Accidentally Mated To Four Alphas-Chapter 281: _ Wounded Pup

~Amias’s Point Of View~

Amias hates the court.

He hates the smell of old stone and dust masquerading as authority. He hates the way elders pretend to be impartial while already knowing their verdicts. He hates the echo—how every word spoken inside that chamber feels louder than it should, like the walls themselves are listening just to judge you later.

But most of all, he hates the silence afterward.

The kind that rings in his ears once the shouting stops. Once Darien’s voice goes hoarse with rage. Once Heidi’s fate is decided by people who have never bled for her, loved her, or watched her smile like the sun has personally chosen her as a favorite.

Amias stands at the edge of the room when it ends. He always does. He is practiced at being peripheral—important enough to be noticed, disposable enough to be ignored.

His brothers are a wall in front of Heidi. Darien looks like he might kill someone with his bare hands. Morgan is vibrating with barely restrained violence. Grayson is calm in that terrifying way that means he’s already planned where to bury bodies.

And Amias... Amias wants to go with them after all of this.

The realization hits him with startling clarity without clarity and hesitation. He wants to leave.

He wants to walk out of the pack, out of the rules, out of the suffocating expectations that have wrapped around his throat since the day he was born second-best. He wants to take Heidi’s hand, to tell Lira the truth, to tell the Alpha to go to hell, to be brave for once in his miserable, obedient life.

For the first time, choosing Heidi doesn’t feel reckless. It feels right.

So when the court ends in chaos and everyone scatters, Amias doesn’t follow the others to the bungalow. He turns instead toward the inner halls of the mansion, heart pounding with resolve.

He is going to see his mother. He is going to tell her he’s sorry. And then he is going to tell her he won’t be marrying Lira. He will be choosing his own happiness and will hope her soul finds happiness in knowing he is.

.

Clarissa’s wing is quiet. Too quiet even.

Amias slows as he approaches, the hairs on his arms lifting. He smells it before he sees it – something sweet and wrong beneath the usual herbs and incense. As though the maids are trying to cover the scent of decay with an air freshener.

He wrinkles his nose. "What’s going on here?" Amias wonders.

A handmaid steps into the hall, wringing her hands. "My lord," she says softly.

The way she avoids his eyes tells him everything.

His stomach drops. "What happened?"

"She worsened," the woman whispers. "Just... just now."

No. Amias pushes past her without waiting for permission. The door creaks open and gods...

Clarissa lies on the bed, but she barely looks like herself anymore. Her once smooth and warm skin has begun to break down, sloughing in places like wax left too close to flame. Her fingers tremble weakly atop the sheets, flesh raw and glistening beneath.

Amias stumbles forward. "No," he breathes. "No, no, no—"

He drops to his knees beside the bed, hands hovering uselessly, terrified to touch her. His chest caves in, breath shuddering out of him in broken gasps.

"This isn’t—this wasn’t supposed to—" His voice cracks. "You were a little stable just this morning. They said..."

He reaches for her hand. The moment his fingers brush her skin, it slides.

He screams.

The sound tears out of him, raw and animal, echoing off the walls as he recoils violently. He presses his palms into his eyes like he can erase the sight, like this is some elaborate nightmare he can wake up from if he tries hard enough.

"She’s rotting," he sobs. "She’s rotting..."

He whirls on the handmaid. "Where is the healer?!"

"He—he left for the evening, my lord," she stammers. "He said he would return at dawn."

Amias laughs.

It’s hysterical and broken and wrong. "At dawn," he repeats faintly. "She doesn’t look like she has until dawn."

He collapses forward, pressing his forehead to the edge of the bed, his shoulders shaking violently. He cries like a child, ugly and loud, like every restraint he’s ever learned has shattered all at once.

The sound wakes her."Amias," Clarissa murmurs.

He looks up instantly. Her eyes find him, still clear somehow.

"Don’t cry," she says weakly.

She lifts her hand. He grabs it without thinking—and watches in horror as skin peels beneath his fingers. He chokes back a sob.

"I’m sorry," she whispers. "It’s messy."

"Stop," he pleads. "Please stop talking. Save your strength."

She smiles faintly. "You’ve always been sweet."

Her thumb brushes his cheek. It leaves something behind. He doesn’t wipe it away.

"I can feel it," she continues. "I don’t have long."

His throat closes completely.

"I need you to do something for me," she begins.

Anything. He will do anything.

"Marry Lira," Clarissa whispers. "Tomorrow."

The words hit harder than any blow. He was just here to tell her he’s changed his mind. That marrying Lira will no longer be possible.

"No," Amias breathes instinctively. "Mother..."

"I want to attend your wedding," she says gently. "I want to see you settled before I go."

He wants to scream.

He wants to tell her everything—that Heidi is the one he wants. That choosing her feels like oxygen after a lifetime of drowning, that marrying Lira will kill something inside him that may never come back.

But he looks at his mother. At her melting skin. Her failing body. And the guilt crushes him. This—this curse—this rot—it came after him. After the prophecy. After the chaos. After his existence became another complication in the pack’s endless political nightmare.

If he can give her one thing, it will make him feel less guilty because somehow, he was part of those who contributed to her neglect and led her to her current mishap.

"Okay," he whispers.

The word tastes like ash as he tries to finish it: "I’ll marry her."

Clarissa exhales, relief softening her features. "Thank you, my boy. Thanks for giving your mother this."

He closes his eyes. And with that, he buries himself alive.

*****

The next day passes in a blur. He doesn’t see Heidi until he’s summoned outside by a maid, breathless and pale.

"Luna Rayne requests your presence," she informs.

Amias steps into the courtyard and sees them. Heidi and his brothers amidst Daphne, Isolde, and the NAY boys. They seemed packed and ready to leave.

Heidi, his mate. The pain hits so fast he nearly doubles over. He forces himself to stand still. To breathe and be strong. He watches her cry. Watches his brothers say goodbye. Watches the future he could have had he had walked toward the border without him.

He kisses Heidi. Then he turns away. He does not look back. Because if he does, he will damn his mother and follow, but that’ll become a burden he’ll carry with him forever. He needs to be there for his mother while she breathes her last.

Inside the mansion, Amias collapses against the wall and slides down until he’s curled in on himself, fists pressed to his mouth to muffle the sobs ripping through him.

That’s when his father finds him. He doesn’t hear the man at first.

He’s curled in on himself in the corner of the corridor like something discarded, knees pulled tight to his chest, forehead pressed into his arms. His breathing comes in uneven jerks, his body betraying him over and over again as grief tears through what little control he has left.

Then a shadow falls over him. "Get up."

The voice is calm and not loud or angry.

That’s worse.

Amias lifts his head slowly. His eyes are swollen, red-rimmed, and unfocused. For a split second—just a stupid, traitorous second, he hopes. Hopes his father might have come because someone told him. Hopes he might ask about Clarissa. Hopes he might kneel, or soften, or see him.

The Alpha doesn’t move closer.

He looks down at Amias the way one might look at a cracked blade, assessing whether it’s still useful.

"So," the Alpha says quietly, "this is how you carry yourself when your house is collapsing."

Amias swallows hard. "My mother is dying."

"Yes," the Alpha replies. "And?"

The nonchalance makes his jaw drop. Amias blinks. "And... and I..."

"You cry?" the Alpha finishes for him, voice sharp now. "You collapse in hallways where servants can see you? You disgrace yourself at the exact moment the pack needs stability?"

Amias pushes himself upright, shaking. "I just needed a moment."

"No," his father says. "You needed discipline."

The Alpha finally steps closer. Close enough now that Amias can smell his familiar scent—steel, leather, dominance. The smell of a man who has never once bent for anyone.

"Clarissa knew what it meant to be an Alpha’s mate," the Alpha continues. "She understood sacrifice. Pain. Silence. And yet here you are, howling like a wounded pup."

’Howling like a wounded pup’? Amias’s throat runs dry. His father... he can’t believe his cruelty.