“And hunting?” she asked.
“My father.”
Aunt Mabel nodded slowly. “So, it’s blood.”
“It’s discipline,” Cassian corrected.
Aunt Mabel raised her brows. “You’re going to argue with me in my own house?”
“No, ma’am.”
The deference was subtle but clear.
It made something tighten in my chest—an odd mix of relief and irritation. He could obey when he chose. He could show restraint that looked like respect.
He just didn’t offer it to everyone.
Which meant I couldn’t stop thinking about why he was offering it here.
Aunt Mabel turned to me. “Do you remember the winter your mother tried to leave?”
I stiffened.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “I remember you telling me.”
She shook her head. “No. I mean, do you remember her that winter? The way she moved through rooms?”
A flash rose in my mind: my mother in a wool coat at the top of the stairs, staring out the front window as if waiting for someone who never came. Her hand resting on the banister, fingers tight, knuckles pale. Her voice too measured at dinner, like she was reading from a script.
“Yes,” I admitted.
Cassian’s gaze stayed on me, unreadable.
“She wasn’t unhappy,” Aunt Mabel continued. “She was awake. For the first time in a long time.”
The words sank deep.
I glanced at Cassian again. His expression didn’t change, but something about him sharpened—attention tightening, like he’d just heard a piece of truth he respected.
“What was his name?” I asked suddenly.
Aunt Mabel blinked once. “Which name?”
“The man,” I said. “The one she almost left with.”
Aunt Mabel’s gaze flicked to Cassian, then back to me.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said gently.
My pulse spiked. “Why?”
“Because you’ll turn it into an equation,” she replied. “You’ll try to solve your mother instead of accepting she was human.”
“I’m not trying to solve her,” I lied.
Cassian’s eyes moved over my face like he could see the lie settle into place.
Aunt Mabel softened. “Lia,” she said quietly, “your mother doesn’t need to be forgiven. She needs to be understood.”
