Chapter 16
Willing.
The word stayed in my chest long after it formed, lingering the way heat lingers in your skin after you’ve stepped too close to a fire. I had meant it as a conclusion—clean, decisive, controlled.
It didn’t feel clean.
It felt like the beginning of something that refused to be contained.
Cassian’s hands were still on my hips, the counter firm against my spine, the quiet of my aunt’s kitchen pressing in around us like the house itself had been holding its breath.
Then Aunt Mabel’s voice floated in from the living room, dry as ever.
“Unless you two plan to survive on tension alone, I’ve got a pot roast that’s nearly ready.”
Heat rushed up my neck.
Cassian’s mouth curved slightly, the smallest concession to amusement I’d seen from him. He stepped back first, his hands sliding from my hips with that same unhurried control that made every movement of his feel like a choice.
“Dinner,” he said, as if we hadn’t just been locked in a private war of proximity and will.
I straightened my sweater, smoothing it down as though fabric could restore composure. My breathing caught up slowly. “We should help her.”
He watched me for a beat—long enough that I felt seen, not in a flattering way, but in the way a sharp edge feels you before it cuts.
“Lead the way,” he said.
The dining room hadn’t changed in twenty years.
The same oval oak table with the slight notch on the underside where I used to hook my fingers when I was anxious. The same lace runner my aunt insisted made a meal “proper.” The same framed watercolor of Saratoga in spring hanging slightly crooked above the sideboard.
Aunt Mabel moved between the kitchen and dining room with calm efficiency, like she’d been preparing for this meal longer than the last hour. The table was set—china plates with faded blue rims, silverware polished to a soft gleam, cloth napkins folded with quiet precision.
It should have felt comforting.
Instead, it felt like a stage.
Cassian hung his coat neatly over the back of a chair without being asked, then stood with the easy stillness of a man who never looked for a place to put his hands.
Aunt Mabel glanced at him. “Sit.”
She pointed him toward the chair at the end of the table.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t attempt to take the head of the table. He took the seat she indicated, posture relaxed but attentive, as though he’d been trained to obey orders he respected.
I sat across from him.
Of course, I did.
Aunt Mabel set down the pot roast, steam rising in fragrant spirals, followed by roasted carrots, potatoes glazed in something buttery and golden, and a bowl of green beans tossed with slivers of almond.
“You remember how to carve?” she asked Cassian casually.
Remember.
Like it was a shared memory.
His brow lifted slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
I shot her a look.
She handed him the knife without elaboration.
Cassian stood, steady and unhurried, and began carving with quiet competence. Clean cuts. Even portions. His hands looked capable doing it—patient, precise. It was absurdly intimate to watch a man handle a knife that way without making it about performance.
My gaze dropped to the scar at his wrist before I could stop myself.
He noticed.
He placed a slice of roast onto my plate first. Then he served Aunt Mabel, then himself.
Aunt Mabel watched him the entire time, expression unreadable.
When he sat, she lifted her wineglass in a small toast.
“To unexpected visitors,” she said.
Cassian inclined his head once. “Thank you for having us.”
I tried to swallow the strange tightness in my throat and picked up my fork.
The first few minutes passed in the familiar rhythm of shared food—silverware against china, the warmth of meat and vegetables, Aunt Mabel’s steady presence keeping the room from tilting into something too charged.
Then she set her fork down.
“So,” she said evenly, “what do you hunt?”
The question landed right between us like a coin tossed onto a table.
Cassian didn’t flinch.
“Deer, mostly,” he replied.
“And you enjoy it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He considered her carefully, as though deciding how much to give.
“Because it requires patience,” he said. “Precision. Respect.”
“Respect?” I echoed.
His gaze shifted to mine.
“You don’t take what you don’t intend to use.”
Aunt Mabel nodded as if that mattered. “And if you miss?”
“I don’t shoot unless I’m certain,” he said.
My fork stilled.
That sounded like more than hunting.
It sounded like a philosophy. I felt it in my spine.
“You’re saying it’s about control,” I said.
“It’s about discipline,” he corrected.
“That’s a convenient distinction,” I replied.
“It’s an important one.”
Aunt Mabel took a slow sip of wine, eyes moving between us.
“Lia built her career arguing that hunting is violence disguised as heritage,” she said conversationally.
“I know,” Cassian replied.
“You read my work?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Yes.”
The admission startled me.
It shouldn’t have. He’d already admitted he paid attention. Still, hearing it said plainly—yes, I read you—made my pulse jump in a way I didn’t want to examine.
“And?” I pressed.
He didn’t look away.
“I respect conviction,” he said.
“That’s not agreement,” I replied.
“No.”
I leaned forward slightly. “Do you agree with me?”
Cassian’s gaze stayed steady. “I agree that cruelty is unacceptable.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A faint shift crossed his face, like a shadow passing over something controlled.
“You want absolutes,” he said. “You want me to confirm your worldview or oppose it.”
I lifted my chin. “I want honesty.”
“You’re getting it.”
“That feels like avoidance.”
His mouth curved slightly, barely there.
Aunt Mabel’s eyes brightened, amused. “I told you she corners people.”
“I don’t corner,” I said.
“You do,” she replied. “You always did. You’d sit at this table with a question and refuse to eat until you got an answer you liked.”
“That is not true,” I protested.
“It is absolutely true,” she said. “Your mother called it ‘persistence.’ I called it ‘exhausting.’”
Cassian’s gaze flicked to mine. “You still do it.”
“I ask questions,” I corrected.
“You apply pressure,” he said calmly.
“That’s called being thorough.”
A flicker moved through his eyes. “Yes. It is.”
The way he said it made my stomach tighten. It wasn’t an insult. It was recognition … again.
Aunt Mabel resumed eating, then said, almost casually, “Do you know her mother?”
The room tightened.
My fingers curled around my fork.
Cassian didn’t answer immediately.
“I know of her,” he said.
I felt my pulse jump. “What does that mean?”
“It means what it says,” he replied evenly.
Aunt Mabel set her fork down again. “You know of her because of hunting.”
Cassian’s gaze held hers. “Partly.”
My heart kicked once.
“This is what you meant,” I said, voice quieter, “when you told me she was closer to all this than I think.”
Cassian didn’t deny it.
Aunt Mabel’s gaze softened toward me, just slightly. “Your mother’s always been good at standing near fires without smelling like smoke,” she said.
My throat tightened.
“That’s not fair,” I said automatically.
“Isn’t it?” Aunt Mabel countered, gentle but unyielding. “She’s not a villain, Lia. She’s a woman who wanted two contradictory things.”
The sentence landed like a weight.
I glanced at Cassian. He didn’t look pleased. He looked alert. Like he was tracking terrain again.
“What do you want with her?” Aunt Mabel asked him directly.
My fork froze halfway to my mouth.
Cassian didn’t rush. He swallowed, set his own fork down, and looked at my aunt as if she had earned his full attention.
“I want her to continue choosing,” he said.
“That’s vague,” I snapped.
Aunt Mabel tilted her head. “Do you intend to keep her here, in New York?”
“No.”
“Do you intend to follow her back to Charleston?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
I hadn’t known that. Not explicitly.
Aunt Mabel’s eyes flicked to me.
“And you’re comfortable with that?” she asked.
“I didn’t ask him to,” I said, too quickly.
Cassian’s gaze shifted to mine, steady and unnervingly calm.
“You didn’t have to.”
The room went quiet again, but it wasn’t the quiet of awkwardness.
It was the quiet of consequence.
“Why?” I asked him quietly.
His eyes didn’t soften. They didn’t need to.
“Because I’m not finished,” he said.
“With what?” I pressed.
“With you.
The words didn’t feel like a threat.
They felt like a claim he didn’t need permission to make.
Aunt Mabel made a small sound in her throat, almost satisfied, and returned to her roast as if that settled something for her.
“And you?” she asked me. “Are you finished?”
I met Cassian’s gaze across the table.
“No,” I said.
The honesty didn’t shock me. It steadied me.
Aunt Mabel nodded once. “Then eat,” she said briskly. “Both of you. Before you start circling each other again.”
My mouth twitched despite myself.
Cassian’s did, too.
We ate, and the conversation shifted into smaller things—my aunt asking me about Charleston weather, about my keynote, about Harper. Cassian answering questions in short, controlled sentences that somehow revealed more because he refused to elaborate.
Aunt Mabel asked him where he grew up.
“Texas,” he said.
“Of course,” she replied dryly. “Every man with that kind of quiet arrogance comes from Texas or thinks he does.”
Cassian’s mouth curved faintly. “I don’t think I do.”
“What did your parents do?” she asked.
Cassian paused, just briefly.
“My father was military,” he said. “My mother taught school.”
“And hunting?” she asked.
“My father.”
Aunt Mabel nodded slowly. “So, it’s blood.”
“It’s discipline,” Cassian corrected.
Aunt Mabel raised her brows. “You’re going to argue with me in my own house?”
“No, ma’am.”
The deference was subtle but clear.
It made something tighten in my chest—an odd mix of relief and irritation. He could obey when he chose. He could show restraint that looked like respect.
He just didn’t offer it to everyone.