I wrap an arm around Cassia’s shoulders and guide her back toward the club.
Whoever is pulling these strings has just declared war.
They’ve made the mistake of involving her.
I won’t forgive that.
Chapter
Nine
Cassia
I hadn’t realized my hands had been shaking until we were back inside, back in Orpheus’s office.
The moment the door to Orpheus’s private space seals behind us, the noise of the club drops away like someone pulled the cord. No bass. No laughter. No clinking glasses. Just quiet, thick and heavy, and far too intimate after what happened outside.
I can still smell the alley.
The blood. Wet brick. That sharp metallic tang that doesn’t leave your nose once it gets in there.
Orpheus doesn’t look like it affected him at all.
That’s the part that should unsettle me the most, but it isn’t. Not really.
The part that unsettles me is how calm he is while I’m still trying to make my lungs remember how to breathe.
He guides me forward with a hand on my elbow, not rough, not gentle either. Like he’s trying not to touch me too much. Likehe’s aware that one wrong move might snap something inside me.
I hate that I might be that fragile.
I straighten my spine and step away from his grasp, needing the space between us to prove I’m not someone who is fragile. I don’t know if it’s him or me that I’m trying to make aware of this. Probably myself.
I’m not going to collapse. Not in front of him. Not in front of anyone. I refuse to allow myself to seem weak to anyone.
He watches me for a beat, eyes narrowed slightly, then walks past me like he owns the air and drops into that chair behind his desk.
His throne.
I don’t want to think about crowns or gods or Underworld Kings. I don’t want to think about a vampire’s head popping off his body like it were nothing.
I definitely don’t want to think about the way Orpheus’s voice sounded when he told them to leave. Like he was bored. Like killing someone was a chore he had to take care of as if it were the same as washing clothes or doing the dishes.
I move toward the wall again, toward the art, because it’s easier to stare at paint and stone than it is to stare at him.
But even the art feels different now.
Not beautiful.
Not interesting.
Just evidence.
Proof that he’s existed for too long. That he’s collected history like trophies because the passage of time doesn’t mean anything to him the way it means something to me.
My skin prickles as the memory of the alley snaps back into focus.
The blade.
