Cassian adjusted his hold on her, drawing her closer against his chest as his hand settled more securely along the length of her back and his other arm supported her beneath the knees. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her clothes, the steady rhythm of her breathing rising and falling against him in quiet reassurance.
Each breath was proof that she was here, that she was real, that she was alive and resting safely in his arms rather than lying broken on cold pavement beneath flashing lights and strangers' voices.
She exhaled softly in her sleep, the sound delicate and unguarded, barely more than a whisper against his collar. It was a small sound, the kind that would normally pass unnoticed in the hush of a room, yet it fractured the last thin layer of composure he had managed to maintain.
Because she did not know he was angry.
She did not know he was terrified.
She did not know how close he had come to losing his mind over the thought of losing her.
She only knew—on some instinctive, unspoken level—that she was safe enough to let go.
And Cassian did not know what to do with that.
Boreas stirred.
One heavy eyelid lifted first, then the other, his eyes opening slowly, deliberately, blinking once with the sluggish, offended judgment of someone who had been pulled from an exceptionally good sleep for no acceptable reason. His head remained on the mattress for a moment longer as he assessed the situation, gaze unfocused at first, then sharpening as it landed on Cassian standing there with Mira in his arms.
The dog's ears twitched.
Then Boreas sat up.
The dog lifted his head, blinking, then stared at Cassian with a look that was equal parts confusion and accusation, as if Cassian had committed a personal offense by moving Mira without clearing it with him first. Then Boreas rose with a low, offended huff and followed closely, trotting at Cassian's side like an angry chaperone.
Cassian glanced down briefly, still holding Mira as if she weighed nothing.
"Don't start," he murmured.
Boreas let out a short, indignant sound that clearly meant, I'm not the one sneaking around.
The silence stretched, weighted and unblinking. There was no fear in the dog's gaze. No submission. Only the calm, ancient confidence of a creature who believed—correctly—that his authority in this room was not up for debate.
Then, with deliberate slowness, Boreas rose to his feet and shook himself once, the motion rolling through his powerful frame as if he were physically resetting his dignity after being inconvenienced.
He cast one last look at the bed—clearly displeased at being evicted—before padding after them with exaggerated patience, his steps unhurried, his tail low and steady.
He followed close enough to be seen.
Close enough to supervise.
Like a chaperone escorting a reckless adult who could not be trusted to make good decisions unsupervised.
And somehow, impossibly, that might have been fair.
Rafe appeared quietly in the doorway, as if he had materialized rather than walked there, watching the scene with the weary resignation of a man who had already predicted this exact chain of events and had lost the will to be surprised by it. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, taking in Cassian holding Mira, Boreas trailing after them like an overqualified security detail, and the unmistakable emotional storm brewing in the air.
Cassian did not look at him.
"Get the ointment," he said, his voice low, controlled, threaded with something dangerous beneath the calm. "And get me the details again. Every detail."
Rafe opened his mouth, then closed it. He hesitated just long enough to be noticed.
"Cass—"
Cassian's gaze snapped toward him, sharp enough to cut through steel, a look that carried a thousand unspoken threats, warnings, and the very clear implication that this was not the moment for reason, moderation, or commentary.
Rafe immediately lifted both hands in surrender. "Yes. Ointment. Details. I live to serve your emotional instability."
Cassian turned away without responding, already moving again, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack.
Behind them, Boreas let out another low huff, the sound heavy with agreement.
Rafe glanced down at the dog. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not the one carrying her around like a wounded princess."
Boreas did not blink.
Rafe sighed. "Tough crowd."
Then he turned and headed off to do exactly what he had been told, because experience had taught him that arguing with Cassian in this state was not bravery—it was stupidity.
Cassian carried Mira deeper into his room, his steps slow and deliberate, not because he was uncertain, but because every movement felt suddenly loaded with consequence, as though even the air around him had become fragile, as though one wrong shift might crack something he could not put back together again.
The anger inside him had not disappeared—not truly—but it had changed, settling into something heavier, denser, more deliberate, like molten metal cooling into a blade.
It was quieter now, no longer roaring for destruction, no longer reckless in its demand for release, but sharpened into something focused, contained, and infinitely more dangerous.
Mira slept against his shoulder, her body soft with exhaustion, her weight trusting, her breathing slow and steady, completely unaware of the violence she had ignited inside him, unaware of how close she had come to being lost, unaware of how thin the line had been between now and a future he refused to imagine.
Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her mouth parted slightly, her face stripped of all the guarded awareness she carried when awake, and the sight of that vulnerability made something in his chest tighten in a way he did not have a name for.
And then the thought came, slow and devastating.
She had almost died today.
And she had not told him.
Not at all.
The realization settled into him with cold, merciless clarity, rearranging his priorities in a way no negotiation, no carefully orchestrated meeting, no strategic alliance, and no empire he had ever built had managed to do before. All of it—his power, his influence, his legacy—collapsed into irrelevance beside that single, brutal truth.
She had been in danger.
And he had not been there.
And as he crossed the threshold of his bedroom, carrying her as though she were something irreplaceable, something already half-lost, Cassian understood something that unsettled him far more than rage ever could.
He did not simply want to protect her.
He would unmake the world for her.