Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isabella lay against the pillow, her breath still unsteady, her limbs warm beneath the soft weight of the coverlet.
Cassian shifted beside her, the tension in his body slowly ebbing until he finally exhaled a long breath against her shoulder. For a moment, he did nothing but rest there, pressed along her side, as though reluctant to pull away from her embrace.
But then he straightened, drawing a quiet breath.
“Do not move,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened, still thick with the remnants of passion.
Before she could question him, he rose from the bed. The room’s faint glow caught the lines of his broad back, and she admired the sight with a warmth that curled low in her stomach. But then the light shifted again, and Isabella’s breath caught in her throat.
The scars.
She had seen them before, but he had not covered them quickly when he had noticed her presence.
Not faint ones, not the kind inflicted by an accidental scrape or boyhood mischief, but hard, violent strokes, jagged lines crossing the breadth of his back in uneven patterns, as though carved there by malice.
She had not noticed them while they had been making love, but she had been too distracted by the feelings to pay attention.
She sat up, the coverlet clutching her chest. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged.
Cassian, unaware of her staring, retrieved a warm cloth from the nearby basin. When he returned to her side, he dipped his head to murmur to her, as though cleaning her after what they shared was the most natural, unremarkable thing.
But she was barely listening.
“Cassian,” she whispered, her voice catching. “Your back.”
He paused, and the cloth fell still in his hand.
Slowly, however, he lifted his head and met her gaze. Something shuttered across his features, the softness replaced by a stony mask more rigid than she had ever seen on him.
“It is nothing.”
“Do not tell me that,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please.”
A long silence stretched between them. The fire popped. Outside, the winter wind swept against the windowpanes. Cassian remained perfectly still, the muscles in his jaw tight.
Finally, he sat beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight as he stared forward and not at her. His voice, when it came, felt as though dragged from a place he rarely allowed anyone access to.
“They are from… before. When I was taken as a child.” He said harshly, every word dripping with hurt.
Isabella reached for his hand, her fingers curling around his with gentle insistence.
“Will you tell me?”
Another long pause, and then, quietly, reluctantly, “Some…”
He drew a slow breath.
“Some say my father loved this duchy more than his own life. He was dedicated to it and everything it entailed, including a rivalry that began as a friendly sport but turned into something dark like hatred. I was a victim of that hatred when I was abducted and taken to Scotland,” he paused, then, with a deep breath, he carried on, “My captors were very diligent. They did anything and everything to ensure fear and obedience. These scars… they are proof of that.”
A small gasp escaped Isabella’s lips; she could hardly imagine the horror, and her heart ached that a young Cassian endured such hardship. She, however, didn’t say a word, waiting for him to tell her all.
“The aim was total humiliation of our family, but it lasted far longer than it should have,” he continued.
Isabella’s breath tightened.
“They took me one night. I did not understand at first. I thought it a game.” His jaw clenched as though he despised admitting such childish innocence. “But the game ended quickly when threats turned into persuasion.”
Her fingers tightened around his.
He swallowed, the movement harsh. “They wanted to frighten the heir, and they succeeded.”
The air left her lungs in a soft, pained rush.
“I was with them for a total of three years, until I could hardly take it anymore. I…escaped.”
There was more, Isabella thought within her, but she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt him; this was a sacred moment.
“I was eighteen when I escaped them. I could not return home. Not then. I had no notion of where I was, nor how to find my way back, so I worked. It was nothing remarkable, but it kept me anchored. I apprenticed myself to a carpenter of some repute, a decent man, who treated me fairly and paid me what I was owed. I remained with him for two years. When I was finally able to return, it was already too late. The damage had been done. The ton had begun calling me the stolen duke long before the Everthorne title ever came to me.”
Isabella lifted her free hand slowly, as though approaching a frightened creature, and touched his cheek.
A sad smile fell on his lips.
“When I returned at twenty, the duchy was in disarray. My father had squandered what remained of our fortune and reduced himself to a shadow of the man he had been, drowning his guilt in whiskey.” He pressed his lips together.
“He died a year later. Went to bed and did not wake. My grandmother… she spoke often of vengeance, only to warn me against it. She believed my father had paid for his failures with his life, and that no good could come of demanding more.” He exhaled slowly.
“She did not want such a life for me. Nor did I wish it for myself.”
“Cassian,” Isabella whispered. “I am so terribly sorry.”
For a moment, he did not react. Then he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.
A breath escaped him, quiet, almost imperceptible, yet it was the most vulnerable sound she had ever heard from him.
She then pulled him into her arms, and he inhaled sharply, as though startled, but within seconds, his body softened against hers again.
He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her shoulder as she held him tightly, her fingers threading through his hair.
It was a tender, aching silence, and when he finally lifted his head, she noticed something in his gaze had shifted. Something softer.
Something dangerously close to trust.
The days that followed unfolded gently, as though the world itself had decided to cradle them in a rare pocket of peace.
“Sleeping?” Cassian asked as he entered her chambers, only to find her still drowsy beneath the covers.
“It’s snowing,” he said simply, climbing into bed beside her.
“I am aware.” She smiled.
He leaned down and kissed her again, slowly and searingly as if he were afraid that it would not last.
Isabella returned his kiss, and soon they were making love again. He sheathed inside of her, moaning hungrily before flipping onto his back and guiding her hips above him.
Throwing her head back, she allowed her hands to rest on his knees, embracing the marital pleasure that was opening new worlds to her. Her long hair ricked her back just above her buttocks, freeing her spirit along with the aching in her loins.
She enjoyed the new experience, allowing him to guide her until they fell side by side again, utterly spent and captivated in one another’s arms.
It was then that he turned to her with a rare smile, touching her nose with the tip of his finger.
“Ride with me,” he suggested simply, and in no time, they were bundled in cloaks, gloves, and scarves, riding across the grounds without care for the freezing temperatures.
Isabella’s cheeks stung with cold, but Cassian stayed close beside her, occasionally peering down to ensure she remained steady.
Their breaths mingled in white puffs in the crisp morning air.
“It is beautiful,” she whispered.
He looked at her, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” he said, though his gaze rested entirely on her.
Later that day, he took her to his workshop, to do nothing but watch him work. It had been his idea, but Isabella could not find a thing to complain about.
“You made all these?” she breathed and looked around the space that smelled of woodchips.
It smells like Cassian.
She suddenly realized that his scent had been entirely composed of his most beloved hobby. His skin smelled like the rich aromas of fresh wood and varnish, something that intoxicated her.
He nodded somewhat sheepishly while rubbing the back of his neck.
“They are remarkable.”
“Try it yourself,” he said, handing her a small carving knife and a block of wood.
Her first attempt was clumsy, eliciting a soft laugh from him, so rare she blinked at the sound. He stepped behind her, guiding her hands gently between his, his breath ghosting her ear. Their fingers brushed often, and each time, a spark darted through her.
That night, by the fire, she lay beneath his arm, her head on his chest, their legs tangled beneath the blankets.
He told her small stories about his time in Scotland.
How he learned to fish in freezing streams, how he rode bareback across highland fields, how he carved his first wooden horse at age eighteen.
“Seems like you were happy there,” she murmured.
“I doubt it. I was merely trying to survive.”
“And now?”
He hesitated.
Her breath caught, awaiting his answer.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, his fingers sliding into her hair.
Isabella hadn’t known what she was getting into when she had accepted his proposal, but so far, she could say she was enjoying it.
Each night, he held her. Each morning, he reached for her again.
And yet, for all the tenderness, shadows lingered because three nights into their newfound closeness, she woke to a strangled sound beside her.
Cassian thrashed in his sleep, breath ragged, sweat beading across his brow. His hands curled as though fighting off invisible restraints, his chest rising too quickly, too sharply.
“Cassian,” she whispered, touching his face. “Cassian, wake up.”
He jolted as though burned, eyes wild for a moment before they focused on her. He sat up, breathing harshly.
“It is nothing,” he rasped.
“It is not nothing,” she whispered.