ISLA'S POV
Kaia hits the ground hard, and for a moment, silence fills the cave.
The masked stranger doesn't celebrate his victory. He doesn't gloat or mock. He simply steps over my friend like she's an obstacle beneath his notice, and then he kneels beside me.
Kaia is scrambling backward, her eyes wide with terror. "What are you?" she gasps. "What is he?"
The man doesn't answer her. His entire focus is on me, and I can feel it like a physical pressure against my skin. Even through the fever, even through the pain and the infection and the desperation, I feel seen by this stranger in a way I've never felt before.
"Who are you?" I whisper, because I have to know. Because something about him is pulling at me like gravity.
His gloved hand reaches toward my face, and Kaia tries to lunge forward to stop him. But he raises one hand—just one—and she freezes. Not in fear. In something deeper. Something that makes her wolf submit before her mind can fight it.
His fingers brush my forehead, checking for fever. The touch is gentle. Almost tender. Nothing like what someone so powerful should be capable of.
"I'm here for her," he says to Kaia, his voice like smoke and thunder mixed together. Deep and controlled and absolutely certain. "I'm not here to fight."
"You just disarmed me without touching me," Kaia says, her voice shaking. "You're exactly the kind of thing we came here to escape from."
He ignores her completely.
"Isla Thorne," he says, and hearing my name from his lips feels like a brand. Like he's claiming something that was always his. "You're burning up. The infection is spreading. Without help, you and the child won't last the night."
I should be terrified. This man is dangerous—I can feel it radiating from him in waves. This is a predator wearing a mask. This is something that makes trained warriors submit without a fight.
But I'm dying, and so is my baby.
So instead of fear, I ask: "Why do you care?"
The mask tilts slightly, and I swear I can see silver eyes gleaming behind the obsidian. "Because you're more valuable than you know," he says simply. "And I can give you something no pack ever could."
"What?" The word is barely a whisper.
"Power," he says. "Protection. Revenge against everyone who wronged you."
I laugh—actually laugh—even though it sends knives through my ribs. "I'm wolfless and pregnant with another man's child. What good am I to anyone?"
His hand slides down to my stomach, and the gesture is so possessive, so protective, that my breath catches. He spreads his palm across where the baby is, and I swear I feel the baby respond. A flutter. A kick. Recognition.
"Everything you think makes you worthless," he says quietly, and there's something almost tender in his voice, "makes you invaluable."
"I don't understand," I say.
"You will," he promises. "But first, you need to choose. Right now. In this moment. You can stay here and die slowly, or you can take my hand and let me show you what you're truly capable of."
It should be an easy choice. It isn't.
Because taking his hand means trusting someone after Damien shattered every ounce of trust I had. It means placing myself under the protection of a stranger who could destroy me without effort. It means making a bargain I don't fully understand with someone who clearly has his own agenda.
But the baby.
The baby kicks again, and that decides it.
I reach out my trembling hand and place it in his.
The moment our skin touches, even through his glove, something shifts in the universe. It's not a mate bond—I would recognize that. This is different. Older. More fundamental. It's like a missing piece clicking into place. It's recognition on a level that goes beyond words or understanding.
His fingers close around mine, and his grip is surprisingly gentle for someone so powerful.
"What's your name?" I ask, needing to know. Needing to attach a name to the being who's just claimed me as his own.
He leans closer, and for just a moment, I think he might remove the mask. I think he might let me see what's underneath. The anticipation is almost overwhelming.
But he doesn't.
Instead, his voice drops to something intimate and possessive and absolutely final: "Cassian. And you're mine now."
The words should frighten me.
They don't.
Instead, they feel like a homecoming. Like a prophecy being fulfilled. Like the universe finally, finally decided to give me something instead of taking everything away.
Cassian lifts me effortlessly into his arms—careful of my injuries, protective of my stomach—and he turns toward the cave entrance. Kaia scrambles out of his way, her face a mixture of fear and awe and something that might be understanding.
"What is he?" Kaia asks me, her voice desperate. "What is he really?"
Cassian answers before I can: "Someone who keeps what's his."
We step out into the night, and the moment we cross the threshold of the cave, everything changes.
The air around us shifts. The temperature drops. The forest goes silent—completely, utterly silent. Even the insects stop their chirping. Even the wind stops moving.
It's like the entire wilderness is holding its breath.
Cassian carries me through the darkness like it's not dark at all, like he can see perfectly in the shadows. And then I hear it—a sound so distant it might be my imagination, but my heart knows better.
Howls.
Not rogue howls. Not wild animal howls.
Organized. Controlled. Purposeful.
An entire pack of wolves, moving in perfect formation, heading directly toward us.
"Are those—" I start.
"Mine," Cassian says, his voice dropping into something dangerous and proud. "My kingdom. Shadowveil."
My eyes go wide. "The Lycan King doesn't exist. He's a legend. A myth to scare pack members—"
"And yet," he says softly, "you're holding onto him."
The howls get closer, and I realize with a mixture of terror and awe that he's calling them. That they're coming for us. That whatever bargain I've just made has consequences I don't fully understand yet.
Cassian's grip tightens protectively around me, and his voice drops to something intimate and dark: "They're going to see you now. Every wolf in my kingdom will know you're mine. There's no going back from this, Isla."
"Good," I whisper, surprising myself. "I don't want to go back."
He tilts his mask toward me, and I swear I can hear the smile in his voice: "Then hold on, my queen. Your real journey is about to begin."
The pack emerges from the shadows—massive Lycans with glowing eyes and power that makes the very earth tremble. They form a protective circle around us, and Cassian steps forward with me cradled against his chest.
And in that moment, watching these ancient creatures bow their heads to the man holding me, I realize something terrifying:
I don't know who or what Cassian Nightshade is.
But more terrifying than that—I'm beginning not to care.
Because the moment he said "you're mine," something inside me that was broken started to heal.
And I would follow this masked king into hell itself.