POV Blake
Playing house with a hot Alpha while committing high-level espionage is exactly as complicated as it sounds.
It's been two weeks since the wedding, and I've got my routine down to a science.
Morning: breakfast with the pack leaders where I channel Amelia's political brilliance.
Afternoon: tours of territory where I mentally catalog every weakness.
Evening: dinner with my husband where I pretend the strange pull to him isn't slowly driving me insane.
Night: sleep in my husband's strong arms, totally not thinking that I'm living a lie and he can strangle me with those huge palms of his.
Rinse, repeat, try not to lose my goddamn mind.
Today I'm meeting with the pack healers, learning about their medical stores and emergency protocols.
Sage Helen, Matthias's mom, watches me with eyes that see too much.
She nods at all the right moments, answers my questions, even smiles—but there’s a quiet calculation behind her gaze, like she’s measuring more than just my knowledge.
Like she’s peeling back layers I didn’t know I was wearing.
I wonder if she sees the cracks. I wonder if she knows Amelia isn’t the one standing in front of her.
When I get back to our room, I'm rattled enough to need the comfort of writing. I pull out Amelia's diary and burner phone from the hiding spot behind the heating vent. Three missed calls from Kai.
Fuck.
I dial back, already preparing excuses.
"You're late with your report," he says without preamble.
"I'm establishing trust. These things take time."
"Your parents want details. Patrol schedules, pack numbers, weaknesses."
"The patrol schedules rotate randomly," I lie. They don't, I've already memorized the pattern. "Pack numbers are hard to confirm. Maybe two hundred total? Still working on weaknesses."
"Work faster. The merger negotiations start next month. We need leverage."
Merger negotiations. Right.
Because this is all about territory and power, not the fact that I'm slowly forgetting where Blake ends and Amelia begins.
"I'll have more soon," I promise, and then hang up before he can pressure me further.
I sit on the bed with Amelia's diary, trying to process everything in her voice.
It's getting harder to separate us.
“Everyone here treats me with genuine respect,” I write, mimicking her narrative style. “Not the conditional approval I'm used to, but actual respect. They value my opinions. Include me in decisions. Act like I matter. Matthias is the same as before—strong, intelligent, strict but kind-hearted. He was so gentle during our wedding night, patient with my nervousness…”
I pause, chewing the pen.
How would Amelia describe the bone-melting sex? The way he makes me feel like I'm drowning and flying at the same time?
“I'm beginning to understand why I felt comfortable with our arrangement. There's safety here I never expected. Freedom I didn't know existed. Sometimes I forget I'm…”
"Writing?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. Matthias stands in the doorway, and fuck, how long has he been there?
I slam the diary shut and shove both it and the phone under my pillow in one fluid motion.
"Just processing," I say, proud when my voice doesn't shake. "Lots of new information."
He moves into the room like a predator, all controlled power and grace. "What kind of information?"
"Pack dynamics. Territory layout." I force myself to maintain eye contact. "My place in all of it."
"And what have you concluded about your place?"
The way he says it makes my skin prickle. There's weight behind the words, like he's really asking something else entirely.
"I'm still figuring it out."
He sits on the bed, close enough that I can feel his heat. "You've been different lately."
My heart stops. "Different how?"
"From before. From our meetings." His green eyes bore into mine. "You're not the same woman I know, Amelia. You're different in ways I can't explain. What changed?"
Fuck fuck fuck.
My carefully constructed composure is cracking like ice under the spring sun. Something inside pulls at me, demanding honesty, while every survival instinct screams to maintain the lie.
"Losing Blake changed me, I guess…" I barely manage. "Grief does that to people."
"Does it?" He reaches out, fingers ghosting along my jaw. "Does grief change what you're afraid of? What makes you laugh? The way you move when you think no one's watching?"
Each question is a scalpel, cutting closer to the truth.
He knows? Maybe he didn’t actually, but he mentioned something's wrong. Shit, I can’t allow even that. There should be no doubt in me. In Amelia.
I need to fix it. Right now.
Time for the nuclear option.
I’m leaning forward, looking straight in his eyes until I’m the only thing he can see. My fingers found his strong jaw and thumb painting light circles on his skin.
Matthias’ breath caught from the proximity and, before he could proceed with whatever questions there might be left, I captured his mouth in a desperate kiss. He responds instantly, hands tangling in my hair, but then he pulls back.
"Stop," he says quietly. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Use sex to avoid my questions." His thumb traces my bottom lip. "Who are you, really?"
The question hangs between us like a guillotine. My blood turns to ice, every cell screaming danger.
This is it. The moment everything falls apart.
But I've spent twenty years perfecting the art of the desperate save.
I meet his gaze with Amelia's most serious expression, the one she used during negotiations and debate classes. My voice comes out steady, calm, with just a hint of hurt and seduction.
"I'm your wife,” I said slowly. “And you're my husband."
Before he can respond to that, I kiss him again, pouring every ounce of need and desperation into it.
This time, I didn't let him pull back.
I climb into his lap, try to use every trick he might like, to make anything that can make him lose control.
"Please…" I whisper against his mouth. "I need you."
It's not entirely a lie. I do need him—need him to stop asking questions, need him to let me pretend a little longer, need him in ways that terrify me.
He groans, resistance crumbling. "This conversation isn't over."
"I know," I breathe, already pulling at his clothes. "But not tonight. Please, not tonight."
He gives in, rolling us over with controlled violence that makes me gasp. As he getting ready to fuck every coherent thought out of my head, I cling to him like a lifeline.
Even if the questions will return. Even if the truth will surface like bodies in spring.
Tonight I can pretend I'm just a woman already falling for her arranged husband.