“I tasted blood,” she says simply.
It’s a deflection, but it’s enough.
I need to put some distance between us before I do something else I haven’t planned. I push myself away from her, the movement making my ribs scream in protest as I limp toward the center of the room, turning my back on her to give myself a moment to rein it all in.
“Sit down,” I command, gesturing to the worn black leather sofa that faces a wall of bare brick. “On the sofa. Don’t touch anything. Don’t go anywhere.”
I don’t wait for her to comply as I walk toward the open-plan bathroom at the far end of the loft, the one separated by only a half-wall of concrete. I need to wash the blood off. I need to get my head straight.
She’s not what I thought she was. The ghost from the file, the doll I thought would break—that’s not who is standing in my loft. She’s a mirror, and she’s not reflecting my monster back at me. She’s reflecting the man, and that’s more terrifying than any opponent I’ve ever faced in the ring.
Sixteen
Aria
Theloftisacavern of concrete and shadows. It is nothing like I would have imagined. There is no chaos here, no clutter of a violent life. It’s stark, minimalist, and obsessively clean. A single black leather sofa sits on a worn Persian rug, facing a bare brick wall. In a far corner, a simple mattress lies directly on the concrete floor, the grey duvet pulled taut. A galley kitchen with stainless steel counters is spotless. It’s a monk’scell. A predator’s den, stripped of everything but the essentials. It is a space designed for control.
I obey his command, my legs moving stiffly, and sit on the very edge of the leather sofa. The material is cool and smooth against the back of my legs. I place my tote bag on the floor beside me like an anchor. My own small piece of a world that no longer feels real.
From the bathroom I hear the sound of water running, then a sharp, hissed intake of breath. The sound is shockingly human. It’s a sound of pain, quickly suppressed. The monster is not immune. The thought does nothing to calm the frantic, wild beating of my heart. I can still taste him. My tongue keeps finding the spot on my lip where his blood was, a phantom tang of iron and violence.
He emerges from the shadows of the bathroom a few minutes later, and the sight of him makes the air leave my lungs in a silent rush. He’s bare-chested, and he is a canvas of black ink.
It’s not the chaotic, colorful tapestry of a man trying to be seen. It’s stark, deliberate, and personal. A single, large raven is etched in black and grey over his heart, its wings partially unfurled as if caught mid-flight or mid-fall. From it, intricate, sharp lines that look like cracks in stone or veins of dark lightning spider out across his chest and disappear over his shoulders. They are less like decorations and more like scars, a map of controlled chaos. The ink makes the angry, blooming bruise over his ribs stand out in stark relief, a splash of raw color on a monochrome landscape.
He has washed the blood from his face and chest, but it has done little to hide the damage. His lip is more swollen now, a deep, angry purple. And the cut over his eye is still bleeding, a sluggish, ruby-red line that traces a path down his temple.
Cassian ignores me completely. He limps to a tall, metal locker near the kitchen, the kind you’d see in a factory, and opens it.He pulls out a black metal box embossed with a simple red cross, a serious first-aid kit. He carries it to the low, concrete table in front of the sofa and sits on the floor, his back to me.
I watch the muscles in his back tense as he opens the kit. He pulls out a small mirror, a bottle of antiseptic, and a sterile cloth. He props the mirror against a book on the table and leans in, trying to get a look at the cut. He dabs at it with the cloth, hissing again as the antiseptic makes contact. He’s angled awkwardly, his arm contorting to reach the spot. He tries to apply a butterfly bandage, but his fingers are too big, the angle all wrong. The small bandage falls from his slick fingers onto the table.
He lets out a low, frustrated growl, a sound of pure, animalistic rage directed at his own physical limitations. He slams his fist down on the concrete table, the sound a gunshot in the silence. The mirror clatters and falls flat.
He doesn’t move for a long moment, his head bowed, his shoulders heaving. The fight is over, but the war with his own body has just begun.
Slowly, he turns his head, looking at me over his shoulder. In the dim light his one good eye is a burning, desperate green. His face is a mask of frustration and pain.
He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t plead. He states a fact, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
“I can’t reach it.”
The words are a command. They are a surrender and they’re the heaviest, most dangerous thing he has said to me all night. He is handing me a weapon—his own vulnerability—and daring me to use it.
My mind is a screaming void.No. Don’t move. Stay right here. He’s a monster. He’s bleeding. He kissed you. He will hurt you.
The silence in the loft is heavier than my fear. The sight of him, the undefeated champion, the Wraith, brought low by a two-inch gash he can’t reach… it’s an irresistible anomaly. My curiosity,that terrible, insistent needle point of light is more powerful than my terror. I have to know what happens next.
I rise from the sofa, my movements feeling slow and syrupy, as if I’m moving through water. I walk around the table and stand before him. He watches me, his head tilted back, his jaw tight. He looks like a wolf caught in a trap, ready to bite the hand that tries to help.
I kneel on the floor in front of him.
The change in perspective is dizzying. Cassian is now taller than me, but I am the one in control. I reach for the first-aid kit, my fingers brushing against his knee as I do. He flinches, a barely perceptible tightening of his muscles, but he doesn’t pull away.
I take out a fresh antiseptic wipe, the crinkle of the sterile packaging unnaturally loud in the silence. “This is going to sting,” I say, my voice a flat, clinical whisper. It’s a warning. It’s a fact.
“Just do it,” he grits out between clenched teeth.
I bring my left hand up to his jaw, cupping it gently to steady his head. His skin is hot, feverish. His stubble rasps against my palm. He doesn’t move, but I can feel a fine tremor running through him. He is forcing himself to be still, to accept my touch.
