Luca's POV
Day three on the island, and I'm learning things about Rian I never knew.
He talks in his sleep. Mostly pack business, occasionally my name. Always protective, even unconscious.
He can't cook to save his life. Burns toast, oversalts everything. I take over kitchen duties by day two.
He's clingy. Constantly touching—hand on my back, fingers linked with mine, pulling me close whenever I'm near.
"You're like a giant puppy," I tease, watching him follow me around the kitchen.
"I'm a wolf, not a puppy."
"Same energy." I hand him vegetables to chop. "Make yourself useful."
He does, badly, but the effort is endearing.
We spend mornings swimming, afternoons exploring the island, evenings tangled in bed. The bond grows stronger daily—I feel his emotions like my own, hear his thoughts when he projects them.
You're beautiful, echoes through our connection while I'm reading on the beach.
I look up. Rian's watching from the water, eyes amber even in daylight.
Stop staring, I send back.
Can't help it. You're mine.
The possessiveness should annoy me. Instead, warmth floods my chest.
That night, after dinner, Rian pulls me onto the deck. Music plays from somewhere—slow, romantic.
"Dance with me," he says.
"There's no one here to impress."
"I'm not trying to impress anyone." He pulls me close, swaying gently. "I'm enjoying my husband."
We move slowly, his arms wrapped around me, my head resting on his chest. Through the bond, I feel his contentment, his deep satisfaction at having me here.
"Tell me something," I say. "Something you've never told anyone."
He's quiet for a moment. "I'm terrified every day."
"Of what?"
"Losing you. Failing you. Not being enough." His arms tighten. "Marcus's death broke something in me. Made me realize how fragile happiness is. Now that I have you, the fear is constant."
"That's exhausting."
"It is." He rests his chin on my head. "But you're worth the fear."
Something in his honesty cracks my remaining walls.
"I'm scared too," I admit. "That I'll wake up one day and regret this. That the bond is the only reason I feel anything. That I'm fooling myself."
"And if you're not? If what you feel is real?"
"Then I'm falling in love with the man who kidnapped me. Which is insane."
"Completely insane." He tilts my face up, eyes serious. "But is it so bad? Loving me?"
I think about it honestly. The answer surprises me.
"No," I whisper. "It's not bad at all."
His kiss is tender, reverent. When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine.
"Say it," he pleads. "Even if you don't mean it yet. Say it once."
My heart pounds. This is real. This matters.
"I love you," I breathe.
Through the bond, I feel his soul shatter and reform around those three words.
"Again," he demands, voice breaking.
"I love you, Rian."
He kisses me desperately, and I taste his tears—joy, relief, overwhelming love.
Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe this is Stockholm syndrome.
But right now, I don't care,