Lilian's POV
The stone walls pressed in around me, thick with age and the ghosts of old wars. I woke on a rough mattress, the heavy air thick with the scents of cold ash, damp earth, and wolf too many wolves, too close. For a second, panic gripped my chest, wild and suffocating. Not again. Not another cage. I shoved it down with a practiced breath, dragging myself upright. My muscles screamed in protest, the bruises and scrapes from the battle stiffening overnight. My wolf prowled just under my skin, restless and uneasy.
I swung my legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold stone. Cash's jacket slipped from my shoulders to the mattress, pooling like a dark shadow. I stared at it, heart hammering. His scent clung stubbornly to the fabric, pine, smoke, leather, something raw and male underneath. It wrapped around me even now, sinking into my skin and crawling into my blood. Stupid. Dangerous. I pushed off the bed hard enough to make the frame groan, my hands balling into fists. I wouldn't be marked as some possession. I wouldn't be claimed just because fate decided to be an asshole. Not again.
I crossed the room to the narrow window, my footsteps faintly echoing. The forest stretched beyond the walls, endless and wild, calling to the part of me that would never be tamed freedom. And yet, here I was behind walls again, under the watchful eye of a king I neither trusted nor wanted. My stomach twisted. The others, my rogues, needed to find them, check on them, and make sure they were safe.
I grabbed the clothes folded neatly on a battered chair. They were practical, clearly set out by someone before I woke, and addressed quickly. A plain black T-shirt, soft jeans, and boots that had seen better days. Nothing fancy, nothing meant to impress. Good. I braided my hair back from my face with quick, rough fingers and headed for the door. It wasn't locked. Small miracles.
I stepped into a wide, dim hallway lit by torches and ancient electric sconces, the stones underfoot worn smooth by centuries of use. My wolf lifted her head, alert. Voices echoed faintly: a low rumble of conversation, laughter, the clink of armor and boots. Warriors. I moved quickly, head down, keeping to the shadows. Rogues knew how to survive: blend in and disappear when needed.
This place, Blackstone, reeked of history. Every stone, every arch, every worn tapestry told a story of battles fought and kingdoms won and lost. It prickled under my skin, a reminder that I was out of my depth here. Cash Sinclair's world was not mine. I had fought tooth and nail to survive out there, in the blood-soaked woods and forgotten ruins. Here, power was a different kind of weapon. Here, they smiled while sharpening the knives meant for your back.
I rounded a corner and nearly slammed into a brick wall of pure muscle. Or so it felt. Cash. Of course. Because the gods clearly had a personal vendetta against me. His hand shot out, steadying me before I could stumble back, and just like that, heat flared where his fingers brushed my arm. Electric. Alive. Wrong. I jerked away like I'd been burned, scowling up at him.
He looked maddeningly composed. His dark hair was damp, like it had just come from a shower. A black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and tattoos curled down his arms like smoke. Those ice-blue eyes locked on me, sharp and unreadable.
"You're up," he said, voice low and rough.
"No thanks to you," I snapped before stopping myself.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile more like a warning. "You were half-dead when you crossed the border," he said. You should be thanking me."
"Yeah? Well, don't hold your breath."
For a second, we stared at each other, the air between us hot and sharp as broken glass. His gaze dropped, lingering on the fresh bruises blooming along my arms and the healing cuts across my knuckles. His jaw tightened.
"You shouldn't be out of bed yet," he muttered.
"My pack needs me," I said, chin lifting.
"Your pack is being taken care of," he said shortly. "Fed. Clothed. Housed."
"Under your mercy," I spat.
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Something that looked an awful lot like regret. Or guilt. I didn't trust it. I didn't trust anything about him.
"You're not a prisoner," he said quietly.
It could've fooled me.
He stepped closer too close until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You're not a prisoner," he repeated, voice a low growl now. "But you are under my protection."
My wolf whined low in my chest, torn between fury and something hotter, needier, that made my skin flush. I hated him for it. Hated me more. I forced a cold smile onto my face.
"Protection comes with chains," I said. "I've worn them before. I know the weight."
His nostrils flared. A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You've never been chained by me, Lilian."
The way he said my name like it was something sacred, something that didn't belong on anyone else's tongue, made my heart stutter painfully. I hated that, too.
He wanted to reach out, touch her again, and smooth away the worry etched on her face. But he knew better. Knew that any move towards her would be met with resistance, with the sharp, defensive edge that kept her alive. He saw the wildness in her eyes, the untamed spirit that refused to be caged. It was the same wildness that had drawn him to her in the first place.
He had been watching her pack for weeks, tracking their movements, admiring their fierce loyalty and brutal efficiency. He knew she was their leader, the one they looked to for strength and guidance. He had seen her fight, a whirlwind of claws and teeth, protecting her own with a ferocity that rivaled any warrior in his kingdom.
He had to admit, he was intrigued. He had a plan for her a plan that could save his kingdom and give her pack a home.
I stepped back, putting precious space between us. "Where are my wolves?"
He studied me for a long moment, something dark and unreadable moving behind those ice-blue eyes. "In the west wing," he said finally. "They're safe."
"For how long?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. We both knew safety was never free. There would be a price there was always a price.
I brushed past him, ignoring the way my body screamed at the loss of his heat. I had more important things to worry about than the unwanted pull between us. Like surviving. Like making sure my pack didn't become pawns in whatever political game Cash Sinclair was playing.
But as I stalked down the corridor, one thought burned hotter than the rest, impossible to shake: If this was a cage, then why did part of me want to stay?
The west wing was a stark contrast to the rest of the castle. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating tapestries depicting scenes of hunts and celebrations. The air was cleaner and fresher, carrying the scent of pine and wildflowers a deliberate attempt, no doubt, to make my pack feel at ease.
I found them in a large, airy chamber, sprawled on thick rugs, gnawing on bones and grooming each other. Relief washed over me, so potent it almost brought me to my knees. They were alive. They were safe.
Jax, my second-in-command, a hulking brute with a scar bisecting his left eye, looked up as I entered. His wolf shifted, recognizing me instantly. He rose to his feet, a low growl rumbling in his chest, before returning to his human form. He was naked, as were the others, their clothes discarded in a heap near the fireplace.
"Lilian!" he exclaimed, his voice rough with relief. "You're awake."
He crossed the room in three long strides, engulfing me in a bear hug. I winced, my ribs protesting, but I didn't pull away. I needed this. I needed to feel their strength, their loyalty.
"How are you?" I asked, pulling back to survey the others. There were six of them, a motley crew of rogues and outcasts bound together by blood and necessity.
"We're fine," Jax said, eyes scanning me for injuries. "Better than we've been in months. They're treating us like royalty."
"Don't get used to it," I warned my gaze hard. "Nothing is free in this world."
"We know that," a voice said from the corner. It was Mara, the youngest of the pack, barely out of her teens. Her wolf was small and wiry, but she was quick and deadly. "But it's nice to have a full belly for once."
"Where's Cash?" I asked, turning back to Jax.
"He left a few minutes ago," Jax said. "Said he had business to attend to."
"Did he say anything about why he brought us here?"
Jax hesitated, glancing at the others. "He said he needs our help."
"Help with what?"
"He didn't say," Jax admitted. "But I got the feeling it was something big."
I frowned, my wolf stirring uneasily. Cash Sinclair was a king. He had an army at his command. What could he possibly need from a pack of rogues?
"Keep your eyes open," I said, my voice low. "Don't trust anything he says. We're in his territory now. We play by his rules."
"What if he wants us to fight for him?" Mara asked, her voice laced with excitement.
"We're not soldiers," I snapped. "We're survivors. We fight for ourselves and for each other. No one else."
"But Lilian," Jax said, his brow furrowed. "What if this is our chance? A chance to finally have a home, a place where we belong?"
I looked at him, at the hope shining in his eyes, and my heart ached. They deserved a home. They deserved a life free from fear and hunger. But I knew better than to trust in fairy tales.
"We'll see," I said, my voice softer now. "We'll see what he wants. And then we'll decide what's best for us."
I turned and walked towards the window, staring out at the forest beyond the walls. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the land. It was a beautiful sight, but all I could see was danger. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that our lives would change forever. And I wasn't sure if we were ready for what was coming.