“Yes.”
“Where?”
“South of Broad.”
I let out a small breath. “Of course, it is.”
It fit too easily.
Not just the location—but the kind of place it implied. Old Charleston money. Gated gardens hidden behind wrought iron. Houses that didn’t need to prove anything because their history already had.
And Cassian?—
He moved like he belonged in spaces like that.
I didn’t know what he did. Not really. But nothing about him suggested limitation. Not the way he traveled, not the way he occupied space, not the quiet confidence that came from never having to question access.
The lodge alone was enough to tell me that.
This place wasn’t rented. It wasn’t temporary. It was established. Built—or bought—with the kind of money that didn’t need to be explained out loud.
And that wasn’t even counting Charleston.
Or whatever else he wasn’t saying.
It wasn’t flashy wealth. There were no obvious displays, no need to signal it.
Which somehow made it more powerful.
More controlled.
More dangerous.
Because men like that didn’t just have money.
They had reach.
My gaze drifted back to him, to the steady way he drove, to the complete lack of effort in how he carried all of it—power, control, resources—like it was just … part of him.
His mouth curved faintly. “You don’t approve?”
“I think it fits you too well.”
“That’s not disapproval.”
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”
A quiet stretched between us, comfortable in a way that still felt new.
“I want to meet your friend Harper,” he said.
I turned to him. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she matters to you.”
