Chapter 16
The light spilling through the curtains was soft and cold, the kind of gray dawn that carried no warmth. For a moment, I didn’t move. My body ached in quiet, unfamiliar ways—reminders of the night before—and the sheets around me were tangled, still scented with smoke, steel, and him.
But the bed was empty.
The realization hit before I was fully awake, a hollow ache spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with exhaustion. The space beside me was cold. No indentation. No note. Nothing.
I sat up slowly, clutching the sheet around me, my pulse uneven. The fire in the hearth had burned out completely, leaving only gray ash. The quiet pressed in until the only sound was my own breathing—unsteady, angry, humiliated.
For one wild heartbeat I wanted to believe he’d been called away, that some emergency had torn him from the room. But deep down, I knew better.
Con didn’t leave by accident.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and pressed my hands to my face, trying to calm the storm building in me.
My skin still remembered the weight of his hands, the sound of his voice, the way he’d looked at me—as if I were the only thing in his world for that fleeting moment.
I’d let myself believe it meant something more.
“Idiot,” I muttered under my breath.
I should’ve known better. Constantine Vonhof didn’t make mistakes. He calculated. He chose. And if he’d left without a word, it was because he’d already decided what last night was—and what it wasn’t.
My throat felt tight as I stood and crossed to the wardrobe. The anger made it easier to move. It was something solid to hold on to when everything else in me was shaking. I dressed fast—black training leathers, boots, jacket—slicking my hair back. My hands were steady by force of will alone.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I zipped my jacket. My reflection looked exactly the same as it always did—composed, controlled. But beneath the surface, I was vibrating, my power restless and frayed.
I’d made arrangements to train the new recruits that morning. I was already late. Perfect. Something I could hit that wouldn’t talk back.
The corridors of Shadow Thorn were busy as I stalked through them, the sound of voices and laughter echoing. A few vampires paused to greet me—young ones, eager, polite—but the look on my face must’ve been warning enough.
“Morning, Cassara—”
I brushed past without slowing.
“Cass, are you—”
“Not now.”
My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I didn’t care. Let them whisper after I passed. I was too raw to smooth the edges, too furious to play polite. Every step only fed the fire simmering under my skin.
By the time I reached the training facility, the sound of weapons clashing filled the air—metal against metal, fast and brutal.
The scent of oil and leather mixed with the copper tang of blood.
The wide hall was alive with movement—young death dealers sparring under the watchful eyes of older instructors.
And at the center of it all was Con.
He stood in the ring with two fledgling death dealers, stripped down to his black pants and boots, his skin gleaming with sweat.
His movements were precise, efficient, devastating.
He turned aside every strike the young men threw with infuriating ease, countering with controlled power that sent them sprawling more than once.
I froze at the edge of the ring, my heart hammering in my chest for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion. The sight of him—the focus, the command, the calm authority that came so easily to him—only twisted the knife deeper.
He looked exactly the same as he always did. Unshaken. Composed. Like the night before had never happened.
My anger solidified into something sharp and cold.
The two trainees recovered, circling him again, eager and reckless. Con moved between them with lethal grace, his voice low as he corrected their form, the tone calm but cutting. He didn’t even glance my way.
That stung more than I cared to admit.
Fine. If he wanted distance, he’d get it. I’d play my part, too—the cold, untouchable commander who didn’t care. The woman who could break anything in her path, including her own heart.
I stepped forward, my boots echoing against the stone floor. The nearest trainees noticed me first and stiffened, their eyes darting toward Con for permission to stop.
He didn’t give it.
Of course he didn’t.
I crossed my arms, watching as he pivoted and sent one of them sprawling onto his back with a single strike. The other hesitated, clearly rethinking his next move.
When Con finally turned his head, his eyes met mine.
Gold. Calm. Impenetrable.
As if nothing had changed.
My pulse kicked, fury and something darker twisting together in my chest. “Don’t stop on my account,” I said coolly, my voice carrying across the training floor. “I’m only here to remind them what real training looks like.”
A flicker passed through his gaze—surprise, maybe, or warning—but it was gone in an instant.
The young death dealers straightened, nervous energy buzzing off them. They had no idea that the real fight in the room had nothing to do with them.
And as I stepped up to the ring, every ounce of anger in me sharpened into purpose. If Constantine Vonhof wanted to pretend nothing had happened, I’d remind him exactly who he was dealing with.
I wasn’t going to be ignored.
The clang of steel still echoed through the hall when I stepped forward, my boots striking the mat with a finality that drew every eye in the room. The two young death dealers in the ring froze where they stood—sweat-slick, wide-eyed, still panting from their last spar with Con.
“Out,” I said flatly.
They exchanged a look, clearly uncertain whether I was serious. I tilted my head toward the ring, voice cool but edged with command. “Now.”
They didn’t hesitate again. The younger of the two nearly tripped in his haste to grab his gear and retreat. The other followed, glancing once at Con for permission. Con gave a single, silent nod, and the recruits disappeared, leaving a sudden quiet in their wake.
I turned my gaze on him. “Let’s show the kids how it’s done.”
Con’s expression barely changed, but I caught the subtle shift—the narrowing of his eyes, the tightening in his jaw. “You’re mad,” he said, tone low, measured, almost warning.
“How perceptive of you.” I smiled, all teeth. “And here I thought your mind was slipping in your old age.” I paused, letting the next words cut deeper than any blade. “I guess you’re just an asshole.”
A few of the onlookers at the far edge of the training hall exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. No one interfered when I was in this kind of mood.
Con exhaled slowly, the ghost of patience leaving his face. “Cassara—”
But I was already moving.
I reached for the weapon clipped to my belt and pulled it free in a single, fluid motion. The spear extended with a whispering hiss, the polished shaft catching the light as it locked into place. It felt good in my hands—solid, balanced, a familiar extension of myself.
I didn’t wait. I swung first.
The strike came fast—a sweeping arc meant to force him back rather than wound. Con caught the blow on a blunted practice sword, his body shifting with the impact instead of fighting it. His movements were maddeningly calm, efficient, as always.
I pressed harder, letting the rhythm of my anger drive me.
Sparks burst where our weapons met, the metallic ring cutting through the low hum of energy in the room.
I turned my grip, feinted left, then twisted the spear and drove the butt toward his ribs.
He deflected, sliding back a step, his face unreadable.
He wasn’t fighting back.
Every move he made was defensive—parry, pivot, deflect. No retaliation, no counterattack.
“Fight me,” I snapped, thrusting again. The spear’s tip stopped inches from his throat.
His gaze flicked from the weapon to my face, golden eyes steady. “You’re angry with me. Not them. Not this. Me.”
“Brilliant deduction,” I said coldly. “You think you’re stronger than me, Con? You think you can just walk away, and I’ll fall in line?”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.
I swung again, harder this time. He blocked it, but the force of the strike drove him back a step. I spun with the momentum, slammed the haft down toward his knees, then pivoted to strike again. He caught the weapon mid-swing, twisted it just enough to redirect the blow, then released it.
“Cass,” he warned, but the sound of my name only made the anger flare hotter.
“Don’t Cass me.” My voice cracked with the force of it. “You don’t get to call me that—not after last night.”
He flinched almost imperceptibly, but his control held.
I called on my magic without thinking. The air around us shimmered, the latent energy that lived in my blood pulsing through the floor.
Across the room, his sword—his real one—answered the call.
It ripped free of the rack with a hiss and flew across the space, landing at his feet with a clang that echoed through the hall.
“Pick it up,” I said.
He didn’t move.
“Con,” I pressed, stepping back to the center of the ring. “I’m giving you a weapon. The one you actually know how to use.”
He looked down at the blade, then back at me. “You don’t want this fight.”
“Oh, I do.” I reached behind me again, calling another spear from the wall rack. It leaped to my hand, the metal warm from stored energy. “Because I’m done pretending you’re untouchable.”
I took a stance, energy gathering in my limbs. “I think it’s time you learned the truth.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air was charged, my magic vibrating around us, stirring the loose strands of my hair. The other death dealers in the hall had stopped all movement now, silent witnesses to something they didn’t dare interrupt.
I lunged.