Chapter 20 #2
I kissed him once more—soft, lingering—then eased off him carefully, feeling the warm slide of him leaving my body. I collapsed beside him, leg thrown over his hip, face tucked against his neck.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
My mind drifted as our breathing evened out. I pictured us somewhere else. Charleston. The Battery promenade at dusk, tourists and locals mingling, the harbor lights coming on.
Would he reach for my hand without hesitation?
Would his fingers lace through mine, thumb brushing my knuckles the way they brushed my skin now?
Would he slide an arm around my waist when we walked, pulling me close against his side like I belonged there?
Would he stop beneath one of those ancient live oaks, tilt my chin up, and kiss me slow and deep in front of anyone who happened to pass?
The thought sent a quiet thrill through me—and a flicker of uncertainty.
Public displays weren’t exactly his language. He was private. Contained. Deliberate.
But last night … this morning … the way he’d let me lead, the way he’d held me after …
Maybe.
Maybe he would.
Maybe he already was—showing me in the ways that mattered most to him.
I pressed a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.
“What was that for?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep and sex.
“Just thinking.”
“About?”
I hesitated, then decided on honesty. “What it would be like … out there. With you.”
He went still for a second.
Then his hand slid into my hair again, fingers gentle. “You want to find out?”
My heart gave a hard thud.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved against my temple. “Then we will.”
Simple.
Certain.
Like everything else about him.
“Get showered and dressed,” he said after a moment, the words quieter now, almost tender. “We should leave soon.”
The shift was subtle, but clear—movement forward, back into structure.
Back into him.
I nodded, pushing myself out of bed and reaching for my clothes, aware of him behind me, of the way his attention followed even when he didn’t say anything.
We showered together, then dressed without urgency.
Without tension.
Just … quiet awareness.
Until I stepped into the main room.
And saw it.
A scarf.
Draped over the back of a chair near the fireplace.
It was soft, cream-colored, clearly expensive. Not something that belonged to this place—or at least, not something I would have expected to find here.
I hadn’t seen it before.
Not mine.
I paused.
Just for a second.
But it was enough.
Cassian noticed immediately.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
I didn’t turn around right away. “No. Just … looking around.”
His gaze followed mine.
To the scarf.
A beat of silence.
Then, evenly, “It’s not what you think.”
I turned, crossing my arms loosely. “That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t say what I thought.”
“You didn’t have to.”
That irritated me more than it should have.
“Do you always assume you know what I’m thinking?” I asked.
“No. Just when it’s obvious.”
I let out a slow breath. “It’s a woman’s.”
“Yes.”
The directness caught me off guard.
“Okay,” I said. “And?”
“And it doesn’t mean what you’re implying.”
“Which is?”
“That I had someone here.”
The words landed sharper than I intended.
I shrugged, aiming for casual and not quite landing it. “It’s a reasonable assumption.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
His gaze held mine, steady, unflinching.
“I don’t bring women here,” he said.
My pulse flicked.
“That’s … very specific wording.”
“It’s accurate.”
I studied him, then gestured slightly toward the scarf. “Then whose is it?”
A pause.
Then, “My mother’s.”
Everything in me stalled.
“What?”
“She visited recently.”
I blinked. “You have a relationship with your mother?”
“Yes.”
Simple. Direct. No elaboration.
I glanced back at the scarf, then at him again.
“I didn’t picture that,” I admitted.
“I know.”
There was no defensiveness in it. No need to correct me. Just acknowledgment.
“And you just left it there?” I asked.
“I don’t notice things like that.”
“That’s not true,” I said immediately. “You notice everything.”
A small pause.
Then, quieter, “Not everything.”
Something about the way he said that shifted the moment.
Softened it.
“You could have told me,” I said.
“You didn’t ask.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask if there’s another woman.”
“There isn’t.”
The certainty in that answer settled something in me I hadn’t fully acknowledged was unsettled.
I nodded once. “Okay.”
He watched me for a moment.
“You were jealous,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “I was curious.”
“You were jealous.”
“I was evaluating.”
His mouth curved slightly. “You were jealous.”
I exhaled, giving in. “Fine. Maybe a little.”
“Good.”
I blinked. “Good?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a strange response.”
“It’s an honest one.”
I shook my head, but I couldn’t quite stop the faint smile that pulled at my mouth.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
The air between us felt different again.
Less sharp.
More … grounded.
We stepped outside a few minutes later, the cold biting at my skin as we made our way to the car, the snow crunching underfoot.
As he drove, the landscape slowly shifting around us, I watched him in the quiet moments between conversation—the steady way he handled the road, the ease in his posture, the absence of anything unnecessary.
“So,” I said after a while. “Charleston.”
“Yes.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“And I’m staying with you?”
He glanced at me briefly. “If you want to.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”
I studied him. “What changed?”
“You did.”
That settled deeper than I expected.
“And your place?” I asked. “Downtown?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“South of Broad.”
I let out a small breath. “Of course, it is.”
It fit too easily.
Not just the location—but the kind of place it implied. Old Charleston money. Gated gardens hidden behind wrought iron. Houses that didn’t need to prove anything because their history already had.
And Cassian—
He moved like he belonged in spaces like that.
I didn’t know what he did. Not really. But nothing about him suggested limitation. Not the way he traveled, not the way he occupied space, not the quiet confidence that came from never having to question access.
The lodge alone was enough to tell me that.
This place wasn’t rented. It wasn’t temporary. It was established. Built—or bought—with the kind of money that didn’t need to be explained out loud.
And that wasn’t even counting Charleston.
Or whatever else he wasn’t saying.
It wasn’t flashy wealth. There were no obvious displays, no need to signal it.
Which somehow made it more powerful.
More controlled.
More dangerous.
Because men like that didn’t just have money.
They had reach.
My gaze drifted back to him, to the steady way he drove, to the complete lack of effort in how he carried all of it—power, control, resources—like it was just … part of him.
His mouth curved faintly. “You don’t approve?”
“I think it fits you too well.”
“That’s not disapproval.”
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not.”
A quiet stretched between us, comfortable in a way that still felt new.
“I want to meet your friend Harper,” he said.
I turned to him. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she matters to you.”
The simplicity of that caught me off guard.
“She’s going to have opinions about you,” I warned.
“I expect that.”
“And she won’t be subtle.”
“Neither are you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m invested.”
His gaze flicked to mine. “And she won’t be?”
I hesitated.
“She’ll be protective.”
“Good.”
That word again.
I leaned back slightly, watching the road ahead, feeling something shift—not just between us, but around us.
This wasn’t contained anymore.
It wasn’t just a moment, or a place, or a controlled experience.
It was moving.
Following me home.