You were stubborn—by far the most difficult, hardheaded woman the Illyrian soldier had ever encountered in his long, battle-worn life.

And yet, he couldn’t stay away.

The very thought of you clawed at him—raked at his chest with a feral ache, tore at his mind until all that remained were frayed edges, ribbons of what used to be reason. You had the power to destroy, completely and without remorse. And he was no exception. He had fallen—headfirst, helplessly—into your cruelty.

One glance from those fierce, untamable eyes, and he became a man ready for war. Ready to burn cities to the ground for a fraction of your attention—a currency more elusive than most could dare chase.

But he never wavered. Not even when you pushed him away with snarled words and venomous glares, not when you bared your teeth and demanded solitude.

You weren’t the only one with a hard head.

“You’ll catch a cold,” came the voice behind you—rough with command, edged in power, yet softened by a tenderness he reserved only for you. “Let me fly you back to the House of Wind,” Cassian offered, his tone gentle despite the storm.

Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the fine gown you’d worn for the evening’s event—an occasion meant to gather all of the Night Court. You, however, had left partway through, storming out and right into the rain, unwilling to turn back. And a particular Illyrian tailing close behind.

You didn’t spare him a glance, even as your body trembled from the chill, your feet aching from too many miles walked in heels.

Then—you stopped. A wall of solid muscle stood in your path, blocking the way forward.

You glared up at him, eyes sharp and defiant.

He only grinned, wide and wolffish.

“Either I fly you back,” he said, “or I stay with you. But I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe.”