Page 73 of Pack Frenzy
“Last chance to call it,” he says, turning. Water clings to his calves, dark and rippling.
Translation: say no and he stops.
“No way! I’m not a coward,” I throw back, and wade in before I can listen to the voice that says screw this and head to the cabin.
The first touch is a lie—just cold, manageable, nothing I can’t handle. I take another step. The bay floor drops and suddenly it’s not cold anymore, it’saggressive. Like teeth.
“Jesus,” I hiss.
I keep going. The water climbs—shins, knees. Each step is a negotiation my body doesn’t want to make, each inch higher a dare I’m too stubborn to refuse. It reaches my waist and punches a gasp out of me, air leaving my lungs like I’ve been hit.
Every nerve wakes up at once. I can’t decide if I hate it or if this—this bright, sharp aliveness—is exactly what I’ve been missing.
“You’re committed now,” Cassian calls back, already waist-deep like he’s made of different nerve endings than the rest of us.
He’s right. Stopping would mean admitting defeat.
Cassian wades out to his ribs then turns and grins. “You good?”
“Perfect,” I lie, and splash him.
He sputters and splashes back. It’s ridiculous and wild and the sound of his laughter knocks something loose in me.
It devolves fast—graceless and childish and exactly what I need. He lunges, but I twist away. He fakes left; I kick water at his face and he laughs, the big unguarded sound he doesn’t let out often, the one that shakes loose from his chest like he forgot to contain it.
He catches my wrist mid-arc. Even soaked, he’s warm; his fingers bracket my wrist with enough pressure to stop me, not enough to hold. He tugs me in.
“Truce.” His voice has gone low, rough at the edges.
Water drips down his throat. I watch one slide into the hollow of his collarbone and have an unhelpful, extremely specific urge to taste it.
“You fight dirty,” he adds.
“You started it.”
“True.” His eyes drop to my mouth. Flick back up. Drop again like he’s checking for something—permission, maybe, or proof that I really want this. “Jess.”
My name in his mouth does something to my knees.
I should step back. The pack’s rules are rattling around in my skull:ask, confirm, don’t assume biology equals consent.He’s not assuming. That’s the problem and the pull all at once.
The respect in it makes me reckless. I’ve had men take what they wanted and call it chemistry, assume biology was permission. Cassian’s standing in freezing water asking for explicit confirmation like my autonomy is more important than his desire, and something in me that’s been braced for years finally, tentatively, lowers its guard.
This is safety—not the absence of risk, but someone who makes room for you to choose it.
I nod. Once. Tiny.
“So that’s a green light?” Cassian’s watching me like he’s expecting me to push away.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Neon green. I want this. You.”
This isn’t running from Rowan. Wanting Rowan never erased wanting Cassian; it only made the truth louder. All of me answers to both of them and Eli too, and I’m done pretending that I’m broken. That caring and loving someone will hurt me.
And even if it does, I can’t say no.
For a heartbeat, he goes utterly still—like the words short-circuited something in him.
Then Cassian moves.
