Chapter 5

Cassian’s POV

If I had known she would talk this much, I would’ve left her to rot a little longer.

The dungeon smelled damp with a mix of old blood, sweat and iron. The entire rot stuck like a second skin.

I could taste it on my tongue. It clung to the back of my throat.

She didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe she did—and couldn’t shut up about it.

“…and seriously, if you’re going to throw someone in a cell, maybe get one with an actual bed? Or was the whole mold-and-bricks aesthetic meant to match your personality?”

Gods above.

Why was she still talking?

I stood at the side, kept my arms folded across my chest, while I watched her pace up and down the tiny room like a caged animal with too much energy and not enough sense. Her bare feet slapped against the cold surface with every exaggerated step. Her hair, wild and unruly, bounced with her movements like it had opinions of its own.

And her eyes.

Brown. Sharp. Too expressive. They turned to me every few seconds, daring, testing, waiting for a reaction I refused to give.

I’d learned long ago that some fires only grew brighter when fed oxygen.

“…and another thing,” she said, spinning on her heel with that damned finger pointed at me like I was a guilty party on trial. “This place could use lighting. Or maybe that’s the point—keep it dark, blind the prisoner, crush her spirit. How very poetic. Should’ve known you were one of those sadistic brooding types.”

Must she always have an opinion?

Must she always talk?

Can’t she just… zip it for five minutes?

She was small. Five-foot-four at best. A little thing—slight frame, rounded shoulders—but she moved like a storm. Like she could rip down the whole palace with words alone if you gave her enough time.

And loud. Not just in voice, but in presence. In energy. In audacity.

I hated people like her.

People who didn’t know how to read a room. Who mistook volume for confidence. Who thought sarcasm made them clever. People who filled silence with noise because they were terrified of what quiet would reveal.

Does she think she’s funny? I thought bitterly. Is this her idea of charm?

Every word she uttered grated more than the rusted iron shackles that still hung on the walls—relics of a time when prisoners knew how to keep their damn mouths shut.

“I suppose now you’ll say you’ve granted me freedom,” she huffed, arms crossed now, posture defiant. “After generously locking me up first. Classic Alpha move. You lords and nobles are all the same—big titles, even bigger egos, and about as much self-awareness as a rock.”

My jaw tightened.

That was enough.

“Guards,” I said, my voice cutting through her tirade like a blade.

Almost as though they were eavesdropping, they pushed the door right before I could finish my sentence.

I watched as their eyes moved from me to the loud mouth woman in the prison room.

“Release her,” I ordered. “She’s coming with me.”

Her head snapped toward me, eyes wide. She blinked, visibly thrown.

For the first time since I stepped into that cursed dungeon, she was quiet.

I didn’t miss the clink sound of the chains as they freed her wrists and ankles.

She rubbed at her raw skin, staring at me like she wasn’t sure if this was a rescue or another trap.

“Where exactly is with you?” she asked finally, her voice wary but still laced with sarcasm.

I didn’t bother to answer.

I turned, my footsteps echoing down the corridor.

She hesitated, then followed. I didn’t have to look to know she was there. I could feel her behind me like a thorn buried under skin—small, irritating, impossible to ignore.

And of course, she started muttering.

Something about “sadistic wolf lords” and “better housing in graveyards” and “next time I’ll fake a British accent and maybe get some damn respect.”

I gritted my teeth.

When we reached the upper hallways, where the light was the brightest, she spoke again—louder this time.

“So where am I being dumped now?” she asked. “Kitchen? Servants’ quarters? Or is there a room next to the stables with my name on it?”

I stopped walking.

She nearly ran into my back.

I turned slightly, eyes hard. “You’ll be moving into my room.”

Dead silence.

The corridor seemed endless now.

“…Your personal bedroom?” she repeated, blinking rapidly.

I didn’t answer.

“What does being your daughter’s nanny have to do with your personal bedroom?” Her voice rose, incredulous. “Or are you just trying to make me your personal slut? Is that what comes with this position?”

Enough.

Her words rang out like a slap, sharp and echoing.

And something inside me snapped.

I turned fully, stepping into her space. She looked up, the spark in her gaze faltering—not fading, just flickering—but she didn’t back away.

Of course not. She never did.

That only made it worse.

“You think too highly of yourself,” I said, my voice ice. “If I wanted a whore, I’d have bought one. I would never reduce myself to sleeping with something like you.”

Her mouth parted.

And there it was.

An expression of pain, for a brief second… but I saw it alright.

She masked it quickly, with another roll of her eyes and a scoff. But I’d seen it. A crack in the armor. The sting of my words landing deeper than she’d let on.

Good.

Maybe now she’d learn some damn humility.

I turned my back to her and signaled the guards.

“Escort her to my chambers. Make sure she touches nothing unless I say so.”

“Yes, Alpha.”

Their footsteps fell into rhythm behind me.

She didn’t say another word until we reached the stairs.

Then she muttered, just loud enough to reach me, “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make sure to keep my slutty hands to myself.”

I didn’t react.

Couldn’t.

Because if I did—if I let her see just how much she was getting under my skin—I’d lose whatever control I had left.

This woman would drive me to madness.

She was nothing like I’d expected.

And everything I couldn’t stand.

This is going to be much more difficult than I imagined.