Aunt Mabel watched him the entire time, expression unreadable.
When he sat, she lifted her wineglass in a small toast.
“To unexpected visitors,” she said.
Cassian inclined his head once. “Thank you for having us.”
I tried to swallow the strange tightness in my throat and picked up my fork.
The first few minutes passed in the familiar rhythm of shared food—silverware against china, the warmth of meat and vegetables, Aunt Mabel’s steady presence keeping the room from tilting into something too charged.
Then she set her fork down.
“So,” she said evenly, “what do you hunt?”
The question landed right between us like a coin tossed onto a table.
Cassian didn’t flinch.
“Deer, mostly,” he replied.
“And you enjoy it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He considered her carefully, as though deciding how much to give.
“Because it requires patience,” he said. “Precision. Respect.”
“Respect?” I echoed.
His gaze shifted to mine.
“You don’t take what you don’t intend to use.”
Aunt Mabel nodded as if that mattered. “And if you miss?”
“I don’t shoot unless I’m certain,” he said.
My fork stilled.
That sounded like more than hunting.
It sounded like a philosophy. I felt it in my spine.
“You’re saying it’s about control,” I said.
“It’s about discipline,” he corrected.
“That’s a convenient distinction,” I replied.
“It’s an important one.”
Aunt Mabel took a slow sip of wine, eyes moving between us.
“Lia built her career arguing that hunting is violence disguised as heritage,” she said conversationally.
