“That’s dangerous,” she replied.
“I know.”
“Does he know that?”
A slow breath filled my lungs.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “He does.”
The conversation didn’t explode. There were no raised voices, no dramatic ultimatums. Instead, it wound down in careful layers—practical questions about when I’d return to Charleston, whether I’d stop by Albany before heading south, the usual scaffolding of maternal concern.
But something fundamental had shifted.
When I ended the call, my hand was steady.
I turned slowly.
Cassian hadn’t moved from where he stood, but his expression was different now. Not guarded.
Intent.
“You told her,” he said.
“Yes.”
“That you’re choosing.”
“Yes.”
His gaze searched my face—not for weakness, not for doubt.
For conviction.
“And are you?” he asked.
The question wasn’t a challenge.
It was assessment.
I stepped toward him again—not hesitantly this time. Not testing.
Deliberate.
“Yes,” I said.
His eyes darkened, not with hunger alone—but with something heavier.
Ownership.
The realization sent a pulse of heat through me.
He reached up slowly, brushing his knuckles along my jaw. The touch was restrained, almost contemplative.
“You think making me want you gives you leverage,” he murmured.
I met his gaze without flinching.
“I think it makes this mutual.”
