My breath catches. The memory of my own words, torn from me in the throes of passion, echoes in the quiet loft.Yours. I'm yours.The admission feels like a brand now, a mark of ownership.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. "And what's mine, stays with me. I'll get your things. You'll tell me what you need. Understood?"
The question is a velvet-covered fist. I want to fight. Every instinct screams to resist, to assert my will but the weight of his words, the undeniable truth of my own surrender, crushes thedefiance. My body still aches from his claiming, my mind still hums with the quiet he brought.
I give a single, reluctant nod.
"Good girl," he whispers, and the casual praise feels like a fresh wound, a new chain.
I turn and walk toward the bathroom, his eyes on my back the entire way. The silence in my head is still there. But now, underneath it, a new sound begins to form. A tiny, insistent question, humming with a cold, sharp fear.
Who are you, Cassian? And what have I done?
Nineteen
Aria
Thebathroomisasstark as the rest of the loft. Concrete walls, a steel sink, and a large, walk-in shower stall. I step inside, the cold tile a shock against my feet. I turn the knob and the water blasts out, hot and steaming, instantly fogging the glass.
I stand under the spray, letting the heat wash over me. Trying to scald away the lingering scent of him, the stickiness on myskin, the memory of his hands, but it’s useless. The water just mixes with it, creating a new, potent cocktail that clings to me.
My mind is a kaleidoscope of images: his bruised face, the raven tattoo, the map. The red circle around my building, the 'x' in the alley, wasn't a coincidence. Cassian didn't just stumble upon me. He found me. He watched me. He knew me.
The realization is a cold, hard knot in my stomach. It should terrify me, and it does. This isn't the thrilling, dangerous fear of the alley. This is a creeping, insidious dread that whispers of manipulation, of a carefully orchestrated trap.
Another part of me, the part that craved the noise hums with a dark, perverse satisfaction. Cassian wanted me that badly. He pursued me. He broke all his own rules for me.
I close my eyes, letting the water run down my face. The numbness is gone. The quiet in my head is profound, but it's not empty. It's filled with the echoes of his voice, the memory of his touch, the terrifying truth of his obsession. I reach for the bar of soap, scrubbing my skin raw. My throat still aches, a constant reminder of his claim. I hurt in ways I didn't know I could be hurt, and in doing so, he woke me up.
Perfect. Every inch.His words echo in my mind. Cassian doesn't want a perfect woman. He wants me, flaws and all, because those flaws are part of what makes me his.
I lean against the cold tile, letting the water beat down on my head. I am not a ghost anymore. He pulled me back from the void, not with gentle hands but with a brutal, possessive force. I don't know what happens now, but for the first time in a long time, the not knowing feels like a beginning.
I turn off the water and dry myself with a rough, dark gray towel. I am not the same girl who walked into this loft last night.
The smell of strong, black coffee fills the air as I step out, wrapped in a towel. He's in the main living space, wearing a pairof dark jeans slung low on his hips with his back to me. He turns, and a slow smile spreads across his lips.
"I found you some clothes," he says, his voice a low rumble.
My gaze drifts to the small pile on the edge of the mattress. His clothes. I walk toward them and pick up the plain black t-shirt. It’s soft and worn. I lift it to my face, and the scent of him fills my senses—not the sweat and sex of last night, but something cleaner. Laundry soap, metal, and that unique, underlying scent that is purely Cassian.
I drop the towel and pull the shirt over my head. It’s huge, hanging off my shoulders, the hem falling to my mid-thigh. The sweatpants are even larger. I feel small, swallowed by his clothes, branded by his scent. It’s an act of surrender.
Cassian watches my every move. I walk toward him, and he holds out one of the black mugs.
"You take it black," he says. It's not a question, it's a statement of fact.
A cold shock goes through me, colder than the tile in the shower.How does he know that?The map, the file, of course he knows. He doesn't just know where I live. He knowsme.
"How did you know that?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
His smile doesn't waver. "I know a lot of things about you, Aria." He gestures with his head toward the worn leather sofa. "Sit."
I obey, curling up on one end. He takes the other, the distance between us doing nothing to lessen the suffocating intensity of his presence. We drink in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds are the distant rumble of city traffic.
He breaks the silence first. "Finish your coffee. Then we’re going to your place."
I look up at him, my heart giving a nervous flutter. "My place? Why?"
