When the black-clad figure first burst through the window, Everly's brain, for a fleeting, sensible moment, had kicked into high alert.
Assassin!
It had screamed. Her muscles had coiled, her eyes darting to the nearest heavy object—a ridiculously ornate table, and the Emperor currently using it as a personal diving board.
She'd been fully prepared to launch both table and Jeremy at the intruder with the force of a catapult, a primal, protective instinct surging through her.
But then the figure landed, and the moonlight caught his profile, instantly Everly's entire thought process short-circuited like a firecracker in a puddle.
It wasn't just an assassin.
It was Cassian.
This was a Cassian forged from the stuff of legends. His hair, a river of midnight silk, cascaded past his shoulders, framing a face that was all sharp angles and cold, noble beauty.
He was clad in an elegant black hanfu, the fabric clinging to a lean, powerful frame that promised deadly grace.
