Chapter 7- His Name Is Cassian

I don’t remember leaving the café.

One second I’m staring at Elias like he just handed me a death sentence, and the next I’m outside, boots slamming into gravel, air burning my lungs, heart racing like I ran a marathon.

*Mate.*

The word echoes in my skull like a fire alarm, each repetition louder than the last. It bounces off every corner of my consciousness, refusing to be dismissed or rationalized away.

I walk faster. Then faster still. My fists are clenched, arms locked at my sides like I’m holding something inside that wants to break out. The gravel beneath my feet crunches with each desperate step, the sound sharp and jarring in the unnatural quiet that seems to follow me.

The fog clings to the road as I move through it, swallowing sound, dulling light. It wraps around my ankles like ghostly fingers, reaching higher with each breath until I feel like I’m drowning in it. It’s late afternoon, but it feels like dusk. Like the sun’s already hiding from whatever the hell is hunting me.

*Cassian Thorne.*

I didn’t hear his name from him. He didn’t introduce himself. Didn’t need to.

Because the second he walked into that café, my body told me everything I needed to know. Every cell, every nerve ending, every drop of blood in my veins suddenly knew exactly who he was and what he meant. The knowledge hit me like lightning—instant, electric, undeniable.

And that’s what I hate the most.

I didn’t choose this.

I didn’t choose the dreams that have been haunting me for weeks—visions of golden eyes and silver fur, of running through moonlit forests on four legs instead of two. I didn’t choose the wolf that stalks through my subconscious, leaving me breathless and aching when I wake. I didn’t choose the scar under my ribs that throbs like a second heartbeat, the one that appeared the morning after I first set foot in this cursed town.

I didn’t choose the growl that felt like it was aimed at every part of me, sliding under my skin and settling into my bones like it belonged there.

I didn’t choose him.

The wind picks up as I walk, cutting through my hoodie like it’s made of paper. I should be cold, but I’m not. My skin feels like it’s on fire from the inside out, like something is trying to burn its way free. I pull the hood up anyway, more for the illusion of protection than actual warmth.

By the time I reach the house, I’m shaking—not from cold, but from the sheer effort of keeping myself together. I throw open the front door so hard it slams against the wall, making the windows rattle. It hits the floor with a sharp crack, glass scattering across the worn floorboards.

“Elsie!” I yell, my voice hoarse and wild.

No answer.

But I know she’s here. I can feel her presence like a weight in the air, steady and immovable as always.

She’s in the parlor, of course. Sitting by the cold fireplace with a book and a candle and her usual silence like nothing’s happening. Like the world hasn’t just tilted off its axis and sent me spinning into some nightmarish fairy tale.

I stomp across the creaky floorboards, each step echoing through the old house like gunshots. The sound seems too loud, too violent for this quiet space, but I can’t make myself move more carefully. Everything inside me is screaming for action, for movement, for something to break the terrible tension that’s building in my chest.

I plant myself in front of her chair, breathing hard, fists clenched at my sides.

She looks up from her book—some thick, leather-bound tome that probably contains more secrets she’s been keeping from me. Her expression is maddeningly calm, like she’s been expecting this moment. Like she’s been waiting for it.

And says nothing.

Like she already knows.

“Tell me it’s not true,” I say, my voice low and shaking with barely contained fury. “Tell me he’s not… mine.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth, foreign and wrong. But even as I say them, something deep in my chest purrs with satisfaction, and I hate that reaction more than anything else.

She sets the book down carefully, marking her place with a ribbon before closing the cover. The deliberate slowness of the gesture makes me want to scream.

“Why do you think I kept you out of the woods?” she asks, her voice as level as always.

“That’s not an answer.”

She sighs, the sound heavy with years of secrets and regret. When she looks at me again, there’s something almost like pity in her eyes.

And finally, finally gives me what I asked for.

“He’s not just a man,” she says, each word measured and careful. “He’s the first in his line. Born to it. Bound by it. The bond chose you the second your scent hit the land.”

I take a step back, shaking my head violently. “No. No, that’s not how this works. You don’t just bond people like it’s a medieval fantasy novel. This isn’t some wolf soulmate bullshit.”

But even as I say it, I can feel the lie in the words. Because something *did* happen that day. Something I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks. The dreams started that night. The scar appeared the next morning. And I’ve felt… different. Changed. Like something sleeping inside me had suddenly stirred awake.

Her eyes are so calm it makes me want to scream, to shake her until she shows some emotion, until she acknowledges the magnitude of what she’s telling me.

“You felt it,” she says, not a question but a statement of fact.

“I didn’t want to.”

“That doesn’t change it.”

The simple truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. I press my palms into my eyes, like maybe I can scrub the panic out of my skull, erase the memory of golden eyes and the way my entire body had responded to his presence.

“I came here to hide,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “To wait out the storm. To figure out my shit.”

I’d been running from something else entirely when I came—a messy breakup, a job I’d lost, a life that had fallen apart in spectacular fashion. This was supposed to be my retreat, my chance to rebuild myself in peace and quiet.

Elsie stands slowly, her joints creaking in the silence. She’s older than she looks, I’ve always suspected, though I’ve never been able to pin down exactly how old.

“He is the storm, Ivy.”

The words hit me like ice water, and suddenly I understand why she kept me away from the woods.

She was protecting me from him.

I can’t breathe.

The room feels too small, too close. The walls seem to be pressing in, and the air has turned thick and heavy, like breathing through water. I back away from her, heart thudding, chest tight.

“I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t choose this.”

“No,” she says, her voice surprisingly gentle. “But it chose you.”

And that’s when I scream.

I scream because my blood is boiling, literally heating up until I feel like I might combust from the inside out. I scream because my bones are humming with an energy I don’t understand and can’t control. I scream because I’m terrified of how close I am to wanting him back, to giving in to whatever this thing inside me is demanding.

I scream because the scar under my ribs is burning like a brand, pulsing in rhythm with something I can’t see but somehow know is out there in the woods, calling to me.

And that might be worse than the bond itself.

The sound tears from my throat raw and primal, nothing human about it. It echoes through the old house, rattling windows and making the candle flames dance. Somewhere in the distance, I hear dogs howling in response, their voices joining mine in a chorus that shouldn’t be possible.

When the sound finally dies, I’m left gasping, my throat raw and my hands shaking.

Elsie watches me with those too-knowing eyes, and for the first time, I see fear in them.

Not fear of me.

Fear for me.