Chapter 7: "What He Sees"
The bruise on my hip turned purple overnight. I pressed it in the morning, watching the color bloom under my skin. It didn't hurt worse than other things had hurt. It was honest pain. The kind that came from falling and standing up again.
I dressed in the same black clothes. No mirror. No makeup. No attempt to be pretty. Those days were done.
Vera had coffee waiting. No words. Just the metal cup slid across the counter. I drank it standing. The kitchen was warm already, ovens going, something baking that smelled like yeast and hope.
"You're early," Vera said.
"He said tomorrow. Same time."
Vera looked at me. At my hip where I stood slightly favoring one leg. At my hands, steady on the cup.
"You didn't cry," she said. Not a question.
"No."
"Most do. First day. First fall."
I set the cup down. "I've cried enough for ten years. I'm done."
Vera nodded. Turned back to her stove. "Door's there. Don't be late. He hates late."
---
The training ground was empty when I arrived. Dew on the grass. Mist hanging low. I stood in the center and tried to remember the stance. Feet apart. Knees bent. Weight ready to move, not braced to absorb.
Cassian appeared from the tree line. Silent. He moved like he was part of the mist, not separate from it. White hair. Black clothes. Those eyes that didn't match.
"You came back," he said.
"You said tomorrow."
"I say many things. Most don't listen."
He circled me. I stayed still. Let him look. Yesterday I would have turned to follow him, apologizing with my body for being watched. Today I held the stance. Let him see what he saw.
"Better," he said. "Still wrong. But better."
He showed me footwork. Not fighting yet. Just movement. How to step without losing balance. How to fall and roll and come up ready. He demonstrated once. Then watched me try.
I fell. Rolled. Came up wrong. He didn't correct with words. He showed again. Same movement. Same patience. No frustration.
We worked for two hours. The sun burned off the mist. My sweater came off. I wore only a tank top, black, sweating through it. I didn't care how I looked. I cared how I moved.
"Again," he said. When I got it right, he said nothing. Just waited for me to lose it, then: "Again."
My body changed. I felt it happening. Muscles waking up that had slept through five years of waiting. My legs stronger. My balance sharper. I stopped thinking about each step and started feeling them.
Cassian saw it. He always saw everything.
"You're hungry," he said.
It wasn't a question. I was. Ravenous. The kind of hunger that came from using your body instead of just housing it.
"Eat," he said. "Then back."
---
Vera had food ready. Not just for me. For the pack starting to drift in. Wolves I didn't know. Faces that watched me without greeting.
I sat at the metal table. Ate eggs, bread, meat. More than yesterday. More than I'd eaten in months. My body demanded fuel and I gave it.
Jax sat across from me. Not friendly. Just there.
"You didn't quit," he said.
"No."
"Most do."
"So I hear."
He studied me. The scar on his eyebrow. The way he held his fork like a weapon.
"You think you're special because you fell down and stood up?"
"No." I met his eyes. "I think I'm alive because I fell down and stood up. Special doesn't matter. Alive matters."
Jax was quiet. Then he almost smiled. Almost. "Cassian's waiting. Don't be late."
---
Afternoon training was harder. Hand-to-hand. How to break a grip. How to strike without telegraphing. How to take a hit and keep moving.
Cassian was my partner. Not Jax. Not anyone else. Just him.
His hands were careful. When he grabbed my wrist to demonstrate breaking free, his fingers didn't bruise. When I struck at him, he let me connect—shoulder, not face—then showed me how to follow through.
"You're thinking," he said. "Stop thinking."
"How?"
"Feel where I am. Don't calculate. React."
I tried. Failed. Tried again. The fourth time, I broke his grip before he fully established it. Not skill. Instinct. Something older than thought.
His eyebrows rose. Almost surprise. "Again."
We worked until the light went grey. My body was one continuous ache. My hands shook when I tried to hold water. I had never been this tired. I had never been this satisfied.
"Done," Cassian said.
I didn't argue. Couldn't. I just nodded and walked toward the kitchen. Each step hurt. Each step was mine.
---
He found me there. Evening. The pack had eaten, dispersed. Vera was cleaning. I sat at the table, too sore to move, drinking water in small sips.
Cassian sat across from me. Not close. Not far. Just there.
He had a plate. Meat. Bread. He ate like it was fuel, not pleasure. Efficient. No waste.
I watched him. He watched me back. Those eyes. Blue and grey. Assessing.
"You train like you're trying to die," he said.
"I'm trying to live."
"Same result sometimes."
I shook my head. "Dying is easy. I've been doing it for five years. This—" I gestured at my bruised body, my shaking hands, "—this is fighting."
He chewed. Swallowed. "Tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"One of them. The ninety-nine."
I went still. The kitchen was quiet. Vera had moved to the back, out of hearing, not out of the room. She was always there, always listening, always present.
"Why?"
"Because I need to know what I'm teaching." Cassian set his fork down. "Are you fighting to be strong? Or are you fighting to never be weak again?"
I looked at my hands. They were scarred now. Small cuts from the afternoon. Bruises forming. They looked like working hands. Not the soft hands of an Alpha daughter who waited for phone calls.
"The fiftieth time," I said. My voice was quiet. Not sad. Just true. "He left me on my birthday. We had reservations. A restaurant I loved. He didn't show up. I sat there for two hours, checking my phone, smiling at the waiter, pretending he'd been delayed."
Cassian didn't speak. Didn't move. Just listened.
"Seraphine had taken pills. Not enough to die. Just enough to need her stomach pumped. He stayed with her all night. Held her hand. When he came to me the next day, he brought flowers. White lilies. My favorite. He said he was sorry. He said he loved me. He said it would never happen again."
"It happened again."
"Forty-nine more times." I looked up. Met his eyes. "I kept the lilies until they turned brown. Then I threw them away. I should have thrown him away."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because I thought love meant waiting. I thought if I was patient enough, good enough, quiet enough, he would finally see me. Finally choose me." I touched the mark on my neck. Cassian's mark. "He never did. He saw her. The girl who needed saving. I didn't need saving. I needed him to stay. He couldn't do it."
Cassian was quiet for a long time. The kitchen sounds filled the space. Water running. Vera humming something old.
"You should have left at fifty," he said.
"I know."
The words hung between us. Not apology. Not excuse. Just truth. The truth of who I had been. The truth of who I was becoming.
Cassian stood. Picked up his plate. Set it in the sink for Vera.
"Tomorrow," he said. "We work on strikes. You've learned to fall. Now learn to hit back."
He left. I sat alone at the table. My body ached. My heart was steady.
For five years, I had measured myself by how long I could wait. How much I could endure. How quiet I could become.
Now I was measuring myself by different things. How hard I could hit. How fast I could stand. How honest I could be about my own damage.
Cassian saw me. Not the Alpha daughter. Not the rejected bride. Not the desperate woman who married a stranger.
He saw someone who fell down and stood up. Again and again. Not because she was special. Because she was stubborn. Because she was done with dying.
I touched the mark on my neck. His teeth. His claim. Not love. Not yet. Maybe never.
But it was real. It was mine. And it wasn't going anywhere.
I stood up. Slow. Painful. Mine.
Tomorrow I would learn to hit back.