us with stars in their eyes. "We hope our pup grows up to be like you, Alpha. Like our Luna." The pride in their voices when they say it makes my chest expand three sizes.
She lights up at these ceremonies, cradling tiny pups with a tenderness that makes my wolf start planning our own litter.
Which is insane. We've been married less than two months.
But watching her with those babies, seeing how naturally she takes to pack life… it's doing things to me.
"You're staring," she murmurs during one blessing, not looking up from the sleeping pup in her arms.
"Can't help it," I admit. "You're radiant."
She flushes, and I file that away too. Amelia never blushed at compliments. She expected them, absorbed them like her due.
This woman colors like she's not used to being seen as anything special.
Who the fuck hurt her?
The suspicion that Amelia might actually be Blake grows stronger every day.
The twin who supposedly died, who Amelia spoke of with such fierce protectiveness. It would explain literally everything.
The personality changes. The sudden mate bond with someone I felt nothing for before. The way she looks at pack life like it's a revelation instead of a political burden.
But if I'm right, if this is Blake, then her parents sent her here as what—a replacement?
The thought should enrage me. It does enrage me. But not at her, at them. At parents who would use their daughter this way, who would put her in danger for politics.
It makes me want to tear something apart.
Preferably Alpha Lucas Bishop's throat.
"Matthias?" She's looking at me with concern. "You're growling…"
Shit.
"Just thinking about border disputes," I lie smoothly, forcing the tension from my jaw as I reach for her hand.
It's a flimsy excuse, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she leans into me, offering comfort with a touch. And somehow, that simple gesture is enough to silence the wolf inside. For now.
The bright spot in all this is watching her with my mother.
My own mother has adopted her with the determination of a hurricane, and surprisingly, she doesn't resist. They spend hours in the healing gardens, and I catch glimpses of genuine smiles, real laughter.
"Your wife is special," Mom tells me one evening, apropos of nothing.
"I know."
"Do you?" She gives me that look that used to make me confess to stealing chocolate cookies. "Sometimes the best gifts come in unexpected packages."
Cryptic herb-healer in age talk, but I'm starting to think she knows more than she's letting on. The real question is whether she's protecting my mate's secrets or waiting for me to figure it out myself.
Eventually, I'll have to confront whatever she's hiding.
But not today.
Today, I’m just watching her organize lesson plans for the pack school, humming off-key while she works. Today, I let myself pretend this is simple.
Today, my wolf and I are in complete agreement: whoever she really is, she's ours.
The rest is just details.