Cass’s POV

"What are you doing?!" I scream at Ezra.

I am trapped in that sterile, white room again, paralyzed. Ezra traces a hand down my cheek and neck, his eyes gleaming with a predatory, sickening hunger. "How does this feel? I can see your skin likes it."

"It's all in my head," I spit, rolling my eyes. "You aren't real."

"Are you sure?" He produces a sewing needle from thin air. He pricks the tip of my finger. I feel the sharp sting of pain, and a bead of red blood wells up on my skin.

I wake up with a jolt, staring at the tiny, unhealing pinprick on my finger. Fear, cold and sharp, settles in my gut. I look around the room—shadows cling to the corners, and the darkness feels suffocating. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to sleep without Colt.

As I rise to find him, a shadow in the corner shifts. A silhouette lunges. I dodge, rolling over the bed, but the man stabs the mattress where I’d been a second before. I hit the floor, knocking over my lamp, plunging the room into chaotic, shifting light.

"SERGE!" I scream.

The assassin swings his blade, relentless. I scramble backward, my fingers brushing the metal base of the lamp. I swing it with everything I have, clipping him in the head. He staggers, giving me just enough time to reach the door. Serge bursts in, his movements a blur of lethal efficiency, slamming the assassin into the floor.

Guards flood the room. Serge checks me, his face pale when he spots the blood on my cheek. "You're hurt!"

"It's nothing," I gasp, my adrenaline fading into a hollow ache. Serge tears a strip of linen to bandage my cut, his eyes zoning in on the balcony door. It’s open. I curse myself—Colt warned me to lock it, and I didn't listen.

In Warrick’s office, the air is thick with accusations.

"Explain yourself!" Warrick roars at Serge. "How did he get past the perimeter?"

"I sensed nothing, Alpha," Serge replies, his voice steady but strained. "No scent. Nothing."

Colt nods, standing near me, his presence grounding. "Same here. I only noticed my attacker because I was already awake. They're masked by something."

Garret and Beck inspect the remaining assassins. "They’re covered in an oily, odorless substance," Garret says. "It must be blocking their scent glands."

"They're not random assassins," Colt mutters, his gaze hardening as he looks at the bodies. "These are men from my own pack. Ezra is using them."

"And that matters to me why?" Warrick asks, his voice devoid of empathy.

"Because they’re being forced," Colt argues. "They have families. They're victims of his command."

Warrick brushes him off and turns his cold, calculating gaze on me. "You panicked. You need to stop reacting with fear and start reacting with discipline. Starting tomorrow, you train with Victor—nonstop."

"What about my power?"

"The power can wait until you learn to defend your life."

Back in the safety of our rooms, I cling to Colt, desperate for the warmth of his body. "I'm not sleeping alone tonight," I whisper. "I need you."

He doesn't smile, but he pulls me into his arms, his silence telling me he’s carrying a burden he won’t share. I drift off, only to be pulled right back into the white room.

"Seems you finally figured it out," Ezra says, his grin widening. "My men failed, but honestly? I’m glad. I want to savor you myself."

He draws a knife, trailing the tip down my collarbone. "You have no power here, Cassiopeia. Only pain and pleasure thrive in this place."

He tosses the knife aside and climbs over me, pinning my arms. I’m paralyzed, unable to move anything but my eyes and mouth. He kisses me, his lips feeling terrifyingly real, his touch violating every boundary I have. My body reacts against my will, and the disgust makes me want to scream.

Pain and pleasure,

he said.

If pleasure anchors him here, pain must be the exit.

"You know what's sad?" I ask, my voice shaking. "I was yours once. If you’d given me a chance all those years ago... I could have loved you."

He freezes, his jaw clenching. He rips my shirt, his face contorting with rage. "You should have been mine!"

"That will

never

happen!"

I don't wait for his next move. I clamp my teeth down on my own tongue, biting until the sharp, metallic tang of blood floods my mouth. The agony is absolute. I scream, my consciousness tearing away from the white room, and I bolt upright in bed, gasping, the taste of my own blood vivid on my tongue.