Chapter 5 #2
I cleared my throat before that line of curiosity could go any further. “Gentlemen,” I said, “have our rooms been prepared?”
Alain nodded quickly. “Yes, Cassara. The east wing’s been cleaned and stocked. We’ve kept everything ready since your last visit.”
“Good,” I said.
Kellan stepped closer, eyes gleaming with mischief. “And will you be joining us in the training hall again while you’re here? We could use the reminder of how much we can learn from you.”
I couldn’t help a small laugh. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Kellan.”
“Maybe not, but it’s worth trying,” he said, his grin widening.
Beside me, I caught a flicker of movement from Con—a subtle tightening of his jaw, the slightest narrowing of his eyes. It was gone in an instant, but it had been there. He didn’t like the attention.
“Enough,” I said lightly, stepping past them. “We’ve had a long flight.”
Alain inclined his head again, though I saw the disappointment flash across his features. “Of course.”
As they retreated down the hall, their voices fading into the distance, I glanced toward Con. He hadn’t moved, but his gaze followed them until they disappeared.
“Jealous?” I teased, unable to resist.
He didn’t look at me, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I don’t get jealous.”
“Right,” I said, brushing past him toward the staircase. “That makes two of us.”
The warmth of the foyer followed us as we moved deeper into the mansion, the sound of our footsteps echoing against the marble. The hum of Shadow Thorn’s wards thrummed beneath my skin—a living heartbeat that matched my own.
Home again, I thought.
But even surrounded by familiar walls, I couldn’t shake the unease curling through my chest—the awareness of Con behind me, quiet and watchful, and the knowledge that both of us were walking a thread dangerously close to breaking.
The soft echo of our footsteps carried through the marble hall, the scent of sandalwood and snow clinging to the air. The last of the attendants had melted away to their tasks, leaving the foyer quiet except for the distant crackle of the fire burning in the grand hearth.
I was halfway up the staircase when the sound of quick steps came from the corridor to our left—light but eager, with that telltale rhythm of someone young who hadn’t yet learned how to mask enthusiasm.
“Cassara!”
I turned as a young man all but skidded to a stop before me. Liam Harrow, one of Shadow Thorn’s couriers—barely seventy years turned, handsome in that bright, untested way that made the new ones seem almost human still. His sandy hair fell into his eyes, and he clutched an envelope in one hand.
“It’s good to see you,” he said breathlessly, a grin spreading across his face. “This came for you an hour ago.”
He held the letter out, the heavy cream paper sealed with the shimmer of a blood mark. My name was written in looping script across the front, the kind of elegant hand that had once been practiced daily with quill and ink.
I knew that handwriting immediately.
Selima.
My pulse ticked faster as I broke the seal, the scent of lavender rising from the parchment as I unfolded it. Her letters always carried that same trace—part perfume, part spellwork. My eyes skimmed the page quickly, catching phrases that made the corner of my mouth tighten.
Be careful. You and Constantine both. I know how trying this time can be.
I folded the letter slowly, slipping it into my jacket before my expression could betray anything. Trying time? Did she mean the artifact hunt—or the thing between Con and me? I had the feeling it was the latter.
“Is something wrong?” Con’s voice was low, as calm as ever, but his eyes were on me—assessing. He didn’t pry, but I knew he’d recognized Selima’s handwriting too. Everyone in Shadow Phantom did.
I forced a small, practiced smile. “Selima worries. You know how she is.”
His eyes held mine a heartbeat longer than necessary before he nodded once. “She always has.”
I wasn’t about to tell him the rest. Not that she’d written of him, of us. That her fear wasn’t for the mission or the clans, but for the thin, fragile thread binding us tighter each day.
Before the silence could stretch, Liam shifted his weight, his grin returning—far too oblivious to the sudden heaviness between us.
“The courier who brought it said it was urgent,” he said brightly, then added, with far too much hope, “If there’s any chance I could get a little one-on-one with you sometime… ?”
The sound that followed was low, dangerous, and primal—a growl that rolled up from Constantine’s chest like thunder under pressure.
The young man froze, eyes wide.
“Con,” I said quickly, laying a hand on his arm before the poor fledgling turned to stone. “It’s fine.”
But Con wasn’t looking at me. His gaze was fixed on Liam, golden eyes gleaming in the low light. It wasn’t jealousy in the human sense—it was something older, more instinctive. Possessive. Protective. The kind of warning that made even other vampires’ blood run cold.
Liam swallowed hard, clearly realizing his mistake. “Sorry,” he stammered, backing up a step. “I didn’t mean—I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” Con said evenly, his tone quiet but sharp enough to cut the air.
I pressed my palm more firmly against his arm, feeling the tension in his muscles, the restrained energy coiling beneath his skin. “He’s just a boy, Con,” I said softly. “Let it go.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, with a slow breath, the growl faded into silence.
“Of course,” he said finally, his voice smoothing back into composure as he stepped away from the courier. “I must have misunderstood.”
Liam nodded so quickly it was almost comical. “No harm done. Welcome home, Cassara.” He retreated faster than he’d arrived, disappearing down the hallway with a speed that would’ve made any death dealer proud.
The air settled again, though I could still feel the residual hum of Con’s temper vibrating through the space.
I turned to him, arching a brow. “You enjoy terrifying the younger ones?”
He looked at me, unrepentant. “Only when they forget their place.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
His gaze softened then, some of that wild edge fading. “He shouldn’t talk to you like that.”
“He wasn’t talking to me ‘like’ anything,” I said, though the warmth in my chest betrayed the irritation in my tone. “He’s harmless. He just wants to learn how to fight. He looks at me like an older sister.”
Con didn’t answer. But the muscle in his jaw flexed once before he turned toward the corridor leading to the east wing.
A grin spread across my face as I watched him go, even as something inside me twisted. Selima’s words echoed again in the back of my mind.
I know how trying this time can be.
And as I stood there, the letter still warm in my pocket, I realized she was right. My relationship with Con was changing, bleeding into everything around us. Every glance, every word, every unspoken reaction.
Even his growl.