Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Cassian
The first thing I felt when I woke up was the ache in my neck.
Not the usual stiffness from bad sleep, but a dull burn from muscles locked in the wrong angle too long, shooting from my right cervical down to my shoulder blade. Every twitch reminded me I'd crashed out somewhere I didn't belong.
My vision blurred, but the scent hit me first. Wrong, not Luna's cool, forest-dew freshness.
I bolted upright. Sloane nestled against me, her usually buttoned-up silk blouse a total mess.
My brain kicked into gear, memories flooding back like a tide. Then the heart-stopping one hit: Luna had been here!
Lately, being around Luna made me want to bolt, so even knowing it was our third anniversary, I wrapped up work, cracked open a whiskey at my desk, and didn't say no when Sloane asked to join.
But what the fuck was this? Why were we tangled up? Why was my shirt smeared with lipstick and reeking of something off?
I stood, spotting the familiar thermos on the floor, the one Luna used for soups. Shattered now, liner busted out, pale broth pooling in an ugly stain.
More memories crashed in, and now my head pounded right along with my neck.
"Sloane Reed!" I finally barked.
"Cassian... you're up?" Sloane jerked awake, her voice all hungover seduction.
I ignored her, shoved her off, and stalked to the mirror. The guy staring back had wild hair, a crooked tie, and a glaring red mark on his collarbone like a slap. I smirked bitterly. Nice one, Cassian.
At least my pants felt normal—no evidence I'd turned into a blackout asshole.
"Explain this shit," I said to my reflection, voice ice-cold, even to me.
"Sorry, Cassian..." Sloane froze, then started sobbing, words breaking. "We got wasted last night. I just split with my ex, I was a mess... I thought you were him. I swear, I didn't mean..."
Tears streamed, not whiny but genuinely wrecked. She held back, but her voice trembled just enough to make yelling impossible.
I spun around. Her tears didn't douse my rage. They fueled it. I hated losing control, hated this soap-opera bullshit from a few drinks.
"Enough, Sloane." I cut her off, no warmth in my tone. "Get dressed and get out. Vanish."
Watching her scramble out, pathetic, I felt zero pity. All I could picture was Luna smashing that thermos, staggering off like I'd gut-punched her after my cold words.
She left. No call, no text, nothing but spilled soup and that crash—a sound she'd never make.
Luna Crawford kept herself buttoned up tight. No tantrums, no slamming doors, no public meltdowns. She locked her emotions down where she controlled them.
That smash? Her breaking point.
And me? Shitfaced, thinking it was a dream, passing out again.
I chugged a glass of water from the desk, the cold snapping back some clarity, but irritation surged in its wake.
I slammed the glass down, straightened up, tossed the disgusting shirt in the trash, and stormed out.
In the car, my phone lit up. I grabbed it. Junk notification. Still nothing from her.
My hand shook on the phone, not from the hangover, but a raw panic I'd never felt.
I despised the uncontrolled. No secret there. Lesson one from age ten.
Back in Mom's cramped apartment, I'd watch her cry at Dad's back, debase herself for a glance. He left anyway, dumped her there.
At seventeen, she ended her life of endless waiting and fantasies.
Back with Dad's family, "bastard" stamped on me, I learned emotions were cracks, and dependence was weakness. Never expose that.
So I climbed, using marriage to seize company control.
My thing with Luna? A straight-up transaction from day one. I was the sharp buyer; she, the perfect asset. I told myself to stick to the script—provide the goods, keep up appearances—we'd both stay dignified.
I resented the marriage. But on our wedding day, Luna in white, blonde hair up, graceful swan neck, calm expression, it settled something in me.
First time I really looked. Her smile hit me, stirred some unnamed feeling.
Later, I saw her "calm" hid depths she guarded—soup on the stove, plants on the balcony, a hot bowl waiting silently when I dragged in late.
It bugged me.
Not because she screwed up—opposite. She nailed it, stirred something close to need.
Home felt easy. Her soup satisfied. Kitchen noises from the study distracted me, pulled my thoughts.
Worst, we clicked in bed. Her hazy eyes, bitten lip when desperate. I wanted to slam into her, own her. Even watching her stir soup, those slim arms, I'd get hard, impulse to pin her on the table.
These out-of-control feelings pissed me off, made me pull back with coldness to reclaim the reins. Stay late at work, bury myself in tasks to block emotional glitches.
Last night, Sloane leaned in, asking if I was troubled. I didn't shove her away. Childish thought: if another woman soothed me, it'd prove Luna meant nothing.
Proved I'm an asshole and a fool.
Picturing her alone last night, watching the clock tick, my heart clenched like an invisible fist, stealing my breath.
Washington morning traffic was light. Rounding the last corner, I spotted our house lights on from afar.
I got out, time stretching as I approached. My hand trembled on the knob, paused, then pushed.
Dead silence hit me inside.
Luna sat on the living room sofa, dark circles under her eyes, back ramrod straight. Still in that pricey blue silk dress, gleaming cold in the morning light. She looked tiny, curled among velvet cushions, like a kid the world forgot.
"Luna."
No turn, not even a flutter of lashes. That silence shredded me worse than screams.
I walked over, each step leaden.
When she finally looked, her eyes chilled me. Not forgiving calm, but rage burned to indifference, absolute.
"Last night..." My voice rasped.
"If you're here for clothes, help yourself." Her words floated like smoke, sharp as blades. "Cassian, you betrayed me."
Damn, that wild panic snapped my last thread of reason. I lunged forward, bent down, ignored her fight, scooped her off the sofa, and pinned her hard between my chest and the backrest.
"Let go!" Emotion finally cracked her. She shoved my shoulders.
"No." I dipped my head, forced eye contact. Her heartbeat hammered, fast enough to break mine. "Listen, Luna. Last night was a clusterfuck mistake. I was drunk, and Sloane mistook me for her ex. I swear, nothing happened beyond these disgusting marks."
"How can I believe you?" She sneered, eyes reddening.
"You're my wife. You have to." How dare she resist?
Irritation boiled up. I gripped her chin, made her look.
She twisted to break free, but she was too small against me. Her hair brushed my neck, itching my skin unbearably.
Her fight pissed me off. I tightened my arm around her waist, locked her in, and with raw anger, crashed my mouth onto hers.
In my arms, her struggles eased, body trembling. Tears slid down her cheeks, and like a drowning man clutching driftwood, I kissed them away frantically, crushed her into me.
I deepened the kiss, my tongue invading her mouth with brutal force, tasting the salt of her tears mixed with the faint bitterness of betrayal. She bit down hard on my lower lip, drawing blood, a sharp sting that only fueled the fire raging in my veins.
"Fuck," I growled against her mouth, not pulling back but pressing harder, my free hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back, exposing her throat. I latched onto her neck, sucking and biting, marking her as mine, the way she'd marked me with her anger.
She gasped, her nails digging into my shoulders, scratching through my shirt, but I didn't care. The pain mixed with the heat, making my cock throb painfully against my pants. I ground against her, letting her feel how hard she made me, even in this mess.
"You think you can push me away?" I snarled, my voice low and rough, laced with the fury I couldn't contain. My hand slid down her body, rough and possessive, shoving up the hem of her silk dress, fingers digging into her thigh hard enough to bruise.
Luna whimpered, a mix of anger and something breaking, but she arched against me despite herself, her body betraying her mind. I tore at the delicate fabric of her panties, ripping them aside with a savage yank, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
She cried out, "Cassian, stop—" but her voice cracked, and I silenced her with another punishing kiss, my fingers plunging between her legs, finding her already slick, hot, and ready even as she fought.
"You're wet for me, aren't you? Even now," I taunted, my thumb circling her clit roughly, making her buck against my hand.
She bit my shoulder this time, teeth sinking in deep, a muffled sob escaping her.
The bite sent a jolt straight to my groin, and I groaned, thrusting two fingers inside her without mercy, curling them to hit that spot that made her gasp and tremble.
Her walls clenched around me, and I pumped harder, faster, my other arm pinning her wrists above her head against the sofa back, her body arched and exposed.
She thrashed, legs kicking weakly, but I wedged my knee between her thighs, spreading them wide.
"Fight all you want, Luna. You're mine." I withdrew my fingers abruptly, making her whine in protest, and fumbled with my belt, shoving my pants down just enough to free my aching cock.
It sprang out, hard and leaking, and I didn't give her a moment to breathe—I aligned and thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying myself to the hilt.
She screamed, a raw, broken sound, her body tensing around me like a vice.
I didn't pause, didn't gentle it; I pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm, each thrust fueled by the anger boiling between us.
Her nails raked down my back, tearing at my skin, but her hips started meeting mine, involuntary at first, then desperate.
"Bastard," she hissed through gritted teeth, tears streaming, but her eyes, god, her eyes were fire, hating me and needing me in equal measure.
I grabbed her hips, lifting her slightly to angle deeper, pounding into her with everything I had, the sofa creaking under the force.
Sweat slicked our skin, her dress bunched up around her waist, breasts heaving with each ragged breath.
I leaned down, capturing a nipple through the silk, biting down just hard enough to make her cry out, her inner muscles fluttering around me.
"Say it," I demanded, voice hoarse, thrusts turning erratic as I chased the edge. "Say you're mine."
She shook her head, defiant even as sobs wracked her body, but I didn't let up.
I reached between us, rubbing her clit in tight, relentless circles, matching the brutal pace of my hips.
Her resistance crumbled—her bites turned to desperate kisses, her pushes to clutches, holding me closer as pleasure overtook the rage.
"Cassian... please..." she begged, voice breaking into whimpers, her body shuddering violently as orgasm hit her, clenching around me so tight it pulled me over with her.
I growled, spilling deep inside her with a final, savage thrust, my vision blurring from the intensity.
We collapsed together, breaths heaving, her tears soaking my shirt.
She went limp in my arms, spent and crying softly, no fight left—just exhausted surrender, her body molding to mine as the anger ebbed into something raw and vulnerable.
"You're mine, Luna." Afterward, I inhaled her hair greedily.
I pulled a box from my suit pocket.
That sapphire ring. I spotted it at a New York exhibit, drawn without knowing why. Now I got it: its deep, aloof blue was pure Luna.
The small black box had sat in my pocket for nearly a month, no right moment, or maybe no push to make one.
Bright sapphire, oval-cut in platinum, deep in the morning light—not flashy, a subdued brilliant blue with hidden fire if you looked close.
I grabbed her cool hand and forced the ring onto her finger.
"First sight, it screamed you." I locked eyes, hunting control in that blue gleam. "It's yours, Luna."
She eyed the heavy gem on her fingertip, a faint spark in her gaze, but her mouth twisted in bitter irony, turning away.
Irritation flared again. I cupped her chin, made her look. "If one's not enough, I'll buy the mine. As long as you're here, until you accept. You know I can."
Yeah, I played dirty with her softness.
Her face softened, thoughtful.
"Like it?" I asked.
She met my eyes, direct as hell, something flickering in her brown depths. No time to read it. She dropped her gaze, warmth finally creeping in.
"Thanks." Softer than usual, not a direct yes, light but steady.
Something settled in my chest. Control snapped back.
"Tonight's a gala." I stood, chasing that commanding cool, heart still racing. "We're going together. You're this house's only lady."
I grabbed my coat, mind flipping to the day—morning meetings, afternoon negotiation, evening gala from the Stephen family, can't skip, our groups at a critical juncture. I had to show.
"I'll handle your styling. Rest up." I added.
She paused, a flicker in her eyes, then dipped her head. "Okay."
I snatched my phone, headed out, hesitated, then tapped Sloane's contact. She aced makeup—her job, and a way to atone for today.
Before shutting the door, I glanced back.
She sat on the sofa, not looking, profile to the window, blonde hair down, light hitting half her face, box in hand. Her lashes shadowed her expression, unreadable.
I shoved down the dull ache, dialed Sloane.
It connected, her voice husky. She hadn't slept much either.
"Luna's gala look tonight—you're on it," I ordered. "Dress, hair, makeup, all top-tier. Pick from this season's best designers."
"Got it, boss. Understood." Her crisp reply eased me a bit.
On the drive to work, I stared out the window, then shut my eyes, cleared my head.
The car pulled into the garage, engine humming low. I got out, suit sharp, strides steady—the usual Cassian entering the building.
Cool, in charge, no trace of last night's chaos.
But half a step from the conference room, my phone buzzed. I checked.
Not Luna.
Sloane, short text. "styling in motion, dress picked, delivering on time tonight."
I pocketed it and pushed the door open.
Outside, Washington's morning blazed full, sunlight bouncing off glass towers onto the streets, glaring and precise. Everything ticked like clockwork.
But some nagging worry lingered, like tonight's gala might shatter the order.