I stared at him. “And you’re not worried about the blowback?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “From who?”
That was the problem. He didn’t mean it as bravado. He meant it as fact. Like “who” was a small question.
“My career,” I said, because that was the sharpest knife I had. “My reputation. My work. The irony of me showing up on someone’s arm?—”
His eyes darkened slightly. “On my arm.”
I blinked, heat sparking low in my belly even as irritation flared.
“That’s what you heard?” I asked.
“That’s what you meant,” he said.
My pulse jumped.
I looked away, annoyed at myself for reacting, annoyed at him for noticing.
Cassian’s voice dropped. “You’re not ashamed.”
I turned back. “I should be.”
“No,” he said, calm as stone. “You’re afraid of being misread.”
The accuracy of it made me go still.
He watched my face for a beat, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice quieter.
“I’m not here to cost you,” he said. “I’m here because you chose. And you’re still choosing.”
My throat tightened.
“Don’t say it like that,” I muttered.
“Like what.”
“Like you’re—” I struggled for the word. “Like you’re inevitable.”
His mouth barely moved, but something in his eyes did. Something almost like approval.
“You want to be able to walk away,” he said.
“Yes.”
“You can.”
I laughed once, sharp. “That’s generous.”
“It’s true.”
“And if I do?” I challenged.
His gaze stayed steady. “Then you’ll do it for a reason you can live with.”
The words landed deeper than they should have. Not because they were romantic.
Because they sounded like trust.
