Chapter 24
The morning light came in thin and pale through the tall windows of Cassian’s house, turning the white walls almost silver.
I woke before him again, this time curled against his side in the master bed, one of his arms draped loosely across my waist like it belonged there. The sheets smelled of him, and for the first few seconds before full consciousness returned, I let myself feel it: safe, wanted, held.
Then reality pressed in.
My mother was landing in three hours.
Harper had texted twice already, both messages short and sharp:
Call me when you’re awake.
We need to talk about him.
I slipped out of bed carefully. Cassian didn’t stir, his breathing deep and even, the faint scar along his collarbone rising and falling.
I stood for a moment at the edge of the mattress, watching him sleep.
Even unconscious he looked like a man who knew exactly where every exit was.
That should have frightened me more than it did.
I padded into the bathroom, closed the door softly, and turned on the shower just to drown out the quiet.
Under the spray I tried to organize my thoughts the way I always did—lists, priorities, contingencies.
But the usual structure wouldn’t hold. Everything kept circling back to the same two questions:
What if my mother saw me with Cassian and recognized the irony?
What if she didn’t—and that hurt worse?
I dressed quickly—tailored trousers, cream silk blouse, low heels that said professional without screaming armor. When I came back into the bedroom, Cassian was sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed, watching me with that steady, unreadable gaze.
“You’re dressed for battle,” he said.
“I’m dressed for lunch with my mother.”
He tilted his head. “Same thing.”
I exhaled through my nose. “She lands at eleven-fifteen. I told her I’d meet her at The Mills House. She wants me there when she sees Daniel for the first time.”
Cassian nodded once. “You want me to come?”
The offer was quiet, no pressure behind it. That made it harder to answer.
“No,” I said. “Not yet. This is … hers. I need to see what she needs first.”
He accepted that without argument. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”
Simple. Certain. No sulking, no demands. Just presence.
I hated how much I relied on that already.
The drive to The Mills House was short—too short.
Charleston slipped past in familiar pieces: Rainbow Row’s candy colors, the Battery’s live oaks dripping Spanish moss, tourists taking photos of wrought-iron gates.
I parked in the hotel garage, checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, and told myself I looked composed.
I didn’t feel it.
My mother was waiting in the lobby bar, perched on a high stool with a glass of sparkling water she hadn’t touched.
She wore navy slacks and a cream cardigan, hair pinned neatly, the same careful look she’d worn my entire childhood.
When she saw me, her shoulders dropped half an inch—relief, maybe fear.
“Lia.”
I hugged her. She smelled like lavender and airport coffee.
“You okay?” I asked.
She laughed—a thin, nervous sound. “No. But I’m here.”
We took a small table near the window. Sunlight slanted across the white tablecloth, catching the condensation on her glass.
“Tell me about Daniel,” I said.
She traced the rim with one finger. “He was … everything your father wasn’t. Wild. Funny. Took risks. Made me feel like the world was bigger than the one I’d been taught to want.”
“And you walked away.”
“I chose safe,” she corrected softly. “Your father was steady. Reliable. He never made me afraid—not of losing him, not of anything. That felt like love back then.”
I swallowed. “And now?”
“Now I wonder if safe was just another word for small.”
The words landed between us like stones in still water. Ripples spread.
Daniel arrived ten minutes later.
He was tall, silver-haired, dressed in a linen shirt and pressed khakis that said money without shouting it. His smile was easy, warm, the kind that made you want to believe him. He kissed my mother’s cheek, lingered just long enough to make her flush, then turned to me.
“Lia. It’s good to finally meet you.”
His handshake was firm. His eyes were kind.
But something in the way he looked at my mother—like she was a prize he’d waited decades to reclaim—set my teeth on edge.
We ordered coffee. Small talk. Weather, travel, Charleston’s charm. Then Daniel leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“I never stopped thinking about her,” he said, looking straight at me. “When she chose your father, I understood. But I never agreed.”
My mother’s hand trembled slightly on her cup.
I kept my voice even. “And now?”
“Now I want what we should have had then.”
Simple. Direct. Possessive in a velvet way.
My stomach twisted.
We talked for another hour. Daniel was charming, attentive, full of stories about their shared past—trips to the mountains, nights dancing in places my mother had never mentioned. She laughed more than I’d ever heard. Her eyes were bright.
But every time he touched her hand, every time he said “we” like the future was already written, I felt the echo of every man I’d spent my career warning women about. Not violent. Not cruel. Just certain. Certain she belonged to him now that she’d come back.
When we finally stood to leave, Daniel kissed her again—soft, lingering, right there in the lobby. She let him.
I walked her to the elevator.
“You’re sure about this?” I asked quietly.
She looked at me—really looked. “No. But I’m tired of being sure of the wrong things.”
The doors closed.
I stood there until the indicator light blinked off, then turned and walked out into the humid afternoon.
My phone buzzed the second I hit the sidewalk.
Harper.
Where are you? We need to talk.
I met her at our usual spot—a small café on King Street with outdoor tables shaded by palmettos. She was already there, arms crossed, foot tapping. Luca sat beside her, calm as ever, but even he looked concerned.
She didn’t waste time.
“There’s a photo,” she said, sliding her phone across the table.
I looked.
It was grainy but unmistakable: Cassian and me leaving the airport yesterday, his hand on my lower back, my head tilted toward him. Someone had captioned it:
Spotted: Lia Quinn, local violence prevention advocate, cozying up to a man who reportedly owns private hunting preserves in Upstate NY and Africa. The irony is thicker than Charleston humidity.
The post had been shared sixty-seven times. Comments ranged from disappointed to vicious.
My stomach dropped.
Harper watched my face. “It’s starting, Lia. A local reporter already emailed me asking for comment. They’re digging.”
Luca spoke quietly. “They found property records. Cassian Locke owns three parcels zoned for ‘recreational preserve.’ One has been used for guided big-game hunts. High-end clients. Special permits.”
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
“He never told me the specifics,” I said.
Harper’s voice softened, but only a fraction. “Would it have mattered?”
I didn’t answer.
Because it would have. And it wouldn’t.
I pushed the phone back. “I need to talk to him.”
Luca nodded. “You do. But before you do—think about what you want. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want.”
Harper reached across the table, squeezed my hand. “We love you. Whatever you choose. But don’t pretend this doesn’t cost something.”
I drove back to South of Broad in silence.
Cassian was in the courtyard when I arrived, sitting on the edge of the fountain, elbows on his knees, looking at nothing in particular. He stood the second he saw me.
I didn’t speak at first. I just held up my phone, the photo visible.
He looked at it. Then at me.
“You knew this would happen,” I said.
“I knew it was possible.”
“That’s not the same.”
“No.”
I stepped closer. “You own hunting preserves. You facilitate trophy hunts.”
He didn’t flinch. “I own land. I lease portions to outfitters who run permitted hunts. I don’t pull the triggers.”
“But you profit from it.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was worse than evasion.
I laughed once, sharp and bitter. “Do you know what my donors will say? What my board will ask?”
“I can guess.”
I shook my head. “I spent years raising money to stop exactly this. And now I’m sleeping in the house of a man who makes money from it.”
He stepped toward me. Slow. Deliberate.
“I’m not asking you to forgive it,” he said. “I’m asking you to see it.”
“See what?”
“Me. Not the label. Not the transaction. Me.”
My throat tightened. “I’m trying.”
“Are you?”
The question wasn’t cruel. It was quiet. Honest.
I looked away, toward the ivy climbing the brick wall. “Harper wants me to distance myself. Publicly.”
He didn’t react outwardly. But I felt the shift in him—subtle tightening, like a bowstring drawn half an inch.
“And you?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Silence stretched.
Then he said, softer than I’d ever heard him: “If you need to walk away, I won’t stop you.”
The words landed like a blow.
I turned back to him. “That’s it? You’d just … let me?”
“No.” His gaze held mine. “I’d let you choose. Then I’d follow.”
My breath caught.
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “I told you I don’t let go. That hasn’t changed.”
I searched his face. No anger. No pleading. Just certainty.
And beneath it—something raw.
Fear?
No. Not fear.
Hunger.
The kind that didn’t shout. The kind that waited.
I reached up, touched his jaw. The stubble was rough under my fingers.
“I’m scared,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“I might lose everything I built.”
“You might.”
“And you’d still want me?”
His hand came up, covered mine against his face. “Yes.”
One word.
But it carried the weight of every promise he’d never spoken aloud.
I closed the distance.
The kiss was not gentle.
It was desperate. Hungry. Angry and tender at once.
His arms banded around me, lifting me against him as he backed us toward the house. The door opened behind us without either of us touching it—automatic, like the rest of his world.
We didn’t make it upstairs.
He pressed me against the wall in the foyer, hands sliding under my blouse, mouth on my throat. I arched into him, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
“Cassian—”
He lifted his head. Eyes dark. “Say stop if you need to.”
I didn’t.
Instead I pulled his mouth back to mine.
Clothes came off in pieces—blouse, trousers, his shirt yanked over his head. He lifted me again, carried me to the wide leather sofa in the living room, laid me down like I was something precious and breakable.
But when he came over me, there was nothing careful about the way he entered me—deep, hard, claiming.
I gasped his name.
He moved with purpose, each thrust measured but relentless, eyes locked on mine.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice rough. “Even if you walk away tomorrow. Even if the world burns your name down. You’re still mine.”
Tears stung my eyes—not sadness, but something bigger.
I wrapped my legs around him, met every movement. “And you’re mine.”
He groaned, pace faltering for the first time.
We came together—hard, shattering, clinging to each other like the world might disappear if we let go.
Afterward he held me on the sofa, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing slow circles on my back.
“I’ll sell the preserves,” he said quietly. “If you need me to.”
I lifted my head. “You’d do that?”
“Yes.”
I studied him. “But you wouldn’t want to.”
“No.”
I exhaled. “Then don’t.”
He frowned slightly.
“I don’t need you to erase who you are,” I said. “I need you to be honest about it. And I need to decide what I’m willing to carry.”
He nodded once.
We stayed like that until the light shifted, until my phone buzzed again—Harper, probably.
I didn’t answer.
Not yet.
Because right now, in this house that smelled of salt and old wood, with Cassian’s heartbeat steady beneath my ear, I understood something new.
I hadn’t just asked for a hunter.
I’d asked for a man who would hunt me forever—and let me hunt him back.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.