Chapter 6
Six
Cassian
The Crimson Cat is my church.
The altar is the sticky, beer-soaked bar and the sacrament is a glass of cheap whiskey, neat.
The music is a loud, angry sermon thumping from the speakers, a bassline that vibrates right through the soles of my boots and up into my teeth.
The congregation is a collection of lost souls and broken things, all of us seeking a different kind of salvation in the red-lit dark.
Some look for it in a bottle, some in a fight, some in the warm, anonymous body of a stranger.
I just come here to feel the noise. On a good night, it’s loud enough to drown out the screaming in my own head.
Tonight is not a good night.
I’m on my second whiskey, but it isn’t working.
The fire in my throat is dull, the warmth in my belly feels hollow.
The noise of the bar is just noise, a chaotic mess that’s doing nothing to quiet the one thought that’s been circling my brain for two days straight, a vulture waiting for me to stand still.
Aria.
Her name is a splinter under my skin. I keep pressing on it, just to feel the sting.
The memory of her in the stairwell—the flicker of fear, the spark of anger—is a far better drug than this whiskey.
I want more of it. I’m an addict, and I just got my first real taste of a high I never knew existed.
I stare into my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim, red light.
The rule was always simple: Watch. Don’t touch.
But now that I’ve broken it, the compulsion to go back, to close the distance is a physical fucking ache.
The obsession I’ve curated from a distance for years has become a raging wildfire.
It’s pissing me off. I’m not used to this loss of control, this feeling that my own penance has turned into a rabid addiction.
A blast of cold air hits the back of my neck as the heavy front door swings open, dragging a swirl of street noise in with it. I don’t look. It’s just another sinner coming to confession.
Then, the atmosphere in the bar shifts. It’s subtle, a change in the pressure of the room.
A few conversations near the door falter.
A chair scrapes as someone shifts to get a better look.
The bartender, a grizzled old bastard named Mick who’s seen it all twice, actually looks up from the glass he’s polishing, his brow furrowed.
My curiosity gets the better of me. I glance over my shoulder toward the entrance, annoyed and intrigued.
The fucking world stops turning.
It’s her. Aria. She’s standing just inside the doorway, and the sight of her hits me like a body blow.
The bar’s dim red light loves her, catching the soft, full curves of her face.
She’s wearing a dark, baggy hoodie, but it’s a piss-poor disguise for the reality of her body, a reality I’ve only ever guessed at from a distance.
Up close, it’s a revelation. The generous swell of her hips, the promise of the soft stomach and full thighs beneath the fabric.
She’s not built like the other girls in here—all sharp angles and jutting bones.
She’s an armful. She’s a goddamn woman, and the fact that she’s trying to hide it makes the confirmation, seeing her in the flesh the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced.
My first thought is disbelief. I must be drunker than I thought. I must have conjured her from the sheer force of my obsession, but I’m not, and she’s real. She’s here.
My second thought is a fierce, primal, possessive thrill that roars through me, hot and absolute.
She came to me. For years, I kept our worlds separate—the watcher and the watched.
Now she has crossed the line. She has walked into my church, my den, my hell.
The game hasn’t ended; it has irrevocably changed.
The ghost has come to haunt the monster.
I watch her, unmoving, letting the moment stretch. Her eyes are wide, taking in the scene; The dim, red-lit squalor. The leering faces. The sheer, oppressive volume of it all.
She’s terrified. I can see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the way her hand is still hovering near the door, ready to flee, but she’s not fleeing. She’s holding her ground. My god, the effort it must be taking.
A couple of guys at a table near the door notice her. Of course they do. A woman with a body like that—soft and real—stands out in this place. Their sleazy, appraising gazes slide over her curves and one of them nudges his friend, a low, predatory grin spreading across his face.
A switch flips in my head, and a cold, red fog descends. The noise of the bar fades to a dull hum. All I see are the leering eyes of the man at that table, and my hands begin to ache with the need to gouge them out. The thought isn’t just Mine. It’s Mine, and they are dead for looking.
That’s all it takes. I push my glass away and slide off the barstool. The hunt is back on.
I move through the crowd, and people get out of my way. They always do. They know my face, they know the trouble that follows me like a stray dog. I keep my eyes locked on her. She hasn’t seen me yet. Her focus is on the overwhelming chaos of the room.
I stop a few feet in front of her.
“Lost, little ghost?” I ask, my voice a low rumble under the music.
Her head snaps toward me. Her eyes widen, and I see it all; recognition, shock, and that beautiful, beautiful fear. It’s like watching a match flare in the dark.
“Cassian,” she breathes, my name a wisp of sound.
“In the flesh,” I say, giving her a slow, deliberate smirk. I let my gaze drift over her, from her wide eyes down to her tote bag clutched in front of her like a shield. “Big, scary world out here. You could get hurt. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to wander into strange places?”
She swallows, her throat working. “This is a bar, not a warzone.”
“Depends on the night,” I counter, my smirk widening.
I take a step closer, invading her space, closing the gap until the choice to touch her is an inevitability.
My hand finds the small of her back, and the reality of her is a jolt that travels right up my arm.
She’s not a ghost at all. She’s solid, warm, and soft.
My palm sinks into the curve of her, and my fingers itch with the need to grip her hip, to pull her flush against me so she can feel exactly what the sight of her does to me.
Her entire body goes rigid at the contact, she inhales a sharp breath.
She doesn’t pull away. I guide her through the crowd, away from the door, deeper into the heart of my territory.
People watch us pass. They see her, soft, pale, and curved, a creature from another world. They see me, my hand on her back, my expression a clear warning. Keep your distance. This one is mine.
I lead her to a small, secluded booth in the back corner, shadowed and away from the main crush of the bar. It’s the best seat in the house. It’s my seat. I slide onto the worn vinyl on one side, and nod to the other. “Sit.”
She hesitates for a second, then slides into the opposite side of the booth, as far from me as she can get and places her tote bag on her lap like a shield.
“So,” I begin, leaning forward, my arms on the table. “You were curious.”
She just nods, her eyes darting around the dim, graffiti-scarred walls of the booth.
“You know, for a girl who says she wants to be left alone, you have a funny way of showing it,” I say, my voice laced with amusement. “Walking into my favorite bar on a Friday night. It’s almost like you were looking for me.”
“I wasn’t,” she lies, her gaze finally meeting mine. The spark of anger I saw in the stairwell is back. “I was just… walking.”
“Right. And you just happened to walk in here.” I lean back, feigning casualness. “You’re a terrible liar, Aria.”
Before she can respond, a shadow falls over our table. It’s the guy from the front. He’s tall, beefy, and has the vacant, aggressive eyes of someone who’s had four too many beers.
“Well, well. Look what we have here,” he slurs, his gaze fixed on Aria’s chest. “You’re a little too pretty to be hiding in the corner, sweetheart. Why don’t you come have a real drink with me and my friends?”
Aria freezes, her face paling. The rage is gone before it even begins, replaced by something much colder and quieter.
My mind goes clear. I can already feel the satisfying crunch of his jawbone under my knuckles, see the spray of blood on the cheap wood of the booth.
It’s not anger anymore. It’s purpose. He touched what is mine with his eyes, and now he has to be broken.
“She’s busy,” I say, my voice dangerously quiet.
The guy scoffs. “I wasn’t talking to you, asshole.”
I slowly turn my head and look up at him.
I don’t raise my voice, I don’t get up. I just look at him, and I let him see the absolute, murderous promise in my eyes.
“This is your one and only chance to walk away,” I say, my voice a blade in the darkness.
“If you take one more breath in this booth, I’m going to break your fucking jaw. Do you understand me?”
The guy’s drunken bravado evaporates. He sees what I am. He sees the monster I keep leashed just behind my teeth. He pales, mutters a weak, “Whatever, man,” and practically trips over his own feet as he scurries away.
I turn my attention back to Aria.
She’s staring at me, her expression unreadable.
The fear is still there, but it’s mixed with something else now; awe, confusion.
She just saw me protect her. A twisted, violent kind of chivalry.
I showed her that this world is dangerous but that I am the most dangerous thing in it, and I’m on her side.
“See?” I say softly. “It’s a warzone, but you’re safe. With me.”
I let that sink in, I let her feel the weight of it. I’m the monster, but I’m also the keeper of the zoo.
“Why?” she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. “Why did you do that?”
“Because he was looking at you,” I say, as if it’s the most obvious and logical reason in the world. I let her feel the terrifying simplicity of that.
We sit in silence for a long moment, the noise of the bar a distant roar. The dynamic between us has shifted again. I’ve shown her my power in this place. I’ve shown her my protection.
“You’re terrified right now,” I say, leaning forward again, closing the distance between us. “Every part of you is screaming to run out that door, but you’re not leaving. You’re still sitting here. Why?”
I’m forcing her to look at herself, to confront the truth. She didn’t just wander in here. She came with a purpose, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
I lean in closer, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, so low she has to lean in to hear me over the music.
Our faces are only inches apart. Her cheeks are soft, and I have a sudden, insane urge to cup her jaw in my hand.
Her lips are full and pale, and I’m desperate to know if they’re as soft as they look.
She’s all womanly curves and soft lines, a stark contrast to the sharp, violent world I live in.
She’s an anchor, something real to hold on to.
The urge to close the final distance, to taste her is a physical, agonizing ache.
But I don’t. It’s too soon. The tension is the point. I want her to ache for it, too.
“You came here for an answer, Aria,” I murmur. “You want to know what I am. You want to know why you’re not as empty as you thought you were.”
I pull back slowly, giving her space to breathe. I’ve laid all the cards on the table.
I get up and walk to the bar, leaving her alone in the booth. She doesn’t run. She stays right where I left her. I feel a surge of triumph so powerful it almost makes me dizzy.
I come back with two glasses. One holds my usual whiskey, the other holds a simple drink of water with a slice of lime. I place the water in front of her.
“You look like you could use this,” I say, sliding back into the booth.
She stares at the glass of water as if it’s a bomb. It’s a choice. An offering. A test. If she drinks it, she’s accepting. She’s staying. She’s agreeing to the terms of this dangerous, unspoken game.
Her hand trembles as she reaches for the glass.
Her fingers are not delicate or bird-like; they are capable, with short, clean nails.
As her palm presses against the cool glass I see them, and my breath catches in my throat.
Faint, silvery lines crisscross the skin on her inner wrist and palm.
The scars. Just like the accident report said.
Lacerations from contact with shattered windshield glass.
For years, they were just words in a file.
Seeing them now, pale and real against her skin, is a punch to the gut.
It’s not a puzzle piece. It’s the whole fucking picture, a physical map of the event that broke her.
It’s the proof of why I feel this debt, and the most concrete reason she has always been, and will always be, mine.
She lifts the glass to her full lips, and for the first time I notice the stubborn, defiant line of her jaw. It’s a hint of steel under all that softness. She takes a small, hesitant sip, her throat working as she swallows.
Victory.
She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.