CHAPTER 230: _ THE PACK’S ATTENTION

Heidi gives a weary blink. Like her brain is taking extra seconds to translate that word.

Home.

As if she’s ever had one since she set foot in this pack.

Amias watches her try to stand and sway like her bones are confused about gravity. Grayson is up in an instant, catching her waist, steadying her gently. Too gently. So gently that it makes a chord in Amias’s gut.

"We should carry her," Grayson says quietly.

"No," Heidi whispers, shaking her head. "I can walk."

She takes one step out of the cell. Her knees buckle, showing she’s emotionally, not physically, drained. Grayson sweeps her up anyway.

She squeaks, letting out a tiny, startled sound, and grabs at his shirt like he might drop her into a void. Grayson laughs softly, but his eyes shine like they’ve been holding tears hostage for an hour straight.

"She’s light," he mutters. "Too light."

Amias shakes off the feeling crawling down his spine. He steps aside as Grayson carries her out, head tucked under his chin, her legs dangling.

Morgan holds the door open wider with the flat of his palm and leans in. "Let’s move. Before Mrs. Castell breaks through the wall like the Kool-Aid man."

Darien groans. "Honestly? She’s halfway there. I think I can already picture her yelling at a window once she finds out Heidi’s bailed."

The officer snorts, trying to hide it behind his hand.

Amias almost smiles, but instead steps behind Grayson, shadowing them instinctively, checking corners, eyeing every officer, every camera, every pair of eyes that lingers too long on her. Vark prowls in his chest, growling.

"She’s ours to protect," the wolf hisses. "Not his. Not theirs. Ours."

Amias digs his nails into his palm until the sting shuts him up.

He walks beside them through the station’s hall, the tired hum of fluorescent lights dripping over them. The air carries old coffee and printer ink and administrative desperation. Officers glance up as they pass, some curious, some whispering, some just bored.

But one thing is clear: Everyone knows who she is now.

Heidi curls closer into Grayson, shuddering from the attention overload. Her fingers clutch his shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring her. Amias sees the way her eyes dart, sees the panic she tries to suppress. She’s a small storm trying to fit into a teacup.

He hates that she looks this scared. He hates that he can’t let himself go to her. He hates that he wants to.

.

.

The station doors blast open with a shove from Darien’s shoulder, and warm afternoon air spills over them. Sunlight pours down the steps, hot and bold, making it seem almost rude after the sterile cold inside. Everything outside is louder, brighter, and too alive for what they’ve just crawled out of.

Grayson still carries Heidi like she’s fragile glass. Her fingers hook weakly into his shirt. Her eyes squint at the sunlight, lashes shaking. She looks... breakable. Hollowed out. Like she’s running on fumes and stubbornness.

Morgan stretches like he’s stepping onto a stage. "Finally," he yawns. "Freedom. Fresh air. Zero lawyers."

"They weren’t lawyers," Darien corrects, rolling his eyes. "They were enforcers."

"Same vibe," Morgan replies with a nonchalant shrug.

The four brothers gather on the concrete landing, the station’s glass doors shutting behind them with a quiet hiss. People mill around the street. Say, office workers, students, two teenage girls sharing fries, an old man feeding pigeons, but no one notices them at first.

Then Morgan takes a step forward... and everything goes to hell. Darien freezes for a beat, staring down the street, then slaps a hand to his forehead.

"We ran here," he mutters. "I just remembered — none of us brought a car."

Right, Amias thinks to himself.

Morgan chuckles. "That’s hilarious. Do you want me to sprint home and get one? Because I can."

"You’d get distracted by street food," Darien fires back.

"I make one detour..."

"One? Try ten."

Argh, seriously?!

Amias lifts a hand sharply. "Can we focus? We need to leave. Now."

He isn’t even trying to hide his irritation. The attention prickling his skin already has him on edge. People are starting to notice the four massive Alpha heirs clustered around one exhausted girl being held like a bridal rescue gone wrong. The energy changes around them. Conversations pause. Heads turn. Phones lift discreetly to film the scene.

Heidi shrinks into Grayson, her breath hitching. She isn’t crying though. She just looks overwhelmed, overstimulated, like the volume of the world is too high for her right now.

Ugh. Amias knows he has to do something to make her a little more comfortable, so he steps closer, angling his body to shield her as much as possible. Vark paces in his chest, claws dragging.

"Everyone is staring," Vark snarls.

"They can stare," Amias mutters internally. "I don’t care."

"That’s right. You should care about one thing only. Her."

"She’s one thing I shouldn’t care about."

Vark burst into mocking laughter, making Amias sigh in frustration. To him, no one bullies him more than his wolf.

Just then, Morgan turns around. Which is the beginning of the actual disaster.

A coil tightens inside Amias as he watches Morgan step forward like he’s headlining a parade. The crowd hasn’t even fully noticed them yet, but Amias can already feel the shift coming. He can sense the slow bloom of curiosity, the itch of attention crawling along the back of his neck. It’s the same sensation he used to get before a fight broke out at training: a strange mixture of anticipation and dread.

His jaw grounds. Vark edges closer to the surface, teeth baring.

"This is why we should have stayed inside," Amias thinks. "One moment of peace. One second to breathe. Was that too much to ask?"

Apparently, yes.

Morgan throws his shoulders back, soaking in the stares like a spotlight’s warming him. Amias feels himself sinking further into irritation, which is safer than acknowledging the real problem: Heidi’s trembling fingers clutching Grayson’s shirt.

He steals a glance at her. That’s all it takes.

A single flick of his eyes, and his entire chest tightens. Her lashes flutter from the sunlight, her face tilted into Grayson’s shoulder like she’s afraid the world might swallow her whole. She looks small, fragile, and hurting.

Vark shoves hard. "Go to her."

Amias clenches his fists. "I can’t."

"Won’t," Vark corrects.

Same difference, right?