Chapter 22 #2
Cassian got out first. Came around. Opened my door.
Again.
My body reacted.
Again.
He lifted both suitcases with easy strength and nodded once toward the front entrance.
“This way.”
Inside the courtyard, the city noise disappeared like it had been swallowed.
A fountain murmured softly at the center. Ivy climbed brick. The air smelled faintly of lemon and wet stone.
I stood still for a moment, taking it in.
It was beautiful. Old. Established. Private.
And so undeniably his.
“You live here,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You own this?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“A while.”
That answer again.
I turned to him. “You’re allergic to specifics.”
“I’m selective,” he corrected.
I studied the ironwork, the polished brass fixtures, the quiet confidence of every surface. My mind did what it always did—assessed, measured, searched for the structure underneath.
Because nothing about this house suggested limitation.
It wasn’t rented. It wasn’t temporary.
I didn’t know where his money came from. I didn’t know the shape of his work beyond the words he offered when pressed—security, useful, embedded.
But it was obvious he had a lot of it.
Not the loud kind that screamed for attention. Not the flashy kind that wanted to be admired.
The quiet kind.
The kind that moved through doors without asking permission.
The kind that bought privacy and control and options.
The kind that didn’t just purchase things—it rearranged the world around it.
The upstate lodge had already told me that. This told me more.
Charleston real estate south of Broad wasn’t an accident. It was a choice. It was access. It was power that didn’t need a podium.
And Cassian carried it the same way he carried everything else—like it was simply part of him. Like it didn’t require explanation.
Which somehow made it feel more dangerous.
Because men with that kind of money didn’t just have wealth.
They had reach.
I glanced at him again. He was watching me in that still way, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts were going and didn’t feel the need to interrupt.
“You’re doing it,” he said.
“Doing what.”
“Counting,” he replied. “Trying to solve.”
I lifted my chin. “Maybe I’m just noticing.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Same thing.”
He unlocked the front door and stepped aside, letting me enter first.
Choice.
Always that.
I crossed the threshold.
Inside, the house felt like him—dark wood, clean lines, no clutter. Not cold. Quiet, in the way a place is quiet when it’s owned, not borrowed.
He set my suitcase down near the staircase.
“You can take the guest room,” he said.
I blinked.
“What?”
His gaze didn’t shift. “You can.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
A pause. Then, simply: “Then you won’t.”
Heat threaded through me.
I set my purse down slowly, heart thudding harder than it should have.
“You’re very controlled,” I murmured.
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to be.”
“No,” he said. “I expect you to choose.”
My phone buzzed again.
Harper.
Of course.
I stared at the screen like it had insulted me.
Cassian’s gaze dipped to it, then back to my face. “Answer.”
“I’m not asking your permission.”
“I know,” he repeated.
I stepped away, anyway, because that’s what I did now.
“Tell me you’re in Charleston,” Harper said the second I picked up. “Because your location just popped on my phone and I swear to God if you came home and didn’t tell me—”
“I’m in Charleston,” I said.
A beat. Then, suspicious: “Alone?”
I closed my eyes.
“No,” I said carefully.
Silence.
Then, “Lia.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said, which meant she was absolutely doing something. “Where are you?”
“Downtown.”
“With him.”
“With him,” I admitted.
Another beat.
“You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
Harper let out a slow breath. “Okay. I’m not going to yell. Yet.”
“That’s generous.”
“And your mother?” she asked suddenly. “Did you see her while you were in New York?”
My stomach tightened.
“No, but she’s flying in tomorrow.”
“What?” Harper asked flatly. “Why?”
“She has … a situation.”
“A situation,” Harper repeated, the way she did when she wanted to rip something apart and couldn’t yet because she didn’t have all the facts.
“She’s coming to see a man from her past,” I said.
Harper went quiet.
Then, softer, “Oh.”
Yes.
Oh.
“Tomorrow,” I added. “Late morning.”
“Okay,” Harper said. “Okay. We’ll handle it. I’ll be there if you want.”
I hesitated. “I might.”
A pause.
“And him,” Harper said, voice sharpening again. “Is he with you right now?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
Cassian stood at the base of the stairs, hands loose, posture relaxed, attention on me without trying to pretend otherwise.
“Yes,” I said.
Harper exhaled. “Put him on.”
My pulse jumped.
“No.”
“Lia.”
“No,” I repeated.
A beat. Then Harper’s voice softened—dangerous in its own way. “Fine. But I’m seeing you today.”
“I just landed.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Text me when you’re free. And—” Her tone turned warning. “If your mother is flying in tomorrow, this is not the time for a mystery man to play house with you.”
I shut my eyes again.
She wasn’t wrong.
And still—
“I’ll text you,” I said.
“I love you,” Harper added, abrupt, like she was throwing a rope.
My throat tightened. “I love you, too.”
When I ended the call, I stood there for a moment, phone in my hand, feeling like the air in this house had shifted.
Cassian hadn’t moved.
“You told her,” he said.
“It was unavoidable,” I replied.
His gaze held mine. “And your mother.”
“She’s coming tomorrow,” I said again, like saying it twice would make it less surreal.
Cassian nodded once. “You’ll see her.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll help her,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I admitted. “Because she asked.”
“Because you want to,” he corrected.
I opened my mouth to argue.
And then I didn’t.
Because I did.
Because there was something painfully human about my mother wanting what she wanted—even this late, even after years of caution.
And because I understood it now in a way I didn’t before.
Cassian crossed the space between us, slow, deliberate.
He stopped close enough that my body recognized him before my brain did.
His hand came to my waist, warm and strong.
“You’re tense,” he said.
“I’m processing,” I replied.
His thumb brushed lightly, once, against my side. “You’re afraid.”
I inhaled sharply. “No.”
His gaze didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
I hated that he could see it.
And I hated more that he didn’t use it.
“Of what?” I asked.
“Of them seeing you,” he said.
Harper. My mother. My life.
Of Cassian standing in the middle of all of it.
I swallowed.
“And are you?” I whispered. “Afraid of that.”
A long beat.
Then he said, quieter, “No.”
“You’re not afraid of Harper?” I asked.
“No.”
“And my mother?”
“No.”
“That’s arrogant.”
“It’s not,” he corrected. “It’s intention.”
That word again.
My pulse hitched.
“And what,” I asked softly, “is your intention in Charleston?”
His hand tightened slightly at my waist—anchoring, not restraining.
“To be where you are,” he said.
The simplicity of it struck deeper than it should have.
“That doesn’t tell me anything,” I whispered.
“It tells you the only part that matters right now,” he replied.
I stared at him, feeling something inside me tug in two directions at once.
The part that wanted answers.
And the part that wanted to stop fighting what was already true.
“My mother is coming tomorrow,” I said again, like it was a shield.
“Yes.”
“And Harper is going to interrogate you,” I added.
“Good,” he said, and there it was again—his steady acceptance of friction.
“You’re impossible,” I murmured.
His mouth curved faintly. “You’re still here.”
I should have been irritated.
Instead, heat threaded through me.
“Where are we sleeping?” I asked, voice quieter now.
His gaze dipped to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Where you choose.”
My breath caught.
The house around us felt suddenly smaller. Warmer. Charged.
And outside the walls, Charleston moved on—tourists and locals, history and routine, my real life waiting like a lit stage.
Cassian leaned in just slightly, close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
“You brought me here,” he murmured.
“I didn’t,” I said automatically.
His thumb brushed my side again, slow. “You did.”
My pulse hammered.
“And now,” he continued, voice low, “you’ll decide what it means.”
Tomorrow my mother would land with a secret name in her throat.
Tonight Harper would look at me like she could see straight through my skin.
And Cassian—
Cassian was standing in my city like he’d always belonged there.
I didn’t know if that was the beginning of something or the beginning of the end.
I only knew I wasn’t stepping away.
Not yet.