Alina woke to the scent of coffee.
Real coffee.
Not the powdered kind the staff sometimes left for her.
She blinked against the soft light pouring in through the window. The room was quiet—too quiet. Her fingers grazed the cool linen beside her. Cassian wasn't in bed.
But his presence lingered.
A small porcelain cup sat on the nightstand beside her, steam curling from it. No note. No sound from the hall. Just that single, silent offering.
She narrowed her eyes.
Since when did Cassian Vale make gestures?
She touched the cup, still hot, and brought it to her lips.
Black.
Strong.
Bitter.
Just like him.
---
She found him in the training room downstairs, sleeves rolled, punching the heavy bag with a focused brutality.
She lingered in the doorway, watching the way his muscles flexed under damp skin, the way his breath stayed steady even as sweat dripped down his neck. Focused. Measured. Dangerous.
And yet… different.
Less like a weapon, more like a man trying to keep the war at bay.
"Thanks for the coffee," she said.
He didn't pause. "Didn't do it for you."
She crossed her arms, stepping further in. "So you made it for the ghosts?"
Cassian's lips twitched. The closest thing to a smile she'd seen in days.
"You're up early," he said without turning.
"You're shirtless. Not complaining."
He punched harder.
"So," she said, circling him. "Are you always this grumpy after sex, or is it just when the world wants your wife dead?"
This time he stopped.
Slowly turned to her.
"You're feeling brave this morning."
"Must be the caffeine," she said sweetly.
He stepped toward her, eyes sharp. "You think I'm soft now?"
Alina tilted her head. "Maybe a little. You made coffee. That's almost romantic."
Cassian chuckled—low and dark.
"That wasn't romance, wife. That was strategy. If you're awake, you're not getting shot."
"But you still brought it yourself," she teased, stepping closer. "You could've sent someone."
"I don't trust anyone else," he said flatly.
Her smile faded.
Because that wasn't flirtation.
That was confession.
---
Later, they sat across from each other in the library — a strange, quiet truce lingering between them. The house was locked down. Guards on every floor. No one in. No one out.
"Tell me something true," Alina said, legs curled under her on the couch.
Cassian didn't look up from the file in his hands. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because truth makes people soft."
"You already kissed me like you meant it," she shot back.
His eyes flicked up.
And the silence that followed made her heart thud louder.
"Don't mistake desperation for affection," he said.
"But you haven't touched me since."
"I'm trying not to make the same mistake twice."
That stung.
But Alina leaned forward anyway. "What if I wanted you to?"
His eyes didn't soften.
But his voice did.
Just a little.
"Then we'd both end up worse than we are now."
---
Later that night, as she brushed her hair by the mirror, he entered their room quietly.
He didn't speak. Didn't try to touch her.
Just stood in the doorway, watching.
"You're staring," she said.
"You wore that dress once," he said lowly. "In Rome."
She paused.
"The red one. Off-shoulder. You were trying to steal a file from me."
Her lips parted. "You knew?"
Cassian's gaze darkened. "I always knew."
"Why didn't you stop me?"
He took a breath.
"Because even then, I didn't want to."
Alina's chest tightened.
He walked closer.
Stood behind her.
Met her gaze in the mirror.
"You're still dangerous," he said softly. "But now you're mine."
She turned, heart racing. "Does that mean I'm safe?"
Cassian brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"No," he murmured. "It means you're kept."
---
She should've hated the word.
But the way he said it…
Something in her wanted to be kept.
Not as a prisoner.
As his.
---
That night, he lay beside her again — this time not out of anger or heat.
But something in between.
His hand slid across the sheet, brushing hers.
Fingers didn't lock.
But they stayed close.
And that was enough.
For now.