The bed creaked softly behind me.
“You’re up,” Cassian said.
His voice was low with sleep, rough in a way that made heat coil low in my stomach despite everything else.
I turned.
He stood in the doorway in nothing but dark pants slung low on his hips, hair still tousled, eyes steady. He didn’t look panicked. He didn’t look worried.
He looked ready.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I admitted.
He walked toward me slowly, stopping just within reach. His gaze flicked to the faint bruise at my collarbone, then back to my face.
“Regret?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
He studied me for another beat, like he was searching for cracks.
“You’re thinking,” he said.
“Always.”
His mouth curved faintly. “About?”
“The cost,” I said.
There was no point pretending otherwise.
He nodded once. “We’ll see it soon.”
Not we’ll fix it.
Not I’ll handle it.
We’ll see it.
We.
I picked up my phone.
Forty-three notifications.
Texts from Harper.
Three missed calls from Eleanor.
Two emails from Thomas Price’s assistant.
An alert from the Post and Courier: “Lia Quinn Doubles Down at Gala.”
I exhaled slowly and opened Harper’s message first.
Call me. Immediately.
