14. Cassie
CASSIE
T he sound of tires on gravel woke me from my restless sleep at three in the morning. I bolted upright in bed, my heart already racing before my mind caught up with what that sound meant.
Roman was home.
I threw on his robe and ran barefoot down the marble staircase, my pulse hammering against my ribs. The front door was already open, and what I saw made my blood turn to ice.
Roman stood silhouetted in the doorway, his black tactical gear torn and bloodied.
His left shoulder was soaked crimson, and there was a cut across his cheekbone that hadn’t been there last night.
Behind him, Connor limped through the entrance, his silver hair matted with blood, while Tommy supported Sean, whose leg was wrapped in what looked like a torn shirt.
They looked like they’d been through hell.
"Jesus Christ," I breathed, rushing toward him.
Roman’s eyes snapped to mine, and I saw something there I’d never seen before—not just anger, but something raw and broken. Like he’d stared into an abyss and barely crawled back out.
"You’re bleeding," I said, reaching for his shoulder.
He caught my wrist before I could touch him. "I’m fine."
"You’re not fucking fine!" The words exploded out of me with more force than I’d intended. "Look at you! Look at all of you!"
Roman’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t let go of my wrist. The other men filed past us toward the stairs, leaving bloody footprints on the pristine marble. I could hear them muttering to each other, but all I could focus on was the way Roman’s grip trembled slightly against my skin.
"You could’ve died," I whispered, and the words came out broken.
Something flickered across his features—surprise, maybe, at the naked fear in my voice. For a moment, the mask slipped completely, and I saw the exhaustion underneath. The weight of carrying an empire on his shoulders. The cost of betrayal from someone he’d trusted.
"But I didn’t."
"That’s not good enough." I pulled free from his grip and grabbed his uninjured arm. "Sit down. Now."
For a second, I thought he might refuse. Roman Creed didn’t take orders from anyone, least of all from his assistant-turned-fake-fiancée. But something in my tone must’ve gotten through, because he let me guide him to one of the leather chairs in the foyer.
I disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the first-aid kit I’d seen stashed under the sink, along with a bottle of whiskey and clean towels.
Roman watched me with those piercing blue eyes as I knelt beside his chair, but he didn’t protest when I started working the tactical vest off his shoulders.
The fabric underneath was soaked through with blood.
"Fuck," I muttered, carefully peeling the shirt away from his skin. The bullet had caught him high on the shoulder, through and through, thank God, but the wound was still bleeding sluggishly.
Roman hissed as I cleaned it with antiseptic, his hand fisting in the chair’s leather armrest. I worked in silence, my hands steadier than they had any right to be, given the way my heart was racing.
But I’d done this before—patched up my father after bar fights when I was ten, stitched my own cuts after kitchen accidents.
This was different, though. This was Roman, and seeing him hurt made something primitive and fierce claw at my chest.
"You’re good at this," he observed, his voice rough.
"My dad was military," I reminded him without looking up. "He taught me field medicine before he taught me to drive."
I could feel his gaze on my face as I worked, studying me with that intensity that made my skin prickle with awareness. Even bloody and exhausted, Roman Creed was the most magnetic man I’d ever met.
"The meeting was a trap," he said suddenly.
My hands paused on the bandage I was wrapping around his shoulder. "I figured."
"Someone knew exactly where we’d be. Exactly when. They had us surrounded before we even knew what was happening." His voice was carefully controlled, but I could hear the rage simmering underneath. "Three of my men are in the hospital. Two more won’t be coming home."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Men had died tonight. Good men, loyal men, who’d followed Roman into what they thought was a routine operation.
"I’m sorry," I whispered.
Roman’s hand covered mine, stilling my movements. When I looked up, his eyes were dark with something I couldn’t name. "You don’t apologize for other people’s choices, Cassie."
But I could see the weight of those choices crushing him. The responsibility for every life lost, every family destroyed. This was the cost of the world he inhabited—the price of power measured in blood and betrayal.
I finished bandaging his shoulder in silence, hyper-aware of every point where our skin touched. When I was done, Roman caught my chin with his fingers, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
"Anton’s alive."
My heart stuttered. I remembered that name, the way Roman’s voice had gone cold when he’d told me about his former right hand. The man who’d betrayed him, sold him out to rival families, and nearly gotten him killed. The man Roman had put two bullets into before dumping his body in the Hudson.
"That’s impossible," I breathed.
"I saw him in one of the cars we passed when we drove off. Or someone who looked exactly like him." Roman’s thumb traced along my jawline, and I had to fight not to lean into the touch. "Either way, someone’s playing games with ghosts."
The implications hit me like ice water. If Anton was alive, if he’d somehow survived Roman’s execution, then this wasn’t just about a mole in the organization. This was personal. This was revenge.
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means the betrayal goes deeper than I thought. It means someone’s been planning this for years." His grip tightened slightly. "It means you’re in more danger than ever."
The words should’ve terrified me. It should’ve sent me running for the door, demanding my old life back. Instead, all I felt was a fierce protectiveness that surprised me with its intensity.
"Then we deal with it," I said simply.
Something shifted in Roman’s expression—surprise, maybe, or something deeper. He studied my face like he was seeing me for the first time.
"We?" he asked.
"You and me. Together. Isn’t that what partners do?"
The word hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us was ready to examine. But Roman’s eyes darkened with something that looked like approval, and when he leaned forward to press his forehead against mine, I could feel the tremor in his breath.
"You don’t know what you’re saying," he murmured.
"Yes, I do." I covered his hand with both of mine, anchoring him to me. "I’m saying I’m not going anywhere. I’m saying whatever comes next, you don’t face it alone."
For a moment, we stayed like that—foreheads touching, breathing the same air, existing in a bubble where the violence and betrayal couldn’t reach us. Then footsteps echoed in the hallway, and Roman pulled back, that mask of control sliding back into place.
Connor appeared in the doorway, his face grim. "Boss? The men are asking for orders."
Roman stood slowly, testing his injured shoulder. "Gather everyone in the main room. Full lockdown protocols. No one leaves the grounds without my permission."
"Already done. What about?—"
"I’ll address them in five minutes." Roman’s voice carried that note of absolute authority that made grown men obey without question.
Connor nodded and disappeared back down the hallway. Roman turned to me, and for a second, I saw that vulnerability flash across his features again.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
I stood and pressed a soft kiss to his uninjured cheek. "Come back to me in one piece."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes at my words, but he just nodded and headed toward the main room where his men were waiting.
I followed at a distance, staying in the shadows of the hallway where I could listen without being seen.
Roman’s voice carried clearly as he addressed his inner circle, laying out new security protocols and contingency plans.
He sounded calm, controlled, and completely in command despite the blood still staining his clothes.
But I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested near his concealed weapon. Every man in that room was now a potential threat, and Roman knew it.
When he dismissed them, the men filed out in small groups, their faces grim. I was about to retreat upstairs when I noticed one figure lingering behind me.
Declan stood near the fireplace, his pale eyes fixed on Roman with an expression I couldn’t quite read. When the last of the other men had left, he stepped forward.
"You’re too distracted," he said.
Roman’s entire body went tense. "Excuse me?"
"Cassie is making you soft, Roman." Declan’s tone was casual and conversational, but there was something underneath it that made my skin crawl. "Tonight proved that. You can’t protect an empire when you’re worried about protecting one woman."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Roman turned slowly, and even from my hiding spot, I could see the danger radiating off him in waves.
"She’s not your concern," he said, his voice deadly quiet.
Declan’s mouth curved into a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Right. She’s not."
He started walking away, then paused. "But maybe it’s time to consider whether the cost of keeping her is worth what it’s doing to your judgment."
The words hung in the air like a loaded gun. Roman didn’t respond, but I could see his hands fisting at his sides, the careful control that kept him from violence wearing thin.
Declan walked off without waiting for permission, leaving Roman standing alone in the empty room. From my hiding spot in the shadows, I watched him pour himself a drink with hands that weren’t quite steady, and I realized with growing horror that the war wasn’t just coming from outside.
It was already inside the walls.
And I was the weapon they planned to use against him.