Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty Four
Her boots echoed sharply against the polished floor as she cut across the aisle, ignoring the eyes that still lingered on her. “Father.”
He didn’t stop.
"Father." Sharper this time, angling into his path.
He paused, finally, near the arched double doors. The set of his jaw was unreadable. "You should be grateful this embarrassment didn't cost you everything."
"You tried to make sure it did." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "You and Lord Tremaine. Don't bother denying it."
"Denying what? That I took steps to protect my investment? Unfortunately, Miss Montero proved less reliable than Julian assured me she would be. Jealous girls are so easily directed, but apparently not easily managed."
Not his daughter, but his investment. That was all she really was to him, all she had ever been.
Julian’s involvement came as no surprise, but Verena?
She had been nothing more than a convenient tool, easily discarded when she failed to deliver the desired result.
Cassara would never have believed Verena would risk own career just to get rid of her.
In the end, they'd all conspired to destroy her—not because she'd done anything wrong, but because she'd dared to want something for herself.
"You wanted me to fail from the start," she said, her voice rising. "You were hoping they'd send me home in shame. Straight into Julian's arms, exactly where you always planned to put me."
His expression didn't change. No guilt. No remorse. Just cold calculation. "What I wanted was for you to understand the consequences of defiance. Clearly, that lesson didn't take."
"It's not defiance to want a life of my own."
His face hardened. "Watch your tone, Cassara."
"Or what? You'll orchestrate another tribunal?" Her voice cracked. "Mother knew what you were. That's why she kept going back to the border. It was the only place you couldn't control her."
The strike came fast.
A sharp crack of skin on skin that snapped her head to the side. Pain bloomed across her cheek, red-hot, and the breath rushed from her lungs.
Her father stepped closer, and suddenly she was small again. A child who'd learned that defiance had consequences. His voice dropped to something deadly quiet. "You think you've won? You think—"
Gideon was suddenly there, stepping between them with deliberate calm.
Rather than face her father, he turned his back to him and faced her. One hand lifted to gently cradle her face.
“Let me see,” he murmured. His fingers traced the edge of the bruise, feather-light but sure.
“It’s okay,” Cassara murmured. She wanted to tell him to leave, not to get involved, but the words lodged themselves in her throat.
“No, it’s not. If you ever touch her again—” He turned his head, just enough to meet Lord Allencourt’s eyes over his shoulder. “—you’ll regret it.”
Her father’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “So this is the one? The Delvanir boy? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” His voice turned venomous. “Julian mentioned some interesting observations about my daughter’s… nocturnal activities. Late-night absences. Changes in behavior.”
Gideon went very still, but his hand didn’t move from Cassara’s face.
“Tell me, boy,” Lord Allencourt continued, “has my daughter been warming your bed? Is that why you’re so eager to defend her? Or has she been trading other favors for advancement?”
Cassara felt her cheeks burn with humiliation, but it was the dangerous stillness that had settled over Gideon that truly frightened her.
“Lord Allencourt,” Gideon said quietly, finally turning to face him fully, “I suggest you choose your next words very carefully.”
“Is that a threat? From a disgraced family’s son to a peer of the realm?” Lord Allencourt stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Your family has already lost everything once. How much more are you willing to sacrifice for a girl who was never meant for the likes of you?”
For a moment, Cassara thought Gideon might hit him. The tension coiled between them like a spring wound too tight, violence waiting just beneath the surface.
Instead, Gideon smiled, cold and sharp and lacking even a hint of humor.
“You’re right about one thing,” he said. “My family does know about sacrifice. We know what it costs to stand by our principles instead of our profit margins. And we know the difference between honor and expedience.”
His voice carried the quiet authority of someone who’d never needed to raise it. “Cowards hit their daughters and call it discipline. Cowards orchestrate tribunals and call it justice.”
Her father’s jaw twitched.
Gideon turned slightly, offering Cassara his arm without taking his eyes off her father. “Cassara, you don’t have to listen to this.”
She looked between them, her father’s face twisted with rage and disgust, Gideon’s steady presence offering protection and respect in equal measure. The choice should have been harder than it was.
It wasn’t.
She took Gideon’s arm and walked away from her father without looking back, leaving Lord Allencourt standing alone in the corridor with his fury and his political machinations.
“This isn’t over,” her father called after them.
Gideon paused at the corridor’s end. “No,” he agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”
As they passed the chamber doors, Cassara caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision. Auren stood in the shadowed alcove near the faculty entrance, perfectly still, watching. Not with anger or jealousy, but regret.
His hands were clenched at his sides and the rigid set of his shoulders spoke of barely leashed restraint. Like a man forced to watch something he couldn't bear to see but couldn't look away from and could do nothing to stop.
Their eyes met for just a moment, long enough for her to see the protective rage burning there before his mask slipped back into place. Then Gideon was guiding her around the corner, and Auren was lost to shadow.
They walked in silence down the corridor until Gideon finally steered them into an empty alcove. Afternoon light filtered through the glass, catching dust motes in the air.
Only then did he release her arm, focusing his attention on something beyond the window.
Cassara's cheek still throbbed where her father had struck her, but that pain was nothing compared to the knot tightening in her chest.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said quietly.
Gideon turned to face her fully. "Which part?"
"Any of it. All of it." Her voice wavered. "My father will—"
"I don't care what your father does."
"You should." She insisted. "He has influence, connections. He could make things difficult for you, for your family—"
"Cassara." Gideon's voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. "Stop."
She closed her mouth, throat tight.
He sighed and Cassara had worked with him long enough now to know what it looked like when he was growing frustrated. "Your father hit you. Did you think I was going to stand there and let that happen?"
"But it's not your fight—"
"Yes, it is." His voice was quiet but absolute. "The moment he put his hands on you, it became my fight."
Cassara's breath caught. She wanted to argue, to push back, to tell him he didn't understand the cost of crossing her father. But the steadiness in his gaze stopped her.
"You could lose everything," she whispered.
"I've already lost everything once." His expression shifted revealing a shadow of old pain. "When my family became outcasts, I learned what actually matters. And it isn't influence or connections or political favor."
"Then what is it?"
"Standing up when it counts." He held her gaze. "I won't apologize for that. Not to your father, not to anyone. And I'd do it again."
The certainty in his voice nearly undid her. No hesitation. No regret.
"Why?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
Gideon was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching hers. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. "Because you deserve better than being treated like property. You don’t deserve someone who hits you and calls it love."
Her vision blurred. She blinked hard, willing the tears back.
"And because," he continued, even quieter now, "someone needed to show you that not everyone will stand by and let it happen."
Cassara couldn't speak. Couldn't find words for the tangle of emotions knotting in her chest—gratitude and fear and something dangerously close to hope.
"Thank you," she finally managed, voice rough.
Gideon's expression gentled. "You don't need to thank me for basic decency, Cassara."
"Yes, I do." She met his eyes. "Because apparently it's not as common as it should be."
A beat of silence passed between them, heavy with unspoken understanding.
"Your cheek," Gideon said, his hand rising as though to touch her face before he caught himself. "You should have the medics look at it."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." His voice carried an edge again. "None of this is fine."
"No," she agreed quietly. "It isn't."
The days following the hearing had settled into an uneasy routine.
The training annex echoed with the familiar rhythm of combat drills, boots against stone, the whistle of practice weapons through air, the occasional grunt of exertion.
Without Verena’s barked criticisms and aggressive charges, the space felt oddly hollow, like a song missing its bass line.
Cassara moved through the defensive sequence, her body finding the gaps where Verena should have been. They’d been compensating for three days now, pretending the empty space didn’t throw off their entire formation. Pretending they didn’t all know what was coming.
“Hold,” Nareen’s voice cut through their movements.
They turned to find her standing at the entrance, her expression more severe than usual. The afternoon light streaming through the high windows caught the edge of her halberd.
“I have news regarding your teammate.”
No one asked which teammate. They all knew.