ISLA'S POV
The gun goes off.
Everything happens in slow motion. I see the flash from the barrel. Hear Rowan roar—an actual Alpha roar that shakes the car windows. Feel him throw himself across the center console, covering my body with his.
The bullet shatters the windshield, missing us by inches.
Then Rowan's door is open and he's moving—faster than anything human should move. I hear shouting, a scream, the sound of bone hitting metal. By the time I process what's happening, Rowan has the shooter slammed against the silver sedan, one hand around his throat.
"WHO SENT YOU?" Rowan's voice is barely human.
The man just smiles, showing bloody teeth. Then his eyes roll back and foam bubbles from his mouth.
"No, no, NO!" Rowan drops him, but it's too late. The man convulses once and goes still. "Poison pill. Dammit!"
I'm shaking so hard I can barely breathe. Someone just tried to kill me. Actually tried to shoot me in the head.
Rowan is back at my door in seconds, pulling it open, checking me for injuries. "Are you hurt? Isla, look at me. Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I manage. "You—you saved me."
His hands are trembling as they cup my face. "I won't let anyone hurt you. Do you understand? I don't care who sent them, I don't care what it costs. You're under my protection now."
"I don't need your protection—"
"YES, YOU DO!" His eyes flash gold again. "Someone wants you dead, Isla. This isn't Celeste being petty. This is professional. Organized. And until I find out who's behind it, you're not leaving my sight."
The police arrive within minutes—human police, who look at the dead body and the shattered windshield with increasing confusion. Rowan handles them with smooth efficiency, his Alpha authority working even on humans who don't understand why they're suddenly eager to believe his version of events.
By the time we're allowed to leave, it's past midnight. Rowan insists on driving me to my hotel in a different car—one with bulletproof windows.
"I'm calling Maya," I say, pulling out my phone. "She needs to know—"
"I already called her." Rowan's voice is tight. "She's safe. I sent security to watch her building. Whoever is after you might target her too."
I stare at him. "You sent security to Maya? Without asking me?"
"Would you have said yes?"
"That's not the point!"
"The point is she's safe. You're both safe." His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "That's all that matters."
I want to argue, but exhaustion crashes over me. Someone tried to kill me tonight. My business is being sabotaged. My sister is threatening me. And the man I've spent five years hating just took a bullet meant for me.
"Thank you," I whisper finally. "For saving me. Again."
Rowan doesn't answer, but I see his jaw tighten.
The next two weeks pass in a paranoid blur. Rowan assigns bodyguards to follow me everywhere—big, intimidating men who blend into shadows but make me feel both safe and trapped. The cybersecurity attacks on Maya's firm stop as suddenly as they started, which somehow makes things worse. Like whoever is behind this is just waiting. Watching.
I throw myself into work, spending twelve-hour days at the construction site. It's the only thing that makes sense anymore. Measurements and materials and building codes—solid, reliable, logical.
Rowan keeps his distance during the day, respecting the boundaries I've drawn. But I catch him watching me constantly, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he looks away.
Then, two weeks after the shooting, he springs another trap.
"There's a dinner with the city planning committee tonight," Rowan tells me at the construction site. He's holding blueprints, looking professional and alpha and frustratingly handsome. "They need to approve the final designs before we can move forward. As the lead architect, you need to be there."
I narrow my eyes. "Why am I just hearing about this now?"
"They moved up the meeting. Last minute decision." He shrugs. "It's tonight. Silverpine Restaurant. Seven PM."
Everything in me screams that this is suspicious, but I can't afford to miss a meeting with the planning committee. Too much depends on their approval.
"Fine," I say. "Send me the details."
"I'll pick you up at six-thirty."
"I can drive myself—"
"Someone tried to shoot you two weeks ago, Isla. You're not going anywhere alone." His tone leaves no room for argument.
That evening, I stand in front of my hotel mirror, second-guessing everything. The dress I'm wearing is professional but nice—black, knee-length, nothing that suggests this is anything but business.
Because it is just business. That's all this can ever be.
Rowan picks me up exactly at six-thirty, and the drive to Silverpine Restaurant is quiet. The place is fancy—all soft lighting and expensive art on the walls. The host leads us through the main dining room to a private room in the back.
Rowan opens the door.
The room is empty except for a table set for two.
I spin on him. "Where's the planning committee?"
"They canceled last minute," Rowan says, way too smoothly. "But since we're both here, we should discuss the project over dinner."
"You LIED to me!" I turn to leave, but Rowan steps in front of the door.
"Isla, please. Just dinner. We can talk about the building, the timeline, anything you want. I won't bring up the past. I won't push. Just... don't leave."
I should leave. I should push past him and walk out and maintain every boundary I've carefully constructed.
But something in his voice stops me. Something raw and almost desperate.
"One dinner," I say finally. "Business only."
Relief floods his face. "Business only."
We sit. The waiter brings wine—expensive wine that I immediately recognize as my favorite from five years ago. Rowan remembered. Again.
At first, we stick to safe topics. Construction schedules. Material choices. Budget considerations. But gradually, like water finding cracks in stone, the conversation shifts.
"Why architecture?" Rowan asks suddenly.
I take a sip of wine, buying time. "I like building things that last. Things that people can rely on."
Unlike people, I don't say, but the words hang between us anyway.
"When did you know?" he presses gently. "That this was what you wanted?"
I shouldn't answer. This is getting too personal, too close to the walls I've built. But the wine is warm in my stomach and I'm tired of holding everything inside.
"When I was fifteen," I admit. "There was this building downtown—the Riverside Community Center. I used to hide there after school, before I had to go home. The architect had designed these amazing spaces. Quiet corners with big windows for reading. Open areas where people could gather. Ramps and elevators so everyone could access everything. It was... thoughtful. Inclusive." I pause. "It made me think maybe I could create spaces where people feel welcome. Where no one is invisible."
The words come out before I can stop them, revealing more than I intended. The lonely girl I used to be, looking for places to hide. Looking for somewhere she belonged.
Rowan's eyes are intense, burning into mine. "You were never invisible to me, Isla."
My laugh is bitter. "I was worse than invisible. I was your target."
"I know." He sets down his fork, and I see his hands are shaking slightly. "I know what I did. I remember every cruel word, every time I laughed when someone else hurt you, every time I stepped on your fingers or called you worthless. I was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen—old enough to know better. But my father taught me that weakness deserved no mercy. That being cruel made you strong. That people like you—omegas, wolfless members—were less than nothing."
He stops, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"I'm not making excuses," he continues, voice rough. "Nothing excuses what I did to you. But I want you to know I've spent five years hating myself for it. Five years seeing your face every time I close my eyes. Five years wondering if you're okay, if you're happy, if you ever think about—" He cuts himself off.
My hands are shaking now too. "You're telling me this now? After five years?"
"Because losing you was the wake-up call I needed." Rowan's eyes are raw with emotion I've never seen from him before. "When you rejected me and left, I realized I'd destroyed the most important thing I'd ever been given. I challenged my father's teachings. Changed pack laws so no one could be treated the way you were. Banned arranged marriages. Gave rights to omegas and wolfless members. I tried to become someone worthy of—"
He stops himself, but I hear the unspoken words: worthy of you.
"Change doesn't erase the past," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "You can't just become a better person and expect forgiveness."
"I know." Rowan's hands clench into fists on the table. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. I don't deserve it. But maybe—maybe change can earn a different future. Not the one we should have had, but something new. Something we both choose."
The air between us feels electric. The mate bond pulls at my chest, stronger than ever after weeks of proximity. My wolf is whimpering, begging me to reach across the table, to touch him, to give this impossible thing a chance.
But I'm not just my wolf. I'm Isla Grey, the girl who survived. Who rebuilt herself. Who swore never to be powerless again.
"I don't know if I can do this," I admit.
"Can do what?"
"Let myself believe you. Trust you. Give you the power to hurt me again."
Rowan's eyes hold mine. "Then don't trust me yet. Just let me prove it. Every day. For as long as it takes."
We sit in silence, the weight of five years hanging between us.
Eventually, the dinner ends. Rowan drives me back to my hotel, neither of us speaking. But it's not an angry silence. It's something else—something fragile and new and terrifying.
When he pulls up to the hotel entrance, I reach for the door handle. Then I stop.
"Thank you for dinner," I say quietly.
"Thank you for staying," Rowan replies.
I get out of the car. As I walk toward the hotel doors, I don't look back. But I don't slam the door either.
Inside my room, I lean against the closed door, my heart racing. What am I doing? Why does part of me want to believe him? Want to give him a chance?
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
"How was dinner with your mate? Hope you enjoyed it. It'll be your last."
Below the text is a photo—taken tonight, through the restaurant window. Me and Rowan sitting across from each other, his hand reaching toward mine on the table.
A second photo loads. This one makes my blood run cold.
It's Maya, leaving her apartment building. In the corner of the image, partially hidden in shadow, is a figure in black.
The same outfit the shooter wore two weeks ago.
My phone rings immediately. Maya's name on the screen.
I answer, my voice shaking. "Maya?"
But it's not Maya's voice that answers.
It's Celeste's.
"Hello, little sister. I think it's time we had a family reunion."