Cassian's precision had a sound.
It wasn't the scrape of a blade leaving its sheath, and it wasn't the snap of a command shouted down a corridor. It was quieter than that, almost mundane, the sound of a door closing without hesitation, of a latch sliding into place, of boots moving with purpose instead of urgency. When Cassian left the Alpha's quarters after Rowan's confession, the pack house didn't erupt.
It aligned.
Sable stood near the den with her hands braced on the bedpost, breathing through the faint nausea that kept trying to return whenever her heart ran too fast. Her mind wanted to sprint after Cassian. Her body wanted to dig into the hollow and stay there until the world stopped trying to peel her out of her life. She forced herself to do neither. She remained visible in the doorway as planned, posture steady enough to be convincing, even though every part of her felt tighter than it had an hour ago.
Rowan was Adrian's mate.
Rowan had done all of this.
