Chapter 17 Cassian
CASSIAN
I see her the moment she walks in but I wait, letting her settle into the evening, letting her think maybe she’s safe. Julian introduces her to a dozen people, and she handles each conversation with practiced ease.
Then she excuses herself and heads toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
Alone.
I set down my drink and follow.
The hallway is quieter, away from the main ballroom. Soft lighting, expensive artwork on the walls. A place designed for private conversations between people who don’t want to be overheard.
She’s halfway down when I call her name. “Aurelia.”
She freezes. Turns slowly, and when she sees me, all the color drains from her face.
“Cassian.”
My name in her mouth sounds different than it did six years ago. Less confident. More afraid.
Good.
I walk toward her, and she backs up until she hits the wall. “We need to talk,” I say.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I don’t care what you think. You owe me answers.”
She looks past me, toward the ballroom. “Julian is waiting for me.”
“Let him wait.”
“Cassian—”
“It’s been six years.” I stop a few feet away from her, close enough to see the pulse jumping in her throat. “You disappeared for six years. No explanation, no contact, nothing.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple. Who are you really? Because Catherine was a lie, wasn’t it?”
She swallows hard. “My name is Aurelia Vance. You already know that.”
“I know a lot of things now that I didn’t know then. I know your family grabbed you off the street during the Petrov shooting. I know Victor hid you somewhere for six years. What I don’t know is why.”
“My family was protecting me.”
“From what?”
“From you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“From me,” I repeat.
“You killed someone right in front of me, Cassian. What was I supposed to think?”
“You were supposed to trust that I had my reasons.”
“I didn’t know you. We spent one night together, and then you murdered someone in public. My family took me home. That’s all.”
“That’s all? You expect me to believe that Victor Vance kept his niece locked away for six years just to protect her from me?”
Her jaw tightens. “Believe what you want.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
We stare at each other, and I can see her trying to hold it together. Trying to keep the mask in place. But her hands are shaking, and her breathing is too fast, and she’s terrified in a way that doesn’t match her words.
She’s lying. About what, I don’t know yet. But there’s something she’s not telling me, something bigger than just her family protecting her.
“Why did you lie about your name?” I ask.
“Because I was running. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was.”
“Running from what?”
“An arranged marriage. Victor wanted to sell me off to some eighty-year-old business associate, and I refused.”
“So you ran. Dyed your hair, wore contacts, hid for two months, and then boarded a plane back to New York.”
“Yes.”
“And you just happened to sit next to me.”
“It was random.”
“Was it? Or did you know exactly who I was when you got on that plane?”
Her eyes widen slightly, and I know I’ve hit something.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me again, Aurelia. I’ve had six years to think about that night, and nothing about it makes sense unless you knew who I was from the beginning.”
She looks away. “I recognized you. From photos. My family keeps files on their enemies, and I’d seen your face before.”
“So you knew I was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And you slept with me anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see something real. Something raw. “Because I wanted to. It was the most rebellious thing I could do.”
The honesty in her voice cuts through all the bullshit.
She used me. Not maliciously, but she used me. And I can’t even be angry about it because I would have done the same thing in her position.
“And after?” I ask. “After your family took you, did you ever think about contacting me?”
“I couldn’t. Victor wouldn’t let me. He kept me locked away, and by the time I had any freedom, it had been too long. I didn’t even know if you were still looking.”
“I never stopped looking.”
Her expression falters for a brief moment, her eyes dropping as if she has remembered something she would rather not. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“Sorry, doesn’t give me back six years.”
“I know.”
I step closer, and she presses back against the wall like she’s trying to disappear into it.
“Tell me something true,” I say. “One thing that isn’t a lie or a deflection or a crafted story. Just the truth.”
She’s quiet for a long moment.
Then she says, “I thought about you. For the better half of six years, I thought about you.”
I have to look away to steady myself.
“Did you?” I ask, moving even closer.
“Yes.”
“What did you think about?”
“That night. The way you touched me. The way you fucked me.”
“Show me.”
“Cassian—”
I don’t let her finish. I close the distance between us and kiss her.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat, half protest, half surrender, and then her hands are in my hair and she’s kissing me back with the same desperate intensity I remember. It’s not gentle. Not sweet. It’s angry and consuming, years of frustration poured into one kiss.
I back her harder against the wall, my hand sliding up her thigh, pushing the silk of her dress out of the way. She gasps into my mouth, and I swallow the sound.
“We can’t,” she says when I break the kiss to move to her neck.
“We are.”
“Someone will see—”
“Then we find somewhere private.”
There’s a door at the end of the hallway. Some kind of office or storage room, I don’t care which. I pull her toward it, and she follows without resisting.
The room is small. A desk, some chairs, and filing cabinets. I lock the door behind us and turn back to her. She’s standing in the middle of the room, breathing hard, looking at me like she can’t decide if she wants to run or pull me closer.
I make the decision for her.
I cross the space and crowd her back against the desk until the wood presses into her hips. My hands find her face first, thumbs sliding along her jaw, fingers curling at the nape of her neck, and I kiss her like I’ve been starving for it.
My mouth slants hard over hers, and she opens instantly, tongue meeting mine with no hesitation, no softness, just raw, biting need. She tastes like champagne and anger and something that hasn’t changed at all.
Her nails rake up my neck and dig into my hair, pulling hard enough that my scalp stings, angling my head so she can deepen the kiss on her terms. I let her for a heartbeat, then take it back, pressing forward until her spine arches slightly over the desk edge.
She bites my lower lip, sharp and deliberate, and the sting shoots straight to my cock. A rough sound rumbles out of me, swallowed by her mouth, because Christ, I missed this fight in her.
My hands drop to her ass, palms spreading wide over the cool silk, fingers digging in as I lift her just enough to grind her against the front of my trousers.
She feels it immediately, the thick, aching length of me, and her breath catches against my tongue. Her hips roll forward in answer, dragging herself along that ridge until I’m throbbing behind the fabric.
I spin her suddenly, one arm banding across her waist to keep her steady, and bend her forward just enough that her palms slap onto the desk for balance.
Her dress slides easily in my fists, and I bunch it higher, higher, until it gathers in rumpled folds around her waist and exposes the long line of her thighs, the delicate lace between them.
She arches back into me without prompting, pressing her ass firmly against my hips, and the heat of her through that thin barrier nearly undoes me.
I splay a hand across her upper back, guiding her chest down toward the polished wood, not forcing yet, just reminding her how easily I could. She resists for a second, muscles tensing under my palm, then yields with a shaky exhale that fogs the desk surface.
My other hand traces the edge of her panties, fingertips slipping beneath the lace to feel bare, warm skin and the faint dampness already gathering there. I drag the fabric aside and stroke her once, long and unhurried, from entrance to clit, gathering the slickness that’s started to coat her.
She pushes back into my fingers, greedy, demanding more, and when I circle her clit slowly, deliberately, her thighs tremble. A soft, frustrated sound escapes her throat because I stop too soon, pulling my hand away just as her hips start to chase it.
She twists her head enough to glare at me over her shoulder, eyes dark and blazing, and that look alone is enough to make me ache harder.
I pull my hand away, and she makes a low, impatient sound that scrapes along my nerves like a match strike. The air between us feels thick enough to taste, heavy with the scent of her skin and the faint trace of gardenias from whatever she sprayed on her throat hours ago.
My belt buckle clinks softly as I open it, the leather sliding free with a whisper. I don’t bother with anything more than shoving trousers and linen down just far enough.
My cock springs against my stomach, aching, the head already slick. Six years, and the sight of her bent forward, dress rucked high, thighs parted just enough to show the glisten of her, nearly buckles my knees.
I step in close, one palm spreading over the small of her back, holding her steady.
The blunt crown nudges her entrance and she pushes back at once, impatient, trying to take me on her terms. I deny her the angle, gripping her hip to still her, and drive forward in a single, claiming stroke that buries me to the root.
The heat of her is staggering. Tight, wet, pulsing around me like she’s been waiting for this exact stretch all this time. A rough sound tears out of my chest and her spine bows sharply, fingers clawing at the desk for purchase. The wood creaks under her grip.
I start moving hard from the first thrust, hips snapping forward with no restraint, each impact forcing a soft gasp from her throat. The desk shifts an inch across the floor with every drive.
Her dress slips further up her back, silk bunching under my forearm as I lean over her, mouth finding the delicate skin just below her ear. I bite down, not gently, and she shudders around me.
She refuses to stay passive. Even bent forward she fights for rhythm, shoving back to meet me, inner muscles gripping deliberately each time I pull out.
The challenge is there in every roll of her hips, in the way she turns her head to catch my eye over her shoulder, lips parted, daring me to give more.
I pull out abruptly and she makes a sharp, frustrated sound.
Before she can protest I spin her again, hands under her thighs to lift her onto the desk.
Papers scatter, a pen clatters to the floor.
She wraps her legs around my waist instantly, heels digging into the backs of my thighs, pulling me forward.
I sink back into her in one smooth glide, and we both exhale like we’ve been holding our breath for years.
Face-to-face now, nothing between us but heat and glare.
I brace one arm beside her head, the other sliding up to cradle her jaw, thumb pressing against her lower lip until she parts for me. Our eyes stay locked. No hiding.
Each thrust is deeper this way, slower than before, but heavier, grinding at the end so she feels every inch. Her breath stutters against my mouth. I keep my hand on her jaw, not letting her turn away, forcing her to take the weight of my stare while I take her body.
My free hand slips between us, fingers finding the swollen knot of nerves above where we join.
I circle once, firm and steady, and her back arches off the desk, thighs tightening around me.
She claws at my shoulders, nails scraping through the cotton of my shirt, leaving trails of fire.
Her sounds grow ragged, broken around my name.
The tension coils viciously. I feel her start to flutter around me, those first warning pulses, and I drive harder, chasing the clench. She comes with a sharp cry muffled against my neck, body locking tight, inner walls rippling in long, milking waves that drag me right after her.
I bury myself deep and stay there, hips jerking through the release, spilling inside her in thick pulses that leave me breathless. The pleasure is almost violent, six years of want emptying out in a rush that whites the edges of my vision.
We stay joined, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in harsh pants. Her legs remain locked around me, trembling. My hand is still on her jaw, thumb stroking slowly now along her damp lower lip. The room smells of us, of sex and silk and the faint metallic tang of the desk beneath her.
Eventually, her legs loosen, and I ease out, both of us hissing at the loss. She slides off the edge on unsteady feet, tugging the green silk back down over her hips with shaking fingers. I tuck myself away, refasten my trousers, but my eyes never leave her.
The silence is thick—in this moment, with her mouth swollen and her pulse racing under my thumb, words feel suddenly small.