ISLA'S POV
The coffee cup appears on my desk at exactly 7:00 AM, like magic.
Except it's not magic. It's Rowan Blackwood, standing in the doorway of the construction trailer with that infuriating half-smile that makes my traitorous heart skip.
"Cream, no sugar," he says. "Just how you like it."
I stare at the cup like it might explode. "How do you even remember that?"
"I remember everything about you, Isla." His voice is quiet, serious. "Even the things I should have noticed five years ago but was too much of an idiot to see."
I want to throw the coffee at him. I want to drink it. I want to stop feeling this confusing mess of emotions every time he's near me.
Instead, I take the cup. "Thank you."
His smile widens like I just gave him a prize.
"Don't get used to it," I mutter, but I'm already taking a sip. It's perfect. Of course it is.
This has been my life for the past week. Rowan bringing me coffee. Rowan reviewing construction plans with me for hours. Rowan somehow always standing between me and the sun during outdoor inspections so I'm not squinting at blueprints.
It's driving me crazy.
"We have a problem," Rowan says, his expression shifting to business mode. "The support beams arrived this morning. Wrong size."
I set down my coffee so hard it sloshes. "That's impossible. I checked those specifications three times."
"I know you did. The supplier is here now. He's insisting we made the mistake."
My blood boils. I grab my tablet and storm out of the trailer.
The construction site is already bustling with workers. I spot the supplier immediately—a big, gruff man named Ron who's been difficult since day one. He's talking to the foreman, waving his hands around like he's explaining something obvious to a child.
"Ron," I call out. "We need to talk about these beams."
He turns, his expression dismissive the second he sees me. "Ah, Ms. Grey. Look, I understand you're upset, but the order form clearly states—"
"The order form clearly states the correct measurements," I interrupt, pulling up the email on my tablet. "See? Right here. You delivered the wrong size."
Ron barely glances at my screen. "Listen, little lady, sometimes these technical specifications can be confusing. Maybe you misread—"
"I didn't misread anything."
"Are you sure? Because in my experience, sometimes women overlook the details—"
Heat floods my face. I'm about to unleash five years of pent-up anger when a cold voice cuts through the air.
"The architect said it's wrong."
Rowan appears beside me, and the temperature seems to drop ten degrees. His face is calm, but his eyes are ice. "I suggest you fix your mistake, Ron, unless you want to breach your contract with Blackwood Enterprises."
Ron's face goes pale. "Alpha Rowan, I didn't mean any disrespect, I just thought—"
"I don't care what you thought." Rowan's voice could cut glass. "Ms. Grey is the lead architect on this project. When she tells you something is wrong, it's wrong. Period. Now apologize and fix it. Today."
"I—yes, of course, I apologize, Ms. Grey, I'll have the correct beams here by this afternoon—"
"Make it by noon," Rowan says flatly.
Ron practically runs to his truck.
I stand there, my heart pounding with leftover anger and something else. Something warm and confusing.
"I could have handled that," I say quietly.
Rowan looks at me, his expression softening. "I know you could have. You're more than capable of putting Ron in his place. But I wanted him to know that disrespecting you means disrespecting me."
"Why?"
He hesitates. "Because you're my—" He stops, jaw tightening. "Because you deserve respect. Everyone does. But especially you."
He almost said "mate." I heard it. The word hung in the air between us for half a second before he swallowed it back.
The mate bond pulses, warm and electric.
I clear my throat. "Well. Thank you. Again."
"You're welcome. Again."
We stand there awkwardly until a worker calls Rowan over to look at the foundation.
That evening, as I'm packing up my things, Rowan appears in the trailer doorway.
"Dinner?" he asks.
I should say no. I've said yes to dinner three times this week already, and each time I feel my walls cracking a little more.
"Just food," Rowan adds quickly. "No agenda. No mate bond talk. Just two people eating."
"Fine," I hear myself say. "But somewhere casual. I'm tired of fancy restaurants."
His face lights up. "I know just the place."
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting in a tiny diner on the edge of pack territory. It's the kind of place with cracked vinyl booths and a menu that hasn't changed since 1995. It's perfect.
"Tell me about your plans for the pack," I say, stirring sugar into my tea. "Real plans. Not the PR version."
Rowan leans forward, his eyes bright. "Education programs for omega children. A lot of them get written off as not smart enough or not worth investing in. I want to change that."
I nod slowly. "What else?"
"Mental health support. Therapy. Counseling. My father thinks it's weakness, but I've seen what happens when wolves don't have anyone to talk to. They break. Or they become cruel like—" He stops.
"Like you were," I finish.
He flinches but doesn't look away. "Yes. Like I was."
We talk for two hours. About pack reforms, about breaking toxic traditions, about creating a place where every wolf matters regardless of rank.
"You really have changed," I admit.
Rowan's expression turns serious. "I'm trying to earn the title of Alpha. Not through fear and strength like my father, but through making the pack actually better. His way doesn't work. It just creates pain."
"What made you realize that?"
His silver eyes meet mine. "Losing you. Realizing that the system that made me cruel also made me lose the most important person I'd ever met. Even if I was too stupid to know it at the time."
My breath catches. The mate bond thrums between us, warm and insistent.
"Rowan—"
My phone buzzes. I glance at it and freeze.
Unknown number. A text message with a photo attached.
My hands shake as I open it.
It's Elder Mira's house. Police tape across the door. Squad cars in the driveway.
Below the image: "She liked you. She died for it. Who's next? Maybe that pretty architect friend in the city? Maya, isn't it? Sweet girl. Be a shame if something happened to her."
The phone slips from my fingers.
"Isla?" Rowan's voice sounds distant. "What's wrong?"
I can't breathe. Maya. They're threatening Maya.
Another text comes through. This time it's a photo of Maya leaving our office building in the city. The photo was taken today. Recently. Someone is watching her right now.
"Tick tock, little silver wolf. The game's just beginning."