Cass’s POV

The room dissolves into static, and I bolt upright, gasping.

"Cass!" Colt shouts, his grip tightening as he pins me down.

"I got him, Colt! I wounded him—and I saw her. I saw the witch."

He immediately thrusts the blue flask into my hands. I swallow the bitter, vile potion without a second thought. It leaves a burning, acidic trail in my throat, but I feel... lighter. The tether is gone. The amulet had already granted me control, and now, the severance is absolute.

For two days, we wait. News filters back: Ezra is alive, but critically wounded. The witch’s magic is a terrifying, intangible force, but for now, the nightmares have stopped.

Life returns to a jagged normalcy. Training becomes my refuge. Yet, I am constantly watched—by my father, by Victor, and most suffocatingly, by Oliver.

"I haven't seen much of you lately," Oliver says, his voice smooth as silk as he approaches me in the hall.

I force a polite, empty smile. "I’ve been busy training."

"All work and no play isn't good for you," he murmurs. "Would you join me for a private dinner this evening?"

Every instinct screams

no

, but I nod. "Of course."

When he leaves, I find Colt waiting in the shadows. He heard everything. He is vibrating with suppressed rage, his green eyes dark with possessiveness. I pull him into an empty room and lock the door, needing to anchor myself in him.

"He has plans, Cass," Colt growls, his jaw tight. "He’s trying to charm his way into your life."

"He won't succeed," I promise, but he remains rigid.

I guide his hand down, letting him feel the shift in my mood, but it’s not enough. I kneel before him, my gaze never leaving his as I take him into my mouth. I savor the salt of his skin, the frantic pulse of his arousal, and the way his grip on my hair tightens until I’m breathless. When he pulls me up and turns me toward the sofa, there’s no room for jealousy—only the desperate, searing friction of our bodies, a silent claim that no Alpha can overwrite.

That evening, I dress with robotic indifference. Before I meet Oliver, I check on James, then linger before my mother’s portrait. She looks so happy—a genuine, radiant smile. It’s a painful contrast to the web of lies I’m about to spin.

The dinner is set in the garden. Oliver looks impeccable, his presence calm and trustworthy.

"You look radiant," he says. "You have your mother’s beauty."

We trade hollow pleasantries until the air turns heavy. He finally leans in. "May I inquire into something?"

"Sure."

"Who is the man constantly by your side? Colt?"

I freeze. "He... he’s just someone I train with."

"I see," Oliver says, his voice dripping with feigned understanding. "I agree with your father. A man like that—brother to a warmonger, linked to your past—he is not worthy of you."

I look down at his hands, noticing the jagged, white scars peeking out from under his cuffs. I reach out, tracing the skin. "You didn't have an easy life, either, did you?"

He pauses, a shadow passing over his face. "My pack was usurped when I was a child. I was beaten into submission until I finally escaped. These are my battle scars."

"We all have them," I whisper. "Mine are visible. They show that I survived."

He smiles, a soft, almost vulnerable expression. "You are willful, Cassiopeia. I find that fascinating."

Suddenly, his eyes dart toward the dense tree line. A long, bone-chilling howl rips through the night, echoing across the territory.

Oliver remains unnervingly calm, his glass held steady in his hand.

"A battle cry," he murmurs, looking at me with a cryptic, unreadable expression. "They’re here."