Chapter 107
Cassian's POV
"Cassian, stay in the medical wing. Protect Casper, Cindy, and Ethan. Don't let anyone near them until I get back."
Elowen's command still echoed through the mind link. Clear. Direct. Absolute.
But she didn't understand.
I stood outside the medical room where Cindy was helping coordinate the chaos. Through the door, I could hear doctors shouting orders, injured wolves crying out, the sharp smell of blood and antiseptic choking the air. Ethan lay sedated in the room beside hers, his shoulder heavily bandaged.
They were safe for now. Protected by pack guards and surrounded by witnesses.
But Dad...
"We need to go to him," Casper whispered beside me. His voice was hollow. Empty. "We need to go to Dad."
I looked at my twin brother. Blood covered his torn dress shirt—our father's blood, dried and crusted at the edges, still wet in dark patches. His jacket was gone, ripped off during his transformation. His hair stuck up in wild angles where he'd run his fingers through it. Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises.
He looked destroyed.
"They will wake soon," Zero said coldly through our mental link. "And when they do, they will see what Leo did. They will see your brother covered in your father's blood. They will call him a murderer."
My jaw clenched. Zero was right. He always was.
We didn't have much time. Soon—maybe too soon—Drake's drug would wear off completely. People would wake up. They'd start asking questions. They'd see Dad's body still lying in the ballroom. And then they'd look at Casper.
I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let Casper take the blame for something Drake had orchestrated. Not when I knew the truth—that Drake had drugged everyone, that he'd deliberately provoked Leo, that this was all part of his sick plan.
Yes, Elowen knew about the assassin. She could testify. She would defend Casper.
But that wouldn't be enough.
In the chaos and confusion of waking up to find our father dead, the image would be burned into everyone's minds: Casper, covered in blood, standing over Dad's body.
Even if no one officially blamed him, the doubt would remain. Whispers in corridors. Sideways glances. The pack would fracture. Some would believe Elowen's account. Others would question it. And until we found concrete proof—until we dragged Drake and his assassin into the light—that shadow would follow my brother everywhere.
That stain on Casper's reputation could never be fully washed away. Not in a pack. Not among wolves who trusted their eyes more than words.
I couldn't let him live with that. Not when I could prevent it.
Elowen wanted me to stay and protect. Fine. I would protect. But not the way she expected.
I would protect Casper from becoming a scapegoat. From being labeled a killer. From spending the rest of his life drowning in guilt while Drake walked free.
And I would protect Dad's body. Make sure no one—especially Drake's people—could tamper with evidence. Move him somewhere private. Somewhere dignified. Away from the blood-soaked ballroom floor where he'd fallen.
"Come on," I said quietly. "Let's go."
We moved through the corridors like ghosts. The pack house was eerily quiet—most people were still unconscious, scattered throughout the ballroom and medical wing. A few guards patrolled, but they were focused on securing the perimeter, not watching internal movements.
The ballroom doors loomed ahead.
I pushed them open.
The scene inside made my stomach turn.
Bodies everywhere. Some starting to stir, groaning softly. Others still completely unconscious. The champagne glasses scattered across the floor glinted in the dim light. Blood pooled in dark patches on the polished wood.
And there, near the center of the room, lay our father.
Mom wasn't with him anymore. Someone—probably medical staff—had covered him with a white sheet. But I could see the outline of his body beneath it. Still. Motionless.
Gone.
Casper made a sound beside me. Something between a whimper and a sob. His knees buckled slightly, and I grabbed his arm to steady him.
"We need to move him," I said softly. "Before everyone wakes up. Before they start pointing fingers. Before Drake's people can touch him."
"Touch him?" Casper's voice cracked. "What do you mean?"
"Drake planned all this," I said. My voice was hard. Certain. "The drugs. The provocation. Everything. What if he has people here? What if they try to plant evidence on Dad's body? Make it look like something else happened?"
"You're reaching," Zero said coldly. "But the logic is sound enough. Protect the body. Protect your brother. Move quickly."
I knelt beside Dad and carefully pulled back the sheet.
His face was peaceful. Too peaceful. Like he was sleeping. But his chest didn't move. His eyes were closed but would never open again.
My throat tightened.
"Dad," I whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry we have to do this. But I promise—we'll take care of you. We'll keep you safe."
I slid my arms under his shoulders. His skin was still warm. That made it worse somehow. Like he might open his eyes any second and ask what the hell I was doing.
But he wouldn't. He was gone.
I lifted him carefully. His head lolled against my chest. I adjusted my grip, trying to support his neck. Trying to make sure he looked... peaceful. Dignified.
My father deserved that much.
My dress shirt was in tatters—torn during the chaos in the ballroom, soaked through with blood. The fabric hung off my shoulders in strips. Casper looked the same. We were both a mess. Both covered in evidence of what had happened.
"Casper," I said quietly. "Help me."
He moved like he was in a trance. His hands shook violently as he moved to Dad's legs, helping support the weight.
We made our way toward the servant's entrance at the back of the ballroom. It was the quickest route to the residential wing, and less likely to be watched.
The corridor was narrow. Dark. The walls pressed in on both sides.
"Watch out!" Casper's voice cracked.
Too late. Dad's head hit the wooden beam with a soft thud.
I froze. My stomach twisted.
"Shit," I breathed, guilt flooding through me like ice water. "Forgive me, Dad. Please."
I looked down at his face. Waiting. Hoping.
Nothing.
Of course nothing. He wasn't going to wake up from a bump on the head. He wasn't sleeping. He was dead.
But for one stupid second, I'd hoped.
I glanced at Casper. His eyes were wide. Wet. Red-rimmed and swollen from crying.
He'd hoped too.
We stood there in the narrow hallway. Two grown men holding our dead father. Praying for a miracle that wouldn't come.
"We need to move," I said finally. My voice cracked. "Before someone comes."