23. Cassie
CASSIE
R oman came home at eight-thirty, his footsteps echoing through the marble foyer like gunshots in a cathedral. I heard him before I saw him—the careful, controlled way he moved that meant he was carrying the weight of something terrible.
When he appeared in the kitchen doorway, my heart clenched.
His charcoal suit was wrinkled, his tie loosened, and there was something in his blue eyes that looked like death.
Not physical death—Roman had survived another day in his dangerous world.
This was something deeper. Something that had carved pieces from his soul.
"Hey," I mumbled, not moving from where I stood at the stove.
He nodded once, sharp and efficient, then headed straight for the bar cart in the corner. The crystal decanter clinked against the glass as he poured three fingers of whiskey, his movements mechanical.
I’d spent the afternoon cooking—really cooking, not just reheating whatever the chef had prepared. Shepherd’s pie, because the Irish dish would remind Roman of comfort and home, and he looked like he needed both. The smell filled the kitchen, warm and rich, but he didn’t seem to notice.
"Dinner’s ready," I said, watching him drain half the whiskey in one swallow.
"Not hungry." His voice was rough, distant. Like he was speaking from the bottom of a well.
I turned off the oven and faced him fully.
Roman stood with his back to me, shoulders rigid with tension, staring out the window at grounds that were probably crawling with security.
The late evening light caught the silver in his black hair, and I could see the slight tremor in his hand as he lifted the glass again.
Whatever had happened today—whatever choices he’d been forced to make—it was eating him alive.
"Roman." I kept my voice gentle but firm. "Sit down. Eat something."
"I said I’m not?—"
"I heard what you said." I moved to the cabinet and pulled out two plates, my movements deliberate. "I also see a man who’s been carrying the weight of an empire all day and probably hasn’t eaten since this morning."
He turned, those piercing blue eyes studying my face like he was seeing me for the first time. For a moment, I thought he might argue. Might retreat to his office or the gym or whatever dark corner he went to when the violence of his world became too much.
Instead, he set down his glass and slumped into one of the bar stools behind the kitchen island.
I served him without commentary, setting the plate in front of him along with a fork. The shepherd’s pie was perfect—golden brown on top, the meat and vegetables underneath still steaming. Comfort food at its finest.
Roman stared at it for a long moment, then picked up the fork.
We ate in silence. He barely touched the food at first, just pushed it around his plate while I pretended not to watch him. But gradually, his shoulders began to relax. His breathing deepened. Some of the terrible tension that had been radiating off him started to ease.
"This is good," he said finally, his voice still rough but more present.
"Believe it or not, it was my grandmother’s recipe. She taught me to make it when I was ten." I took a small bite, my stomach still sensitive from the pregnancy hormones. "Said every woman should know how to feed the people she loves."
The word hung between us—love. I hadn’t meant to say it, but it was too late to take it back. Roman’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, and I felt heat creep up my neck.
"Smart woman," he said quietly, then continued eating.
Relief flooded through me. He wasn’t running from the implication, wasn’t building walls. Maybe he was too exhausted for his usual defenses.
After dinner, I led him to the sitting room, where a fire crackled in the massive stone fireplace. Roman settled into one of the leather chairs with another whiskey, and I curled up on the opposite end of the sofa, close enough to reach him but giving him space to breathe.
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that came from two people who didn’t need words to understand each other.
"Loyalty," Roman said suddenly, his voice cutting through the soft crackle of flames. "My father taught me it was everything. The only currency that mattered in our world."
I waited, sensing he needed to talk but wouldn’t respond well to pushing.
"He was wrong." Roman’s laugh was bitter, hollow. "Loyalty is just another word for leverage. For control. People stay loyal as long as it serves their interests."
"Not everyone," I said softly.
His blue eyes found mine across the space between us. "Everyone, Cassie. Eventually. Given the right pressure, the right incentive, everyone breaks."
The pain in his voice made my chest ache.
This was about more than just business, more than just the mole in his organization.
This was about a lifetime of betrayals, starting with a mother who’d tried to have his father killed and continuing through every person who’d ever sworn loyalty to the Creed name.
"Trust became a liability," he continued, staring into the fire. "Every time I let someone close, every time I believed their promises, I ended up with a knife in my back. So I stopped trusting. Stopped believing. Built walls so high that nothing could get through."
"But something did," I said, understanding flooding through me. "Something got through anyway."
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something vulnerable flicker across his features before he controlled it.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Something did."
The admission hung between us like a bridge neither of us was sure we should cross. I thought about my own experiences with betrayal, with the way trust could be shattered in an instant.
"My mother left when I was eight," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. "Just packed her bags one day and walked out. No explanation, no goodbye. Just gone."
Roman’s attention sharpened, but he didn’t interrupt.
"I found out later it was because my father had been cheating on her. For years, apparently. With multiple women. She said she couldn’t trust him anymore, couldn’t live with someone who made promises he had no intention of keeping."
I pulled my knees up to my chest, remembering the confusion and abandonment of that day. "But she didn’t just leave him. She left me, too. Her eight-year-old daughter, who’d never broken a promise to anyone."
"That’s not the same thing," Roman said, his voice rough with something that might have been anger on my behalf.
"Isn’t it?" I met his eyes. "She let her inability to trust anyone destroy her relationship with someone who would’ve died for her. Sound familiar?"
Something shifted in Roman’s expression—recognition, maybe, or the dawning realization that I understood his demons better than he’d thought.
"I’m not saying my father was right to cheat on her," I continued. "He wasn’t. But my mother’s response was to burn down everything good in her life because she couldn’t separate the betrayal from the people who still loved her."
Roman was quiet for a long moment, processing what I’d told him. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than I’d ever heard it.
"I’m sorry. For what happened to you."
"I’m not telling you this for sympathy," I said. "I’m telling you because I understand what betrayal does to a person. How it makes you want to build walls so high that no one can ever hurt you again. But Roman?—"
I unfolded myself from the sofa and crossed to his chair, kneeling beside it so we were at eye level.
"Not everyone is the enemy. Some people stay because they choose to, not because they’re getting something out of it."
His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "And what are you getting out of it, Cassie?"
"You," I said simply. "I’m getting you."
The truth of it hit me as I said the words.
Somewhere along the way, this had stopped being about survival or financial security or even the intoxicating danger of his world.
This had become about him—the man beneath the monster, the vulnerability he hid behind violence, the way he made me feel like I was worth protecting.
Roman’s eyes darkened with something that looked like wonder. Like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
"I’m still here," I whispered, covering his hand with both of mine. "After everything—the violence, the danger, the secrets—I’m still here. That has to count for something."
Instead of answering with words, he pulled me up and into his lap, his arms coming around me with desperate possession. I settled against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek.
His hand moved unconsciously to rest over my stomach, and my breath hitched. The gesture was protective, claiming.
We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other while the fire burned low. No words, just the quiet comfort of being understood by someone who’d walked through similar darkness.
Eventually, Roman stirred beneath me. "Come on," he whispered. "It’s late."
He walked me to our bedroom, his hand never leaving the small of my back. At the door, he paused, and I could see him retreating behind those familiar walls.
"Goodnight, baby girl," he said, his fingers brushing across my wrist like a promise. But his body language told a different story—he was already pulling away, already preparing to retreat to the guest room where he’d been sleeping since he learned about the pregnancy.
As he started to turn away, something fierce and desperate rose in my chest. I couldn’t let him disappear behind his walls again. Not tonight. Not when we’d finally started to break through to each other.
"Roman," I said, catching his hand before he could leave.
He stopped, looking back at me with questions in his eyes.
Instead of speaking, I stepped closer, my free hand moving to the knot of his tie. His breath caught as my fingers worked the silk loose, letting it fall to the floor between us.
"Cassie—"
"Stay," I breathed, my hands moving to the buttons of his shirt. "Please."
For a moment, he just stood there, letting me undress him with careful reverence.
Each button revealed more of the man beneath the armor—the tattoos that told stories I was still learning, the scars that mapped a lifetime of violence, the steady rise and fall of his chest as his breathing grew uneven.
When his shirt joined his tie on the floor, his hands found my waist, fingers trembling slightly as they traced the curves barely concealed by my silk nightgown.
This time, when we moved toward the bed, we moved together.