He was still asleep when the fire dimmed.
Cassian lay tangled in the couch cushions, chest rising slow, one hand curled beside his head, the other resting loosely over the dip of his stomach. Even now, in rest, he looked like he was bracing for impact. Like he expected the world to hit him again the moment his guard dropped.
Men like him didn't get softness. They didn't believe in it.
And that made offering it all the more delicious.
I sat nearby, barefoot, legs tucked beneath a spill of silk. Watching. Studying. Imagining how many pieces I could take him apart in before he realized he wasn't bleeding.
His hair—too golden for someone so bitter—caught firelight in uneven strands. His lips were slightly parted. I wondered if he'd dreamt of me, if some part of him recognized what I was even if he didn't have the words for it.
He stirred.
Blinking up at me like I wasn't real. Then frowning, like he wished I wasn't.
"You stayed," I said, voice velvet-smooth.
He pushed up on his elbows, blinking sleep from his eyes. "You didn't give me much of a choice."
I smiled slowly. "I didn't tie you down, Cassian."
"You didn't have to."
Silence stretched between us, thick and scented with smoke and skin and something still glowing in the pit of him. His gaze dipped to where my robe had slipped off one shoulder, but only briefly. He was trying so hard not to look again. Trying not to remember how my body had moved over his, how I'd made him unravel with my mouth, my hands, my voice.
He failed.
I heard the echo of it in his heartbeat.
Still, he tried to armor himself with words.
"So what now? You got what you wanted."
I stood, moved to the mantle. Lit a new candle with a flick of my finger. His eyes followed me.
"Do you always speak like a man waiting for the blade?"
Cassian scoffed. "Only when I'm the one under it."
I turned, robe sliding soft over my legs.
"Then let me offer you peace. Or power."
That got his attention.
He sat up fully, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"
I walked back to him, slow and barefoot. The fire painted my skin in copper and honey.
"You need money. Safety. A life that doesn't chew you up just to spit you back out."
"And you're offering that?" he asked, guarded.
I stopped in front of him. Touched his jaw—gently, just with my fingertips. His pulse jumped.
"I'm offering a choice."
He waited.
"Option one," I said, brushing his bottom lip with my thumb. "You stay. Here. With me. The villa will provide. You'll want for nothing. Your sister can come too. She'd be safe. Fed. Kept warm. All of it."
His eyes darkened, but not with anger.
"You want me to be your kept man?"
"No," I said, curling onto the armrest beside him. "I want you to stop running. I want you in my bed because you want to be. Every night, not just when desperation drives you here."
"And option two?"
"You leave," I said. "Return to the city. Try to hold the world up on tired shoulders. But you come back to me once a week. Just one night. I pay you well. And in return..." I reached out, tracing the scar on his knuckle, "...you let me have you."
His throat bobbed. He didn't speak.
"I won't beg," I whispered. "And I won't stop you if you walk out."
I stood again, walking away—back turned, robe drifting around me like mist.
"But I will miss you. And so will this house."
At the door, I paused and looked back.
He sat there, still shirtless, jaw tight, hands curled into fists against his thighs. Beautiful and cornered and tempted.
Exactly where I wanted him.
"Sleep on it," I said, voice low.
And then I left, bare feet silent on marble, smile blooming as the house breathed slow and waiting behind me.
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I woke up wrapped in velvet and heat, the kind that didn't belong to blankets or fireplaces — the kind that lingered on skin long after the body had left.
She wasn't beside me.
But her scent was.
Jasmine. Smoke. Something older.
It clung to my chest like a bruise you didn't want to fade.
The room was dim, lit by the low purr of dying embers in the fireplace. My clothes had been folded neatly across the arm of the chair. There was a bottle of water on the table. A fresh shirt. A black velvet pouch filled with more wealth than I'd ever held at once.
She thought of everything.
Always.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
Because I didn't know what I was to her. A lover? A game? Something to keep around like expensive wine and prettier knives?
What I did know?
She wanted me to stay.
Not just stay — move in. Live here. Bring Tiffany.
Her words played on a loop in my skull.
"Stay with me, and you won't have to worry about bills or cold nights or the weight of the world anymore. She can stay too. You'll sleep beside me instead of pretending the rest of your life isn't crumbling."
Or...
"Leave. Take the money. Come back once a week. Let me taste you and pay you and send you home sore and satisfied."
One path felt like surrender.
The other felt like... prostitution.
I dragged a hand down my face.
God.
She didn't even say it like a threat. It wasn't possessive. It wasn't cruel.
It was worse.
She said it like she meant it.
Like she wanted me.
Not the version of me that scraped by on bar fights and secondhand charm.
Me.
The thief with bloody knuckles. The brother who was out of answers.
I stood, my bones aching, my skin still humming from her touch. The silk cushions still held the shape of our bodies. My jaw ached from kissing her like I needed her more than oxygen.
Because maybe I did.
But I had a sister. A life. A name.
And whatever She was — goddess, vampire, dream, nightmare — she could swallow men whole without blinking.
I stepped toward the window. Watched the night press against the glass like it was too afraid to come in.
Villa Dahlia felt... alive.
Not metaphorically.
Actually alive.
It wanted me here.
And that? That scared me most of all.
Because everything about this place — her, the walls, the air — felt like a deal struck in the dark.
And I wasn't sure if I was making it...or if I already had.