ISLA'S POV
I wake to the sound of a soft knock.
It's becoming routine now—one week into my recovery, and Cassian's visits have developed a pattern. Always a knock. Always waiting for me to invite him in. Always treating my space with a respect that seems almost absurd coming from someone who could take whatever he wanted without asking.
"Come in," I call out, already knowing who it is.
He enters carrying a tray, and I watch as he sets it on the table beside my bed with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times. Jasmine tea—my favorite, though I never told him. Fresh fruit. Bread that smells warm and perfect. And tucked beside the plate, a single white flower.
Just like yesterday.
Just like the day before.
"How are you feeling?" he asks, and it's the same question he asks every time, but his voice carries genuine concern. Not obligation. Not duty. Concern.
"Better," I say, which is true. My ribs don't scream anymore. The infection is completely gone. My body is healing in ways that should take months but seems to be happening in weeks. "Whatever Margot is doing, it's working."
"You're Lycan now," he says simply. "Our healing is faster than regular werewolves."
There's that word again: our. Like the baby growing inside me is already his. Like I'm already part of something bigger than myself.
He moves to the window, and I watch him adjust the curtains slightly, letting in exactly the right amount of sunlight. Not too bright. Not too dim. Perfect.
Everything about this is becoming perfect, and that terrifies me more than his power ever could.
"Kaia asked to visit you today," he says, his voice casual but his posture tense. "I told her no. You need rest."
"You don't get to decide that," I say, but there's no anger in my voice. Just observation.
"I know," he acknowledges, and turns back to face me. "That's why I'm telling you, not forbidding you. The choice is yours."
It's such a small thing—asking instead of commanding. But it's revolutionary. In my entire life with Damien, I was never given choices. I was guided, directed, controlled. And now this powerful being who could literally do anything is asking my permission.
"You can let her come," I say. "But tonight, can you and I... talk?"
Something shifts in his posture. It's so subtle I almost miss it, but I catch it. Interest. Maybe even anticipation.
"Of course," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my pulse quicken.
He turns to leave, and I notice—not for the first time—how he moves. Like every step is calculated. Like he's always ready for violence, even in moments of peace. His body is a weapon, even at rest.
"Cassian?" I call out as he reaches the door.
He pauses. "Yes?"
"Thank you for the flower," I say. "And the tea. And... everything."
For a moment, I think I see vulnerability flicker across his visible features. "You're welcome, Isla."
He leaves, and I'm alone with my racing thoughts and my hot tea and a flower that smells like something impossible.
Later that evening.
Kaia has left after spending the afternoon making me laugh, telling stories about the rogues she's met, describing the fortress in ways that paint it as both beautiful and terrifying. She's become my anchor here—a reminder that not everything is strange and mysterious, that some things can be simple and genuine.
When Cassian returns, the sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and red.
He brings wine this time—just one glass for me, since I'm still technically recovering. He settles into the chair across from the bed, a deliberate distance between us, and he waits for me to speak.
"Why are you so careful with me?" I ask, the question that's been building all week. "You're the Lycan King. You could do anything you want. But instead, you knock. You ask. You leave flowers."
"Because you deserve kindness," he says simply.
The answer is so honest, so direct, that it almost breaks me.
"I'm going to marry you in three weeks," I say, the words still strange in my mouth. "But I don't even know what you look like. Not really. Why do you wear the mask?"
His silence stretches between us like a living thing.
"Because what's underneath would frighten you," he finally says, his voice dropping to something almost pained.
"Would it?" I ask. "I've been beaten, rejected, framed for crimes I didn't commit, and exiled to die in the Rogue Lands. I don't frighten easily anymore."
I don't mean to do it. It's not a deliberate choice. But my hand reaches out, and my fingers find the edge of the mask. The obsidian is warm beneath my touch—like it's alive. Like it's part of him.
He goes absolutely rigid.
"Isla," he says, his voice dropping into something dangerous and desperate and hungry all at once. "Don't."
But I don't stop. My fingers trace the edge where the mask meets his skin, and I feel something shift inside him. Something primal and powerful and barely controlled.
"I want to see you," I whisper.
"You're not ready," he says, but he doesn't pull away. "Trust me."
"I do trust you," I say, surprising myself with the truth of it. "That's the problem."
His hand comes up, and I think he's going to push me away. Instead, he covers my hand with his—the glove still between us, still creating distance. But his grip is gentle, almost reverent, like he's holding something impossibly precious.
"When you see what's underneath," he says quietly, "you'll understand why I've been searching for you. You'll understand why the prophecy chose us. And you'll understand that what I feel for you has nothing to do with politics or power or destiny."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
"What do you feel for me?" I ask, barely breathing.
His hand tightens on mine, and his voice drops to something raw and honest: "Something that terrifies me more than anything in this world."
He stands abruptly, and I realize with a jolt of surprise that he's shaking. The Lycan King is shaking because of me. Because of my touch.
"Three weeks," he says, his voice strained. "In three weeks, you'll be my Luna. And then nothing will stop me from—"
He stops himself, breathing hard.
"From what?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
He turns back to face me, and even through the mask, I can feel the intensity of his stare. The hunger. The need.
"From taking what's mine," he says, and the possessiveness in those words makes heat flood through my body.
He's about to say something else—I can feel it building in him like a storm—when a knock interrupts the moment.
An older woman enters without waiting for permission, and the intimacy shatters instantly.
"My King," she says, bowing deeply. "You asked to be informed immediately when she arrived. Elder Mira is here."
Cassian's entire body goes rigid in a different way. Not passion now. Fear. Anticipation.
"Send her in," he commands.
And as the woman leaves, he turns back to me, and his voice is suddenly urgent: "Whatever Mira tells you, don't be afraid. The truth about who you are will change everything. But it changes nothing about what I feel."
The woman who enters is ancient—not in human years, but in something deeper. Her eyes glow with a silver light that matches Cassian's, and when she looks at me, I swear she sees into my soul.
"Child," she says, moving toward me with surprising grace for someone so old. "We have much to discuss. Your awakening is accelerating faster than anticipated."
"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice shaking.
Elder Mira exchanges a look with Cassian, and I see something pass between them—knowledge, concern, something that feels like destiny.
"It means," Mira says gently, "that in three weeks, when you marry our King, your transformation will be complete. And the world will learn what we've known all along."
"Which is?" I prompt.
She takes my hand, and her touch is warm and ancient and impossibly kind.
"That you are not wolfless, child," she says. "That you are Moonborn. The last heir of a royal bloodline that everyone believed extinct. And that you're the only one in all of existence who can break the curse that's been slowly destroying our King since the day his family was slaughtered."
The words land like bombs.
Cassian is suddenly moving toward me, his entire frame tense, protective, desperate.
And as his hand reaches for mine, everything in my body recognizes him. Not as a stranger. Not as a bargain.
As something far more dangerous.
As home.