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đź“– Until You Beg
Chapter Three – The Fundraiser
By Peace Lovie
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The car was silent. Not the kind of silence that comforted, but the kind that held its breath before a storm.
Cassian sat beside her in the back of the black Mercedes, one arm draped casually over the seat behind her, like he owned the air around her too. He was dressed in black-on-black—suit, shirt, tie—all silk and shadows. Regal. Untouchable.
Zariah's gown was satin, deep wine red. Strapless, clinging to every curve like a second skin. Chosen by him, of course. Laid out in a box on her desk with a card that read:
> "Wear this. Be stunning. Obey."
She hated that it fit perfectly. Hated even more how she felt his eyes on her the moment she stepped out of her apartment.
"Beautiful," he had said. "Like danger wrapped in velvet."
Now, he hadn't said a word in ten minutes.
Neither had she.
She didn't need to.
Her body was already tense with everything unspoken between them.
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They arrived at the venue — a towering hotel lit like a dream on the outside, like a trap on the inside.
People turned when they entered. Not because of the lights or the music, but because of him. Cassian Vale moved like a myth made flesh. People feared him, craved him, and whispered about him behind glasses of wine.
Zariah was the unknown on his arm. The beautiful stranger. The one no one recognized.
And Cassian liked it that way.
He leaned in, voice brushing against her cheek like a secret.
> "Smile, Nyelle. You're the prize tonight."
She didn't smile. But she didn't look away either.
"I'm not here to be shown off."
Cassian's lips twitched. "Oh, but you are."
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The evening passed like a dance of lies. Speeches. Laughter. Flashing cameras. Hands in donation envelopes. Cassian shook hands with men who sold weapons in private and called them "philanthropists" in public.
Zariah stayed close, quiet, alert.
She memorized names. Faces. Weaknesses.
Every time Cassian introduced her, he used no title.
Not assistant. Not partner. Not anything.
Just "Zariah."
And each time, he said it slower. Like tasting it.
At one point, a man in a pale gray suit leaned too close to her while Cassian was turned away. His breath reeked of champagne and ego.
"You with Vale?" the man slurred. "Or can I borrow you for a dance?"
Before she could answer, Cassian was suddenly between them. No smile. No sound.
Just presence.
"I don't share," he said flatly.
The man blinked, sobered by the warning in Cassian's tone. "Didn't realize she was off-limits."
"She's not off-limits," Cassian replied. "She's mine."
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Zariah said nothing as the man vanished into the crowd.
Cassian turned to her, his hand brushing her lower back as he guided her away from the noise.
"I can handle myself," she said, keeping her voice low.
He didn't look at her. "I know."
"Then why mark your territory like a beast?"
He did look at her then.
Long. Dark. Amused.
> "Because I am one."
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They stood alone on a balcony overlooking the city. The wind teased the hem of her dress. Music pulsed through the glass behind them, muffled like a heartbeat under water.
Cassian lit a cigarette, offered her one. She shook her head.
"You don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't dance," he said. "What do you do, Nyelle?"
"I plan," she said simply.
He tilted his head. "Plan what?"
She looked out at the city.
> How to destroy you.
"Everything," she said.
Cassian stepped closer. Close enough that the air between them thinned.
"You always this difficult?"
"You always this possessive?"
He smirked. "Only with things that interest me."
"You think I'm a thing?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear—slow, deliberate, testing.
Zariah didn't flinch. Didn't move.
But her heart?
It pounded like it wanted out of her chest.
Cassian leaned in, voice low enough to be mistaken for wind.
> "You play a dangerous game with me, Nyelle."
She finally turned to him.
Eyes locked.
No fear. No lies.
> "Good. I was hoping it wouldn't be boring."
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And then…
He kissed her.
Not sweet. Not tender.
It was a command disguised as a taste.
His hand cupped her jaw, firm but not cruel, and his mouth pressed against hers like he was claiming her soul.
Zariah didn't pull away.
She kissed him back.
But in her mind?
She pictured a bullet between his ribs.
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When he pulled back, his voice was breathless.
"You'll be the death of me."
Zariah smiled—soft, deadly.
> "That's the plan."
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