Cassian
Victoryisthetasteof cheap whiskey on my tongue and the sight of her trembling hand lifting a glass of water to her lips.
She takes a sip.
A single, hesitant sip, but it’s enough. It’s a signature on an unwritten contract. A key turning in a lock. Every muscle in my body, coiled tight for the last hour, finally unspools. A grinspreads across my face. I can’t help it. I’ve won, for tonight, at least.
She sets the glass down, the faint click against the wooden table a gavel striking judgment. She won’t meet my eyes. She stares at the condensation on the glass, her cheeks flushed a pale pink.
I let the silence stretch, letting her stew in her decision. I want her to feel the weight of it, I want her to understand that the world has just tilted on its axis, and she’s the one who pushed it.
“So,” I finally say, my voice a low, satisfied rumble. I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, reclaiming the space between us. “The ghost came looking for the monster. Now that you’ve found him, what do you want to ask?”
Her head jerks up, her dark eyes wide with a fresh wave of panic. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?” I laugh, a short, humorless sound. “You walked into the one place in this city you knew you’d find me. You sat down, you stayed after I showed you exactly what I am, you drank the water. You’re not here by accident, Aria. You’re here because the quiet in your head is gone, and you want to know why.” I lean in a little closer, dropping my voice. “You’re here because I’m the noise now. Aren’t I?”
She flinches as if I’ve struck her. It’s a confession. Her silence is my answer.
I watch her hand, still wrapped around the glass of water. Her knuckles are white, her fingers are steady, but I can see the frantic pulse beating in the delicate skin of her wrist. A hummingbird’s heart. I want to feel it. I want to put my thumb on it and feel her life, her fear, beating against my skin.
Slowly, deliberately, I reach across the table. She watches my hand move, her breath catching in her throat. She thinks I’m going to be rough. She thinks I’m going to grab her, but I don’t. My hand is surprisingly gentle as I cover hers.
The contact is electric. Her skin is cool and soft beneath mine, which is rough and calloused from a lifetime of fighting. The contrast is intoxicating. Her entire body goes rigid, a statue carved from fear. I can feel the frantic thrum of her pulse against my palm. It’s the most honest thing about her.
I tighten my grip just enough to be possessive. To let her know that I can crush her if I want to, and that I’m choosing not to.
“This is what you wanted,” I murmur, my gaze holding hers. “To feel something. Anything. Even this.”
Her eyes are a swirling storm of terror and confusion, but underneath it all, there’s that flicker again. That spark of defiance. It’s the part of her that walked into this bar. The part that is staring back at me right now instead of cowering.
“What do you want from me?” she whispers, her voice strained.
It’s the first honest question she’s asked.
I consider it.What do I want?I want to crack her open and live inside the pieces. I want to know the name of the ghost that haunts her. I’ll replace that ghost with myself. I want to see her come undone. I want to be the only thing in her world that feels real.
“Everything,” I say, and the word is a raw, guttural truth.
I see the impact of that word in her eyes. The fear intensifies, but it’s mingled with a dawning, horrified understanding. She’s not in a game of cat and mouse anymore. She’s in something far more dangerous.
I’ve pushed her enough for one night. The lesson is over, the point has been made. I need to release her now, so she can go home and obsess over every single second of this encounter. I need her to lie awake in her silent apartment and hear my voice, feel my hand on hers.
I pull my hand back slowly, breaking the contact. The air between us feels cold.
“Time to go home, Aria,” I say, my tone shifting, becoming dismissive. It’s another power play. I brought you here, and now I am sending you away.
I slide out of the booth and stand up, waiting. For a second she just sits there, looking dazed. Then, scrambling, she gathers her tote bag and slides out to join me. She won’t stand too close, but she doesn’t bolt for the door either. She’s waiting for my lead.
Good girl.
I place my hand on her back again, in the exact same spot as before. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away. I steer her through the bar. The path clears for us, just as it did before. On our way out, I catch Mick’s eye. I give him a slow, deliberate nod. It’s a signal.She’s with me. Remember her face. She is to be left alone.Mick, who has tended bar in hellholes like this for forty years, understands perfectly. He gives a barely perceptible nod in return.
We reach the heavy front door and I push it open, letting the cold, damp night air wash over us. It’s a relief after the suffocating heat of the bar.
She stands on the pavement, hugging her bag to her chest, looking lost. She’s waiting to be dismissed.
I step out after her, closing the door behind me and boxing her in against the brick wall. I lean in, one hand on the wall next to her head, my body caging hers. She squeezes her eyes shut, her breath hitching.
