“You might.”
“And you’d still want me?”
His hand came up, covered mine against his face. “Yes.”
One word.
But it carried the weight of every promise he’d never spoken aloud.
I closed the distance.
The kiss was not gentle.
It was desperate. Hungry. Angry and tender at once.
His arms banded around me, lifting me against him as he backed us toward the house. The door opened behind us without either of us touching it—automatic, like the rest of his world.
We didn’t make it upstairs.
He pressed me against the wall in the foyer, hands sliding under my blouse, mouth on my throat. I arched into him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
“Cassian—”
He lifted his head. Eyes dark. “Say stop if you need to.”
I didn’t.
Instead I pulled his mouth back to mine.
Clothes came off in pieces—blouse, trousers, his shirt yanked over his head. He lifted me again, carried me to the wide leather sofa in the living room, laid me down like I was something precious and breakable.
But when he came over me, there was nothing careful about the way he entered me—deep, hard, claiming.
I gasped his name.
He moved with purpose, each thrust measured but relentless, eyes locked on mine.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice rough. “Even if you walk away tomorrow. Even if the world burns your name down. You’re still mine.”
Tears stung my eyes—not sadness, but something bigger.
I wrapped my legs around him, met every movement. “And you’re mine.”
He groaned, pace faltering for the first time.
We came together—hard, shattering, clinging to each other like the world might disappear if we let go.
Afterward he held me on the sofa, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on my back.
“I’ll sell the preserves,” he said quietly. “If you need me to.”
I lifted my head. “You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
I studied him. “But you wouldn’t want to.”
“No.”
