Willa hissed as Cade poured whiskey over her gash.
"Thought wolves had healing magic," she muttered, biting back a growl.
"We do," Cade said, gently wrapping the gauze. "But last I checked, you're still tragically human."
She didn't respond—mostly because his touch was too careful. Too soft. And it was messing with her head.
Cade's fingers moved deftly over her skin, checking for fractures. His jaw was clenched, his eyes still glowing faintly. He hadn't come all the way down from the shift yet.
"You were lucky," he said. "If you'd landed an inch to the left—"
"But I didn't," she snapped. "So quit acting like I'm already dead."
He went still.
Then he sat back on his heels, expression hardening. "I'm not acting like that. I'm acting like someone who gives a damn."
"Well, don't," she said, but the words came out softer than she wanted.
He stood up slowly. "Too late."
Willa didn't move.
Cade took one step closer. Then another.
And she didn't move.
His hand came up, slow and deliberate, fingers curling around her wrist. The callouses scraped gently over her skin—grounding, burning.
"I'm trying not to want you," she whispered.
His eyes, glowing faint gold in the low light, locked with hers. "Then stop trying."
And gods help her—she did.
She reached for him first, hand fisting in the front of his shirt. Their mouths collided like a detonation—no tenderness, no teasing, just fire. His hands gripped her waist, lifting her, turning, slamming her against the rough wall with a thud that knocked her breath free.
He kissed like he fought—fierce, consuming, a little reckless.
She gasped into his mouth, and he took it, swallowed it like it belonged to him.
Her thighs wrapped around his hips instinctively. He groaned, low and guttural, and his mouth left hers to trail heat down her jaw, her throat, her collarbone.
"You drive me insane," he growled against her skin.
"Good," she hissed, grinding against him. "I hope it hurts."
He laughed, dark and rough, sliding a hand up under her shirt. His fingers danced over bruises and bandages—but it didn't stop him. It only made him gentler, more precise.
"You should hate me," she said, gasping as he bit softly at her neck.
"I do," he said. "But not nearly enough."
Clothes shifted. Heat built. Her hands found his skin—hot, taut muscle and scars and something more. Something that made her ache.
His teeth scraped her shoulder, and her head hit the wall with a moan she didn't even try to muffle.
Her body moved on instinct, chasing pressure, chasing pleasure, and when his hips rolled against hers, everything in her cracked wide open.
"Say it," he whispered at her ear.
"Say what?"
"That you want this."
"I hate you."
"Try again."
"I still don't trust you," she rasped against his mouth.
"Good," he said. "This isn't about trust."
It was about needing something real.
Needing him.
Just for this moment.
She kissed him hard, biting his lip this time. "I want this. I want you. Just—shut up and take it."
He did.
And she let go.
Just long enough to forget the pain.
Just long enough to remember what it felt like to burn without breaking.
They crashed through that line between restraint and recklessness with nothing held back.
The safehouse was buried in the side of a ridge, hidden by illusion wards and old blood sigils Willa didn't recognize. Sadie was in the back room, radioing in favors from people with names like "Cutter" and "Redbone." The power flickered. The windows were boarded. Everything smelled like dust and secrets.
Willa sat on the low couch, her arm bandaged, her ribs bruised, her pride wrecked.
Cade returned a moment later with a mug of black coffee and something wrapped in wax paper.
"You brought me a muffin?" she asked dryly.
"I stole it from Sadie's glove box."
"That explains the taste of gun oil."
He sat across from her, watching her for a beat too long.
"You held your own back there," he said.
"I always do."
"But you're not used to someone watching your back."
She looked up sharply. "No. I'm not."
Their eyes locked again.
That damn pull—the one that made her forget why she was supposed to hate him—wrapped tight around her ribs.
"I'm still not convinced you're not the villain in all this," she murmured.
"And I'm still hoping you'll admit I'm not."
"I don't like hope," she said. "It gets people killed."
Cade leaned forward slowly. "You know what I think?"
"No," she said. "But you're gonna tell me anyway."
"I think you're angry because you know what we have between us is real. And it scares the hell out of you."
Silence.
Then—
Sadie barged in holding a battered manila folder. "Sorry, lovebirds. Hate to kill the mood, but you're gonna want to see this."
She tossed the file onto the table.
Willa opened it, heart pounding.
Inside were a series of old council reports—coded logs, surveillance photos, magical transcripts.
And one word circled in red, again and again.
Lang.
Willa's hands shook. "What is this?"
"Proof," Sadie said. "That they've been watching you since you were a kid."
Willa looked up, face pale.
"They didn't just use you," Cade said quietly. "They made you."
Willa stared at the file until the pages blurred.
Childhood surveillance photos.
Medical records stamped with runes she didn't recognize.
Behavioral notes. Combat aptitude reports. Bloodwork logs labeled "Asset L."
Asset.
Not a person.
Her name wasn't even listed—not Willa Lang. Just Lang. A code. A case number. A goddamn project.
The nausea hit fast and hard.
She pushed back from the table so fast her chair skidded. The breath she dragged into her lungs tasted like bile and betrayal.
"Willa—" Cade started.
"Don't."
Her voice cracked on the word. She hated that. Hated that he heard it.
She stalked toward the back door, boots heavy on the warped wood. Needed air. Needed space. Needed to outrun the rising scream in her chest.
The night outside was cold and sharp, the trees silent sentinels under the half-moon sky. She braced her hands on the porch railing, gulping breath after breath, eyes burning.
They'd made her.
Everything—her training, her instinct, her rage—had been cultivated like a weapon.
She hadn't broken free.
She'd just been unleashed.
Footsteps behind her. Quiet. Heavy.
Cade.
He didn't speak right away. Just stood beside her, staring into the dark.
"I didn't want you to find out like that," he said softly.
She laughed, brittle and broken. "How should I have found out? With a cake and balloons?"
"I wanted to tell you. I just… I wasn't sure you'd believe me."
"I wouldn't have," she admitted.
They were silent again.
Then: "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're still the woman who took down a Nightspawn with a busted arm and a silver dagger," he said. "Still the one who made me shut up with a glare and almost stabbed Sadie for flirting."
She looked at him sharply.
He smiled, slow and infuriating. "You're still you."
She shook her head. "You don't get it."
"Then help me understand."
His voice was closer now. His presence warmer. She felt his hand ghost toward hers on the railing—close but not touching. Waiting for permission.
"I was trained to kill monsters," she whispered. "And now I don't know if I'm one of them."
His fingers brushed hers.
"You're not," he said. "But even if you were… I'd still be standing here."
Her breath caught.
"I don't want to feel anything for you," she said. "It makes everything harder."
"Too bad," he murmured, "because I feel everything for you."
Then he stepped in, slow, giving her time to stop him.
She didn't.
His hand slid to her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek.
Her heart thundered.
And when he kissed her—
It wasn't gentle.
It was desperate. Bruising. Burning. The kind of kiss that demanded surrender.
And for a moment, just a moment, she gave it.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, her mouth claimed his like a war won and lost in the same breath.
But then—
She pulled back, eyes wide, chest heaving.
"I can't," she whispered.
He didn't argue.
Just nodded, breath shaking.
And stepped back.
But the space between them?
It was still on fire.