Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Luna
The candle on the table was almost burned out.
It was the one Cassian had just brought over, stuck simply in a glass he'd found. Wax tears dripped down the sides, hardening into little white patches. The light was soft, making his features look gentler than usual.
He hadn't touched his steak much, just held his wine glass, his eyes looking a bit shattered in the candlelight.
That look was different from before. Not the possessive glare, but something satisfied and cautious, like he was afraid of startling something.
He glanced at me, then away. Took a sip of wine.
"Does it always rain in London winters?" he asked suddenly, his voice low and husky with a hint of self-mockery.
"I remember one winter in Washington, it rained for two weeks straight. I'd sit in my study, staring out the window, thinking you'd push the door open any second and ask if I wanted hot cocoa."
He paused, shook his head with a bitter smile.
"That's when I realized I didn't even know what kind of cocoa powder you liked, or how many sugar cubes you took. I was a total bastard back then, Luna."
My fingers tightened on my wine glass. This raw confession hit harder than any fight.
"London rains a lot, but the air's crisp and cold—it keeps me sharp," I said, steadying myself, sipping the wine as its bite spread on my tongue.
"These six years," he went quiet for a beat, then spoke softly. "I've been thinking about you the whole time."
My hand paused on the fork.
"At first, yeah, I wanted you back," he went on, staring at his untouched steak. "But later, it was wondering what you were up to, if you were okay. If you were dancing, and who was watching."
He looked up, eyes rimmed red. Didn't give me a chance to cut in.
"That first year, I was a mess. Dumped company stuff on the VP, locked myself in the house drinking... almost tanked the whole business. Chloe came over and called me a loser. I listened, didn't argue. She was right."
I set down my fork and met his gaze. "Cassian..."
Candlelight danced on his face, brightening his eyes.
"Then I started getting out. Buried myself in work till I was too wiped to think. Thought that'd fix it, time heals all."
He let out a short, bitter laugh.
"But no dice. Every night, back home, in bed, it was all you."
I looked down at my pasta. I hadn't pictured his years like this.
"Marco told me he saw you perform in London. Wish I'd gone," he said. "He said you lit up the stage. That was the real you. The whole place stood and clapped, him too."
He met my eyes, sadness thick in his.
"But I never watched you dance."
That hit my heart with a soft tremor.
"I never thought about what you liked, what you wanted. Figured you were just my wife, forgot you were your own person."
He paused.
"Later, I hunted down videos of your shows. Giselle, Swan Lake. Watched 'em over and over. You do glow on stage. Totally different from at home."
He finished in a rush, eyes dead serious on me.
"Luna. I'm sorry. I've said it a bunch, but this time, beyond everything else, it's for never really seeing you."
I didn't know what to say, so I just mumbled dryly. "It's in the past. Cassian, I'm good now."
This guy, six years ago, never talked like this. Just ordered, expected obedience.
"Yeah. You were born for the spotlight, not for me to stash away." Pain flashed in his eyes.
"Only now I get it. Love's not owning or controlling. It's watching you shine, clapping from the seats, even if you never glance back... Luna, have you really been okay these years?"
My chest tightened, throat clogged. Candlelight caught the red in his eyes clearer.
I suddenly remembered six years back, him drunk, pinning me against the window, rough, cursing. Now he sat across, fingers tapping the table lightly, like he was holding back from touching me.
I took a sip of wine, the burn sliding down, heating my chest.
"Actually, these years... weren't easy. But it turned out all right."
"In London," I started, voice steadier than I felt. "Toughest times, I picked up a side gig at a little Royal Ballet spot. Kids were three or four, could barely talk, but danced dead serious."
He listened quietly, no interruptions.
"One little girl, she reminded me of Laila. Blonde curls, big round eyes. Every class, she'd bring me a piece of candy."
Remembering tightened my voice.
"She was tough—fell, got up, messed up, tried again, no big deal. Once she bashed her knee and bled like crazy. Didn't cry, just stood and wanted to keep going."
Candlelight flickered.
"That day, it hit me. She was stronger than me. Fell and rose, never doubting she could dance on."
"You've been strong all along." Cassian's eyes showed heartache and admiration.
"Before making principal, a rival spread rumors.
Said my technique was solid, but expression lacked.
" I narrowed my eyes. "Pissed me off. I trained brutally those weeks.
Seb warned it'd leave scars, but I had to.
.. once practiced till my feet bled, collapsed on the floor, thought of that girl, got up. "
I sipped water. "After the show, that rival came backstage, genuinely praised me."
"Because you deserved it," he cut in.
I blinked.
"What?"
"You deserved it," he repeated. "Not just for pushing through—'cause you had the talent. Nobody saw it before... especially me, the idiot."
I stared at him, throat blocked.
"Then it got better." I looked away, kept going. "Joined Royal Ballet full-time, climbed up. Eventually, principal."
We sat in silence for a bit. Then he spoke again.
"Luna, you know? Your expression's killer, especially dancing. You're fully unleashing."
I looked up at him.
Candlelight jumped in his eyes like tiny flames.
Something in me started to loosen.
"I used to think dance was just dance," he said. "Looks good, technique solid, done. But your videos showed me—it's speaking, expressing, letting people see inside someone."
He held my gaze.
"Luna, your inside's beautiful."
My eyes heated up.
He went quiet, just watched me. Tears glistened, but he held 'em back.
The air shifted.
Candlelight warmed his outline. He rose slowly, came around the table, and stood by me. Didn't touch, just leaned down, face near my ear.
"Luna, I miss you," his voice a whisper, breath hot on my skin. "Missed you six years. Every damn day. Drove me nuts."
I shivered hard. Goosebumps raced from my neck to my ankles. Breathing went ragged, heart pounding like a drum.
He stayed there, nose almost brushing my earlobe. Waiting—like for me to shove him off, or... pull him in.
I wrestled with it forever. Felt the dangerous pull.
Sense said push him away, say it's too late. But deep memories, fueled by booze, screamed wild. Brain flashed six-year-old pain, but more his recent restraint, apologies.
These six years, I'd shut out every guy, turned myself to cold stone. But now, Cassian was fire, hitting my weakest spot dead on.
My body heated honest, core tightening, thighs going weak.
I was done holding back.
I turned my head, lips grazing his jaw. His breath hitched.
Next second, he kissed me.
Not the brutal taking like last time, but probing, restrained deep. Tongue tip brushed my lips, asking for entry. I parted slightly, he slipped in, tangled with mine.
I froze a beat, then wrapped my arms around his neck, fingers in his short hair.
He groaned low, hands on my waist, lifted me from the chair. My legs hooked his hips, and he carried me to the living room, kissing all the way, steps stumbling but steady.
From couch to bedroom door, we kissed on, clothes dropping. I yanked his shirt open, buttons popping. My palm hit his chest—heart racing scary fast.
In the bedroom, he set me gently on the bed, knelt at the edge, kissed my collarbone and chest. Each one light as a feather, but burned me shaking.
"Luna, you're so beautiful," his voice wrecked hoarse, lips on my belly. "Especially dancing. I wanted to storm the stage, carry you off. You have no idea how hot you are."
Cassian trailed kisses upward, his tongue swirling over my most sensitive spots, teasing and tasting every inch until he reached my breasts. I dug my fingertips into his shoulders, nails biting skin as waves of heat crashed through me.
He peeled off my clothes one by one, handling each piece like it was priceless, his eyes devouring me with raw hunger. His hands were steady but reverent, slipping my top away, then my bra, exposing me fully.
He paused, breath ragged, just staring like I was a masterpiece he'd waited years to unveil. Then his fingers dipped lower, probing between my thighs, rubbing slow circles that made my core clench and pulse.
I gasped, arching into his touch, my breath coming in shaky pants. "Cassian..." I whimpered, thighs squeezing his hand involuntarily, desperate for more pressure, more of him.
He chuckled low, dark, his free hand stroking my hip. "Relax, baby," he murmured, voice thick with need. "Let me take care of you."
But I couldn't—every stroke built the ache, my hips bucking against his fingers as he delved deeper, thumb circling my clit while two fingers curled inside, hitting spots that had me moaning louder, body trembling. Sweat beaded on my skin, and I clutched at him, nails scraping his back.
He watched my face, eyes dark with lust, speeding up just enough to push me to the edge without tipping over. "God, you're so wet for me," he growled, leaning in to nip my earlobe. His cock, hard and throbbing, strained against his pants, but he held back, focusing on me.
Finally, he freed himself, his length hot and rigid, and started rubbing it slowly against my slick folds. The friction was torture—delicious, agonizing—his tip sliding up and down, teasing my entrance without entering. I writhed under him, hips grinding back, the need building to a fever pitch.