Who Is Cassian?

Adrian heard it.

He heard it in the ballroom. He heard it in the car. He heard it in the clinic, when they laid her on the white bed and stitched the cut in her throat. He heard it in the quiet three hours after, when the drug finally left her system, and she slept.

Cassian.

He sat in a chair beside her bed, elbows on his knees, staring at her sleeping face.

It was a name. Only a name. It meant nothing.

A man's name.

Her lips said it like a prayer.

His wolf was a living thing in his chest, pacing, growling. Who? it demanded. Who is he? Who is the man she calls when she's dying?

"Easy," he muttered. "Easy. We don't know."

Find out.

Adrian rubbed his eyes.

He was being a fool. He knew it. She had nearly died tonight, and his first coherent thought, after the fear, was jealousy.

You've lost your mind, he told himself. You're sitting here wondering if your wife has a lover, when someone is trying to kill her.

But five years of silence made a man hungry in strange ways. He wanted to know every name she had ever whispered. Every face she had ever loved. Every night she had spent without him.

He wanted her to say his name like that.

A soft sound came from the bed.

Her lashes lifted. Dark eyes met his, hazy, slow.

"Adrian?"

"I'm here."

"Where..."

"The clinic. You were drugged." He leaned forward. His voice came out rougher than intended. "How do you feel?"

"Like I was hit by a truck." She swallowed. "Did we win?"

"We survived."

"That's close enough." Her gaze moved over his face. "You look terrible."

"Thank you."

"You've been sitting there all night."

"Yes."

"You should sleep."

"No."

She frowned. "Why are you angry?"

"I'm not."

"Your jaw's doing that thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you bite your teeth together until they crack." She tried to push up on one elbow. "What is it?"

He hesitated.

Then, because he had promised not to lie to her, he said it.

"You said a name. When you were out."

"What name?"

"Cassian."

Her face went blank. Not guilty. Not embarrassed. Just blank, truly empty, the face of a woman who had no idea what he meant.

"Cassian," she repeated slowly.

"Who is he?"

"I don't know."

"Elena."

"I don't know." Her brow furrowed. "Is he someone I knew?"

"You tell me."

"Adrian, I swear..."

"Is he a lover?"

The word came out harsher than he meant. She flinched. He cursed under his breath.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That was..."

"No." Her voice was steady. Her eyes were steady. "It's a fair question. If I'd heard you say another woman's name while unconscious, I'd have asked the same thing."

He stared at her.

"Would you?"

"I'd have done worse," she said dryly. "I'd have thrown something."

A reluctant laugh escaped him. Some of the ice around his chest cracked.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm being an idiot."

"You're being a man in love who's afraid."

"Yes," he admitted.

"You're allowed."

"Elena." He took her hand and laced his fingers through hers. "Tell me honestly. Does the name mean anything?"

She closed her eyes. Searched. Her brow creased.

"No," she said at last. "Not a face. Not a place. But..." She stopped.

"But what?"

"It feels like a warm room." Her voice was slow, strange. "A fireplace. An old man. He's smiling at me. He's giving me something. A small box, wrapped in blue cloth."

Adrian's heart gave a hard thump.

"An old man."

"With white hair. A scar through his eyebrow." She opened her eyes. "Adrian, why do you look like that?"

He had gone cold all over.

"Because," he said quietly, "my father had white hair. And a scar through his left eyebrow. He got it fighting a rogue pack, thirty years ago."

"Your father."

"Cassian Blackthorn." His voice was hollow. "That was his name."

Elena stared at him.

"Cassian," she whispered, "was your father?"

"Yes."

"But you said he died before we met."

"He did."

"Then how..." She struggled upright, gripping his hand. "Adrian, I remember him. He was kind to me. He gave me that box. He said..."

"What did he say?"

She shut her eyes. The words came slowly, as if from the bottom of a well.

"Keep it hidden," she whispered. "Until the day you can't. And whatever they tell you about the Blackthorn name... believe the boy, not the crown."

Silence.

Adrian felt the room shift under him.

"My father," he said, in a voice he barely recognized, "told you to trust me."

"Yes."

"Before we ever met."

"Yes."

"Elena." He gripped her hand. "What was in the box?"

She looked up at him with huge, frightened eyes.

"I don't know," she said. "But I think I still have it."