He uncrossed his arms and stepped closer, stopping just out of reach. “Are you angry because I denied you pleasure … orbecause I showed you how much control you’re willing to give away?”
The question cut deep.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
Cassian nodded once. “Good. If you were certain, this wouldn’t work.”
He crouched in front of me, bringing us eye to eye.
“You came here for fantasy,” he said quietly. “But fantasy is safe. It has edges. Scripts. Endpoints.”
“Yes.”
“This,” he continued, gesturing between us, “isn’t safe in that way.”
My throat tightened. “Then what is it?”
“Honest.”
He stood again, turning away, pouring two fingers of whiskey into a glass I hadn’t noticed before. He offered it to me.
I hesitated.
“Drink,” he said. “Not to numb. To mark the moment.”
I took the glass and sipped. The burn grounded me.
“You don’t belong to me,” he said.
My breath caught.
“Yet,” he added calmly. “And that distinction matters. I don’t take what isn’t offered.”
I looked up at him. “You already have.”
His mouth curved faintly. “No. I’ve only shown you what you’re willing to give.”
He took the glass from my hand and set it aside, then reached down and tilted my chin up—not roughly, but decisively.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you want to stop?”
The room went very still.
“No,” I said.
“Do you want me to take control away from you?”
My heart hammered. “No.”
“Do you want to keep choosing this—even knowing it will cost you?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
Something dark and satisfied flashed in his eyes.
He straightened. “Then stand.”
