But in his hold, it felt like something I could face.
Hopefully.
Later, back at his house, we undressed in the dark.
He pressed me against the wall, mouth on mine, hands claiming.
“I love you,” he said, voice rough.
The words shattered me. I hadn’t expected them.
“I love you, too.”
He took me then—hard, possessive, unrelenting.
And I gave everything.
In the aftermath, tangled in sheets, I knew.
Hunters don’t let go.
And neither do I.
28
The next morning, I woke before the sun.
For a few disoriented seconds, I didn’t know where I was. The ceiling above me was high and pale, the curtains heavy and still. Then I felt the arm draped across my waist and remembered.
Cassian.
Last night had not been subtle. It hadn’t been cautious or careful or strategic. It had been a line drawn in permanent ink.
I love you.
The words still felt unreal in my mouth. Too large. Too final.
His hand shifted slightly at my hip as I moved, tightening reflexively like my body might disappear if he didn’t anchor it. Even in sleep, he held on.
Hunters don’t let go.
Neither do I.
The thought should have frightened me.
It didn’t.
What frightened me was everything waiting outside this room.
My phone lay face-down on the nightstand, silent for now, but I knew better than to trust that. By now, the gala would be dissected, clipped into thirty-second segments, quoted out of context, posted in comment threads where strangers would decide who I was.
Advocate Lia Quinn chooses hunter over principles.
I slid carefully out from under his arm, easing myself upright. The sheet fell from my body, cool air brushing my skin. I didn’t bother covering myself. There was something almost defiant about standing bare in his bedroom after the night I’d had.
The mirror across the room caught my reflection. My hair was tangled, my lipstick long gone, a faint mark blooming along my collarbone where his mouth had lingered.
I looked less like an advocate and more like a woman who had made a decision.
