“He was raised to anticipate,” she says.“Unknowns read as threats to him.”
“I’m not a threat.”
“No,” she says.“You’re more dangerous to him than a threat.”
A draft slides under the door; the curtain lifts and settles.I keep my eyes on the mug.I want to ask her how I could possibly be more dangerous to him than an actual threat, but my desire to tell Cassius the truth takes priority.“How do you share a secret with someone who will see it as a weapon?As a lie.”
“The longer you don’t tell him,” Sava says.“The more he’ll have to be angry about.”
I look up.
“Tell him there’s a part of you he hasn’t met yet,” she goes on.Bolo-hat tips his brim, voting yes.“Name what you need from him to hear it—no fixing, no hunting, no turning it into a mission, or whatever.Just listening.”She taps the rim of her cup.
“And the timing?”
“Not when he’s bloody,” she laughs and I stick my tongue out at this absolutely infuriating woman.“Tell him you’re going to say a thing that doesn’t change how you feel about him, but might change how he moves around you.”
“And if he doesn’t believe me?”
“Give him time,” she says.“People like us don’t do well with change.It’s never been kind.He may need a bit to swallow whatever this secret is, that I assume you aren’t going to share with me.But, he will come around.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that man would end the world to keep you breathing,” Sava says softly.“Cassius,” A beat.“He loves you.”
Her words make me think about when I was a kid and would step out of a cold shower, wrapped in a fluffy towel and have to fight Nathan to stand in front of the gas heater.That first flicker of warmth, normal breath returns, and the world snaps back into color.The jealousy I was clutching slips through my fingers.I want her beside me, but Sava is steel and I’m still learning not to shake.Women like her don’t choose women like me.But I’m going to try anyway.Believe, for once, that not everyone walks away like Mila.I nod once, a vow she didn’t ask me to make.
“Okay,” I whisper.“I’ll tell him.”
Sava lifts her mug in a small, solemn toast.“Good.”
But the word echoes, and doubt threads in after it.I believe Cassius is obsessed with me.Feral, relentless.Is that love?And what about this ache under my ribs, the way my bones tilt toward him like they’ve been magnetized—does that count as love?I ache for him like I’ve swallowed a shooting star.Fire is warm until it eats your house.Can a thing that starts this wild keep living when it has to be quiet?When it’s breakfasts and bad days, and his knife is sheathed and the lights are on?
I want to think yes.I want to think we’re the kind that lasts.But wanting and knowing aren’t the same, and I don’tknowyet.I cup the heat of my mug and make two promises I can keep: tell him the truth, and keep saying yes—until the feeling either steadies into something that survives daylight, or it doesn’t.And if it doesn’t, I’m not sure there’ll be enough of me left to crawl out of the ash.
Hours and egg rolls later, we’re half-asleep at opposite ends of the couch, the X-Files theme buzzing low from the TV.It’s a perfect Saturday night.I don’t know when babysitter officially became friend.Somewhere between her die hard Mulder and Scully commentary and her giving me the last crab rangoon without me asking, her eyes changed, and we crossed into friendship territory.
A hard, insistent pounding snaps both of us upright.Sava lifts her lit phone to show six in the morning.I will have Cassius kill whoever visits this early on a Sunday.
Sava is already moving, silent, efficient, palming the remote to kill the sound, sliding to her feet.Her eyes cut to me, then down the hall.
“You don’t want to be seen?”I whisper.
“Not by them.”She jogs toward the guest room and the latch clicks once.I wipe sleep from my face and open the door.Three men stand on the threshold like a gang of fallen angels who forgot their halos.
Adrian—tall, broad, and stiller than death.A scent of leather and citrus.He tilts his head the moment I open the door.He steps inside first, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, nostrils flaring like a freaking bloodhound.
“There’s a smell,” he murmurs.
Caleb steps up beside him, lightly touching his elbow.“It’s probably her shampoo or perfume or something.You're just adjusting to it not smelling like it usually does.”
Adrian ignores him.“Familiar.Not recent…” He trails off, brow furrowing, lips parting like he’s about to say something more, but he doesn’t.He shakes his head and moves toward the couch.
Adrian speaks again, quieter this time.“The scent’s in the cushions.”
“What?”I ask, heart thudding.
He shakes his head again, brows pulled together.“Nothing.Just reminds me of someone.”
