23. Kaden
23
KADEN
Teaching my lover to kill feels like foreplay.
Layla positions her body exactly the way I instructed, her feet placed just so on the dewy morning grass and a giant scowl on her face.
“Kaden, I just got my warm home back. I didn't sign up for boot camp the very next morning,” Layla grumbles, blowing a stray blond strand out of her eyes.
The rising sun casts a halo around her delicate features, making her appear both fierce and fragile.
I circle her, my footsteps silent on the damp earth. “Keep your weight centered. Don’t let your guard drop.”
She pivots with me, keeping me in her sights. “I’m not a soldier.”
“No, you’re not.” I step closer, invading her space. “But you are a target. As am I, as is Cassie. We need to be prepared for when they come for her. If they try to take you this time, you’ll be ready. That is, if they can get past me.”
My voice is harsher than I intend, but the thought of Layla facing danger alone again makes my hands clench into fists. I need my Wraithling to be strong. I need her to survive.
I step behind her, my chest nearly brushing her back.
“Widen your stance,” I command, my breath ghosting over her ear. She shivers despite the warmth of a sunrise after a storm.
Layla adjusts her feet, her movements precise yet hesitant. I place my hands on either side of her stomach, guiding her into the proper position. My touch lingers, savoring the way her body molds to mine.
“Good,” I murmur, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. “Now, show me how you'd disarm me.”
Layla mirrors my movements, her supple body whirling. She lunges forward, her fist aimed at my jaw. I catch her wrist easily, pulling her off balance and into my chest. She gasps, her free hand splaying across my chest. We both halt, our breaths mingling. Her pulse beats rapidly beneath my fingertips, the heat of her seeping through my shirt.
My arm snakes around her waist, holding her firmly in place. She struggles for a moment before going still, her breath coming in shallow pants.
“You're not trying hard enough,” I growl, nipping at her lower lip.
I release her abruptly, and she stumbles backward, catching herself at the last second. Layla lifts her head, that adorable scowl returning.
“I am trying! I’ve sat in front of a computer most of my life. This is me trying,” she says with her hands on her hips.
I stalk toward her in two long strides. Layla stands her ground, tilting her chin up. The fire in her eyes makes me harder than I already was. This is the fighter I’m certain lurks beneath her soft exterior. This is the woman I need her to be.
“I want you to survive,” I tell her, capturing her face between my palms, my thumbs caressing her cheekbones. “I will always kill for you, Wraithling. But I need to know you can hold your own, even as I haunt your every step.”
Layla’s expression softens, and she leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed. “Okay. Keep showing me how.”
“Anticipate my movements,” I instruct. “Use my momentum against me.”
Layla nods, her brow furrowed in concentration. I shift my weight forward, and she reacts instantly, twisting to the side. Her elbow jabs into my ribs, and I grunt in approval.
“Good. Again.”
We fall into a lethal dance, strike and counterstrike, advance and retreat. Layla's movements grow more fluid and more confident. She meets my attacks with a relentless determination that makes my blood sing.
I lunge for her, and she ducks, sweeping my legs out from under me. I allow myself to hit the ground hard, the air rushing from my lungs. Before I can roll, Layla is on top of me, straddling my waist. She pins my wrists above my head, her grip surprisingly strong.
“Yield,” she demands, her face inches from mine. Her golden hair falls around us like a curtain.
One corner of my mouth tips up. “Keep thinking you can dominate me. It’ll make breaking you in a lot more fun.”
I could easily overpower her, but the weight of her body on top of mine, the heat of her pussy against my rock-hard cock, makes me all too willing to draw this out.
A triumphant smile curves her lips as she feels my cock twitch beneath her. She lowers her mouth to mine, sucking on my lower lip and pulling it into her mouth. I groan against her tongue, meeting her desire with a roaring, primal need.
I know we should keep training, keep our guards up…
But in this stolen sunrise, with Layla warm and willing on top of me, all I want is to lose myself in her. The rest of the world can fucking burn.
I deepen the kiss hungrily, my hands roaming her sweat-slicked skin as the sun climbs higher, burning away the morning dew. But before I can ruin another pair of her leggings, a shadow falls over us.
Layla breaks our kiss, her grip on my wrists spasming as she turns her head, and I follow her gaze.
Cassie stands at the edge of the clearing. Her expression is shrouded in the lighthouse’s shadow, but there’s no disguising the weight of her stare.
Layla scrambles off me, her cheeks flushed with more than just exertion. I rise to my feet and take my time dusting off my clothes.
I use that time to assess my daughter’s mood. She’s both a potential threat and a broken soul. I’m torn between the need to protect her and the fear that she’ll betray us.
“Morning, Cassandra,” I say calmly. “How did you sleep?”
“I made breakfast,” she replies, then turns on her heel and strides toward the cottage.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and nod at Layla to follow Cassie.
Layla clears her throat. “Are we sure she didn’t pick some poisonous mushrooms on her way to the kitchen?”
“Only one way to find out,” I say with a deep sigh and lead the way.
As we enter the cottage, the aroma of coffee and something sweet fills the air. Cassie stands at the stove, her back to us as she flips pancakes with a spatula.
Ethan is already seated at the rickety wooden table, hunched over a steaming mug, his broken fingers taped together and his other arm wrapped protectively around his stomach. The angry red bruise on his neck must be giving him hell, too.
“How was combat training?” Ethan asks Layla.
Layla offers him a tired smile. “Good. It’s a lot, though.”
He reaches out with his good hand, giving Layla’s fingers a squeeze. “Hey, if you ever need to talk or, you know, learn some moves to go with those shiny new battle skills, I’ve been known to throw down in Call of Duty .”
That startles a laugh out of Layla. “I don't think video game reflexes translate to real-life knife fights, but I appreciate the offer.”
“You never know,” Ethan says with a tired grin. “I'm pretty lethal with a joystick.”
“I'm sure you are,” I deadpan, arching a brow.
Ethan flushes scarlet, choking on his coffee. “That's not—I didn't mean?—”
Layla giggles, the sound brightening the whole damn room, then takes the chair beside him, offering a smile of reassurance. Ethan returns it with a grimace, his gaze darting between Cassie and me warily. I remain standing, my back against the wall, arms crossed over my chest as I survey the room.
Cassie sets the platter of pancakes in the center of the table with a thud. She drops into the remaining chair, her movements sharp yet unhurried.
Silence descends as they each take a pancake, the scrape of forks against plates unnaturally loud.
My attention is on Cassie. She’s watching Layla, her focus intense and unblinking. Layla squirms under the scrutiny, her knuckles whitening around her fork.
“Thanks, Cassie,” Layla says. “This looks ... great.”
Cassie's lips twist into something that might be a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t tasted them.” She gestures idly with her fork. “Go ahead.”
When nobody complies, I stride over to the table and swipe a pancake off Cassie’s plate, taking a bite. The pancake is fluffy and sweet, with no hint of poison.
“It’s good,” I say in a low voice. “Eat, Layla.”
Layla takes a tentative bite, her shoulders relaxing as the flavors hit her tongue. “Wow, these are actually amazing.”
Cassie’s smirk fades, replaced by a shuddered expression. “If I didn’t make Papa’s breakfast delicious every day, I’d be punished.”
An uncomfortable silence follows.
“Oh, thank God,” Ethan says, breaking the tension. “I was wondering how long we were gonna be forced to act like a bizarro family sitting down for a meal.”
Cassie barks out a laugh. “The grub with glasses is right. There’s nothing quaint about sleeping on the same property you were buried alive under. Are those your books?”
Layla’s jarred out of her uneasy expression by the rapid change in subject. “You mean the bookshelf over there? Yeah, they are.”
“Excuse me, grub ?” Ethan asks.
“Romance, huh?” Cassie ignores Ethan and eases out of her chair mid-chew. She sidles out of the open kitchen and toward the bookcase.
Cassie runs her finger along the spines of the books, her nail catching on the embossed titles. She tilts her head, reading the titles aloud in a mocking tone. “ The Duke's Forbidden Desire, Scandalous Seduction, Ravished by the Rogue ...”
She plucks a well-worn paperback from the shelf, flipping through the pages with a snort.
“ Love's Eternal Embrace ,” she reads aloud, her voice dripping with disdain. “Sounds like a real page-turner.”
Layla's cheeks flush, and she stiffens in her chair. “There's nothing wrong with a little escapism. Those books got me through some tough times.”
“An escape from what?” Cassie scoffs. “Your perfect little life?”
She tosses the paperback carelessly onto the couch and pulls another one from the shelf, this one a hardcover with a glossy dust jacket.
“Cassie,” I warn.
“News flash, princess,” Cassie says to Layla. “There’s no escape from the real world.”
With a sudden, violent motion, Cassie rips the dust jacket off the book, tearing it cleanly in half. Layla gasps, jumping to her feet.
“What are you doing ?” Layla cries.
Cassie ignores her, tossing the ruined dust jacket to the floor. She flips open the book again, this time pulling a wicked-looking knife from her boot.
“Romance is dead,” Cassie says, then plunges the knife into the pages, twisting it savagely. Bits of paper flutter to the floor like confetti.
Layla races into the den. “What is wrong with you?”
I’m fighting like hell not to intervene. In a way, an argument between these two could be healthy—like two piranhas going at each other could be healthy. Ethan is looking at me like I should’ve stepped between them already, but I meet his horrified look with hooded eyes. This needs to happen, whether we want it to or not.
Cassie dances out of Layla’s reach, holding the book above her head. “Oh, I'm sorry. Did I ruin your little fantasy world?”
She rips out another handful of pages, crumpling them in her fist.
“Give it back!”
“Please,” Cassie sneers. “You don’t know the first thing about romance. About love. Your just a little blond whore playing house with monsters.”
Something in Cassie’s statement makes Layla snap. With a scream of fury, she charges at Cassie, shoving her hard. Caught off guard, Cassie stumbles, the book falling from her grasp.
Meanwhile, I’m focused on what my daughter plans to do with that fucking knife.
“You don't know anything about me,” Layla snarls, advancing on Cassie. “Or about Kaden. You're just a bitter, twisted shell of a person who wants to destroy anything good.”
Cassie's blue eyes flash with a dangerous light as she regains her footing, the knife glinting in her hand.
“Oh, kitten's got claws,” she purrs. “But do you really think you can take me on? I was raised by a lion .”
Layla doesn't back down, her contrasting eyes blazing with a fury I've never seen before.
“You don't get to come into my home and destroy the things I love,” Layla spits through gritted teeth. “You don't get to poison everything you touch just because you're hurting inside.”
Cassie's smirk falters, a glimmer of pain passing over her face before it hardens into a mask of cold anger. “Keep talking, princess. See what happens.”
Cassie lunges with a feral snarl, the knife slashing through the air. I’m mid-leap when Layla reacts instinctively, twisting to the side just as I taught her. The blade misses her by a hairbreadth.
In a flash, Layla grabs Cassie's wrist and wrenches it hard, slamming it against the bookshelf. Cassie cries out in pain and surprise, the knife clattering to the floor.
Layla doesn't hesitate. She shoves Cassie hard, sending her stumbling back into the shelf. Books rain down around them as Cassie crashes to the floor.
Breathing hard, Layla stands over her, hands still clenched into fists. “I may not have had your childhood, Cassie, but don't for a second think you know what I've been through. I'm a survivor, just like you. The difference is, I didn't let it turn me into a vindictive bitch.”
Cassie glares up at her, chest heaving. For one hot second, I think she might try to stab Layla in the neck. My muscles tense, ready to intercept.
But then Cassie laughs, heartless and edged with hysteria.
“Well, well, well,” she gasps out. “Looks like Daddy’s new pet has some bite after all.”
As much as a part of me wants to let this continue to play out, to let Layla put Cassie in her place, I know I can't allow it to escalate further. Not with my daughter's fragile state of mind or Layla's safety on the line.
In less than two strides, I’m behind Layla, my hand closing in a firm but gentle grip around her upper arm. She startles at my touch, her head whipping around to meet my gaze.
“Enough,” I say. “Both of you.”
Slowly, I turn my gaze to Cassie, still sprawled on the floor amid the scattered books. My daughter meets my eyes with a defiant glare, but there’s a flicker of fear behind the bravado. She knows the consequences of pushing too far.
“Get up,” I order, my tone as hard and cold as steel. “Now.”
Cassie hesitates for a fraction of a second before obeying, pushing herself to her feet with a wince. She stands before me, chin lifted, a challenge in her eyes even as she favors her bruised wrist. I crouch down beside her, picking up the discarded knife. Cassie flinches almost imperceptibly as I rise, twirling the blade between my fingers, examining it. It's a good knife, well-balanced and razor-sharp. A weapon befitting the daughter of an assassin.
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” I say, my voice deceptively soft.
I throw the knife into the wall, burying it to the hilt barely an inch from Cassie's shoulder. She goes utterly still. “Layla is not a pet or a plaything for you to torment. She is mine to protect, just as you are. You are here because I allow it. Because despite your abuse of people I care about, I still believe there is a shred of humanity left in you worth saving.”
Cassie flinches as if I've struck her, her mask of arrogance cracking for the briefest of moments. But I'm not finished.
“But make no mistake, Cassandra. If you ever, ever threaten Layla again, if you so much as look at her wrong … I will put you down like the rabid dog you’ve become. Daughter or not.”
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I force them out, knowing they need to be said. Knowing it’s the only kind of threat Cassie responds to, as well as the certainty that Layla’s safety, Layla’s very life, is in my hands.
Cassie's eyes widen, genuine humiliation and something akin to hurt mingling in their blue depths. For a moment, she looks achingly young, a lost little girl playing at being a bad guy.
Then her face hardens, the vulnerability vanishing behind a sneer. “Understood, Father. ”
She turns on her heel and stalks out of the room. The front door slams, echoing through the cottage like a gunshot.
I close my eyes briefly, exhaustion settling into my bones. When I open them again, Layla is watching me, her expression concerned. “Kaden, you didn’t have to?—”
I shake my head, cutting her off. “Not now, Wraithling.”
I turn away from Layla, needing a moment to collect myself. Striding over to the wall, I yank the switchblade free, then tuck it into my boot. The weight of my words to Cassie settle like lead in my gut. Am I prepared to kill my own flesh and blood? I’d come to terms with it at Siren’s Call when I thought all was lost, but Layla helped me see the light. See my daughter again. Though I’m beginning to realize the daughter I once had is no longer a possibility. Cassandra Morelli is who she is now, and I either have to kill her or learn to accept the woman she’s become.
“Let's finish breakfast,” I murmur, guiding Layla back to the kitchen where Ethan still sits frozen, a forkful of pancake hovering near his open mouth.
When we’re seated, he raises his mug in a mock toast. “To dysfunctional breakfast bonding. May we not be murdered before lunch.”