CHAPTER 224: _ RUN FOR HER

Amias stares at the ring like it weighs thousands. He doesn’t touch it. He can’t. The metal looks harmless but it feels like destiny waiting to lock itself around his choices.

His mother smiles again as if joy alone will keep her alive. "You and Lira will carry a legacy that I could never finish. She will make a wonderful Luna. She is strong, kind, beautiful, and respected."

Those words were supposed to boost Amias’s pride, because what man wouldn’t be happy about marrying the pack’s most exemplary female?

However, they don’t. He imagines Heidi for a fraction of a second. He sees her messy butterscotch hair from that night in the woods, her stubborn chin, that sarcastic mouth of hers, freckles shaped like constellations, strength she doesn’t even know she has.

His heart aches.

For one small moment, something in him wants to say Mother, the girl I love is not Lira.

But Clarissa is smiling with hope. It’s an expression he barely remembers on her... and he swallows every truth like poison he’s required to drink.

He takes the ring.

Clarissa sighs with happy relief, leaning back against the pillows like she just won a war.

He tries to speak but the words are clumsy. "I will do what must be done."

"I know," she whispers.

He stands to get dressed, wearing a black shirt, tailored pants, and a neutral jacket, nothing extravagant. Today he must look emotionally stable and politically prepared. Clarissa watches him proudly the way mothers watch sons who grow into men they can’t fully protect anymore.

He ties his boots, straightens his collar, checks the ring in his pocket, and takes one deep, steadying breath.

That is when his bedroom door SLAMS open.

Grayson bursts in like a human fire alarm with no concept of knocking. He’s out of breath, eyes wide, hair messy like he sprinted through chaos. Amias’s first instinct is to glare like a strict professor. He hates it when anyone invades his space.

"What on earth is wrong with you? You can’t barge in like—"

"Heidi is in trouble."

The world stops.

"Arrested," Grayson chokes out. "She has been taken into pack custody."

All the air Amias inhaled escapes at once.

"What?" His voice is flat and carries no tone, no disbelief, just cold shock that freezes every muscle.

His heartbeat slams painfully against his chest. Vark roars inside him, already clawing for action.

Clarissa covers her mouth, startled at the sheer shock written on her son’s face. She looks back and forth between them, confused, unsure whether to ask questions or panic.

"What do you mean custody?" Amias demands, stepping closer.

"They think she hurt Sierra," Grayson heaves. "Badly. Like... life-threatening badly. They’re saying it wasn’t self-defense."

After that, Amias doesn’t wait for details. He is already moving like a soldier trained for war he didn’t want, but is fully prepared to win anyway. He grabs his jacket, ignores Clarissa calling his name, ignores the ring burning in his pocket, and ignores every plan he made for the day.

Duty?

Love?

Destiny?

He no longer knows the difference.

All he knows is that Heidi is in danger and he is not watching from the sidelines. Not today. Not when the world finally decides to aim its guns at her.

Vark growls with full authority. "We run."

That much, Amias knows he’ll do without permission. Without thinking... because for once, instinct finally chooses the same direction as his heart.

He doesn’t wait for more explanation, breath, clarity, or logic. His body reacts before his brain finishes processing. He pushes past Clarissa, storms out, and his feet slam against the hallway floor so hard the wood practically complains. Every cell inside him moves in the same direction... toward Heidi.

Grayson is right beside him, still panting, still frantic, eyes wide like adrenaline turned him into a feral toddler who just tasted chaos for the first time. They burst into the corridor, and Amias’ heartbeat syncs with the rhythm of his footsteps: fast, brutal.

His lungs feel too small. His wolf is pacing like he wants to rip through ribs and sprint alone.

By the time they hit the stairs, Grayson grabs the railing, practically using it like a slide because running feels too slow. Amias jumps two steps at a time and lands hard enough that his knees threaten to protest, but pain is not allowed today.

At the bottom floor, the front gates are already opening and Darien and Morgan can be spotted ahead, flying like unplanned missiles, both in sweatpants and shirts thrown on so fast it looks illegal. Their hair is wild, their eyes are murderous, and their posture screams: try us, we dare you.

Daphne and Isolde appear behind them, shouting in confusion, both looking like they were ripped out of their beauty sleep as they have on messy hair, robes half tied with panic written across their faces.

"What is going on?!" Isolde yells, voice crackling with fear.

"Boys!" Daphne screams, sprinting down the last steps in her fluffy slippers. "Why are you running?! What happened?! Someone talk!"

"Why are all four of you running?! Who is dying?!

None of them responds. The Bellamy heirs are not answering machines. They are sprinting, wolves losing control, breaths loud and sharp, and anger forming halos around them like heat waves.

The mothers yell after them. Daphne even tries to run a few steps, but they disappear onto the main path.

Morgan doesn’t even turn his head. Darien wipes his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s preparing for a war cry. Amias can hear his own heartbeat in his eyelids. Grayson is swearing under his breath nonstop like a prayer in reverse.

Finally, he and Grayson catch up, joining Darien and Morgan to complete the vision of four brothers, four storms, four men who look like they are racing toward war.

They don’t slow down as they push through their father’s massive front gates, past the security wolves trying to ask questions. They run down the main estate pathway, the early morning sun hitting their backs, wind slapping their faces.

Every step hurts Amias’ chest. It feels like glass when he inhales.

Arrested. Custody. Heidi.

The three worst ingredients for disaster.