“Then get out.”
Once again, the guard doesn’t hesitate. He leaves without another word.
I stand there, frozen, my stomach twisted into knots.
That was different.
That wasn’t controlled authority. That was cruelty.
When the door shuts, I turn on Orpheus without thinking.
“You didn’t need to talk to him like that.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
He looks at me like the world just tilted.
“What did you say?”
“He was doing his job,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “You don’t need to verbally tear people apart to prove a point.”
For a split second, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Then something unreadable flashes across his face.
“No one,” he says slowly, “speaks to me that way.”
I swallow but don’t back down as I blurt, “Someone should. It’s not nice. You should respect those who work for you. They deserve it. Especially dealing with your sourly self.”
Another long pause.
Both of us stare at each other for a long beat, neither one of us wanting to back down. Slowly, his lips quirk up into a smirk.
“Who are you?”
For a second, I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or himself, but I take the chance to answer him. I exhale. “My name is Cassia.”
“Cassia.”
The way he says it back is quiet. Deliberate. Like he’s tasting it.
The tension shifts after that. Still sharp. Still heavy. But different.
Hours pass without me realizing it.
Eventually, the club below goes dark. The silence deepens.
I feel it then. The pull. The awareness. The heat that settles low in my stomach when he steps too close or looks at me for too long.
I don’t trust it.
“I should go,” I say, breaking the moment. “It’s late.”
“I can have someone take you home,” he offers immediately. “Or I’ll walk you.”
I shake my head. “I’m a big girl. I can get home on my own.”
He doesn’t look happy about it.
