19. Casandra
The walk from the fifth floor to the third feels like a descent into a lion’s den.
I adjust the hem of my black dress—nothing too formal, but enough to remind Lukas that I am a Princess, not just a classmate.
Every step I take down the stairwell feels like a warning.
This is a bad idea. My internal compass is spinning toward a magnetic north that screams danger, but my stubborn pride is firmly in the driver’s seat.
I reach Lukas’ apartment and pause. I can smell the searing garlic and the buttery richness of something sophisticated. Lukas clearly wasn’t lying about his culinary skills. I take a breath, schooling my face into a mask of indifference, and knock.
Lukas opens the door almost instantly. He’s traded his gear from earlier for a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are far more distracting than they have any right to be.
“You actually came,” he says, a genuine spark of surprise in his blue eyes. He steps back, gesturing for me to enter. “I half-expected you to stand me up.”
“I never pass up a free meal, Lukas.” I retort, stepping into the apartment.
It’s vastly different from mine. Lukas’s suite is small, modern, sleek, and minimalist. It smells like expensive cologne and high-end olive oil. A bottle of vintage red—specifically a vintage I know for a fact is imported from a boutique vineyard in the Carpathians—sits open on the counter.
“An olive branch,” he says, noticing my gaze. “Or a grape branch. I know your people prefer the deeper notes.”
He guides me to a small, candlelit table near the window.
The dinner is spectacular—pan-seared salmon with a lemon-dill crust and a side of roasted root vegetables.
It’s the kind of meal that requires focus, but Lukas is making it impossible.
He spends the entire first course watching me over the rim of his glass, his smirk never quite fading.
“So,” I begin, setting my fork down. “If we’re going to discuss an alliance that survives—”
Lukas lets out a soft, amused huff. “Casandra, I didn’t invite you here to talk shop. I want to see if your eyes glow that particular shade of emerald when you’re relaxed.”
“I’m never relaxed,” I say, my voice tightening.
“And we are here for business. We are looking for like-minded clans and packs who believe in the Integration Act. There is a movement growing in the shadows—vampires who still believe shifters are nothing more than beasts of burden. We need a unified front.”
Lukas leans in. “The world can wait for tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to know what it takes to make a Princess laugh.”
I let out a long, weary sigh and lean back.
“Lukas, stop. You’re charming, and you’re clearly talented in the kitchen, but you’re wasting your time. You have a mate out there somewhere. A wolf who was carved for your soul, who will understand your heartbeat before you even speak. You’ll be much happier with her than you ever would be with me.
”
Lukas’s expression flattens for a fraction of a second, the playfulness replaced by something harder. “The bond isn’t everything, Cass. Look at you and Nikolai. A fluke that has caused nothing but misery.”
“What happened with Nikolai is an anomaly, a glitch in the system that I fully intend to ignore. The original plan for my life will go on as intended. My future is already written, Lukas.” I say firmly.
“And what does that future look like?”
“It looks like an alliance,” I say, my voice sounding more like my father’s with every word.
“I will marry Julian Vane. He leads one of the largest clans in North America. He’s modern, authoritative, and he understands that our survival depends on the integration of species, not segregation. He is the partner the Corvins need to fight the old-world supremacy.
It won’t be a marriage of soulmates, but it will be a marriage of power and purpose.”
Lukas swirls the wine in his glass, his eyes dark. “A loveless contract. That sounds like a slow death for someone as vibrant as you.”
“Crowns are rarely comfortable, Lukas.”
“Maybe,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, predatory register. “But you aren’t wearing Vane’s ring yet.”
I stand up, sensing the shift in the room. The dinner is over, and the air has become thick with the kind of tension I’ve been trying to avoid. “Thank you for the meal, Lukas. It was... enlightening. I should get back before Ilinca starts wondering if I’ve been kidnapped.”
I turn toward the door, but Lukas is faster. He moves with that blurred werewolf speed, stepping into my path before I can reach the foyer. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his chest.
“Why the rush?” he asks, his blue eyes searching mine. “If you’re so determined to be trapped in a loveless political marriage, you might as well have some fun before the cage door shuts. You’re entitled to a little rebellion.”
“Lukas, move.”
“I’m serious, Cass,” he says, stepping even closer.
He reaches out, his hand settling firmly on my waist, pulling me just an inch forward.
It’s a bold, arrogant move, and I can feel the tingle of my own power rising to meet the challenge.
“I’m ready to provide all the fun you can handle. No bonds, no politics. Just us.”
Suddenly, the air in the apartment changes. It’s as if a vacuum has sucked the oxygen out of the room, replaced by the suffocating weight of an oncoming storm.
The first pound on the door is so violent the frame actually groans. I don’t need to open it. I don’t even need to use my heightened senses. I know that scent—fucking cinnamon.
Lukas doesn’t let go. If anything, he tightens his grip on my waist, a smirk of pure provocation touching his lips. He knows exactly who is on the other side.
“Ignore it,” Lukas whispers, his eyes fixed on my mouth. “He’s just a dog barking at a fence he can’t jump.”
“Lukas, let me go. He’ll take the door down,” I warn, my heart beginning to race.
“Let him try,” Lukas retorts. He dips his head, his lips hovering just inches from mine, his intent clear. He’s going to kiss me, right here, right now, as a final insult to the man outside.
The second pound doesn’t happen. Instead, the door flies inward with the force of an explosion. The door shatters at the hinges, splintering across the floor like matchsticks.
Nikolai barges in.
He looks like a god of war. His eyes are pulsing gold, his chest is heaving, and the sheer volume of his presence fills the suite until the walls seem to shrink. His knuckles are bloody, his teeth are bared, and the growl tearing from his throat is the most terrifying sound I have ever heard.
“Take your fucking hands,” Nikolai hisses, his voice a low-frequency vibration that makes the glassware on the table rattle, “off my mate.”