Chapter 17
The foyer was almost empty but the silence didn’t soothe me—it scraped. Every sound seemed magnified—the echo of my boots on marble, the sway of the chandelier above, the slow thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
I stopped in the center of the vast space, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, trying to pull air into my lungs that didn’t burn with anger.
The cool draft bit at my skin, but even that couldn’t ground me.
My magic churned beneath the surface, restless, humming just under the fragile layer of my control.
It wanted out—wanted to lash, to do something destructive.
I pressed my palm to my sternum, trying to quiet it. The energy crackled against my hand, lightning coiled under flesh, responding to my pulse.
I hated how exposed I felt.
Hated that every emotion fed the magic until it vibrated through me like a living creature.
And yet, beneath all that fury, another thought burrowed in—one I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I tried.
Last night.
I still felt him—Con—like a phantom heat imprinted under my skin, his voice echoing in the back of my mind. That connection, that impossible pull—the one that made me feel seen and unraveled at the same time. I’d lowered my defenses. On purpose.
I’d known the risks. I always did.
And in a single night, he’d made me feel something I despised more than fear—dependence. Need.
I clenched my hands at my sides until my nails dug crescents into my palms. “Damn you, Constantine,” I muttered, the words low but edged with too much truth.
“Cassara?”
The voice snapped me out of my spiraling thoughts. I turned to find Emmett, the clan leader, standing at the foot of the grand staircase. His expression was polite, composed as always, but a slight tightness around his eyes gave him away. He held a clipboard, which meant this wasn’t a social call.
“What is it, Emmett?” I asked, my tone clipped.
He hesitated a beat too long. “I wanted to confirm… Constantine’s belongings. Have they already been moved to your suite, or shall I arrange it?”
I blinked. “His what?”
“His effects,” Emmett said, glancing at the clipboard. “Weapons, field gear, and several personal items. He sent word this morning that he was relocating to the quarters in your wing. He specifically requested the room adjoining yours.”
My stomach dropped. “He what?”
Emmett looked up, clearly sensing the shift in my mood. “Is there a problem? He said it was authorized.”
The pulse of my magic spiked so abruptly it rattled the chandelier overhead. The lights flickered, shadows lurching across the marble walls. I exhaled through my teeth, trying to leash it, but the power only answered to the chaos inside me.
“He didn’t ask me,” I said, my voice low, dangerously even.
“I… assumed it was arranged between you,” Emmett said carefully.
Of course he had. To anyone else, it would make perfect sense—Con and I fought together, led together, operated as a unit. It would seem logical. But logic didn’t explain why he’d walked out of my bed without a word only to decide, hours later, that he was moving into my space.
A humorless laugh escaped me—short and sharp. “No, Emmett. It wasn’t.”
He stepped back slightly, unsure whether my anger was directed at him. “Shall I cancel the transfer, then?”
I forced my fists to unclench, though the air still trembled with restrained power. “No. Leave it.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” I said, maybe too quickly. “If he wants to play domestic, let him. He’ll learn soon enough that I’m not someone who shares walls easily.”
Emmett hesitated, clearly wanting to offer counsel, but one look at my face stopped him. “Very well, Cassara,” he said finally, bowing before retreating down the east corridor.
When he disappeared, the silence returned—but this time it vibrated, alive and electric.
I stood in the foyer, every muscle taut, the magic under my skin refusing to settle. I wanted to scream. To scorch something. To drag Con into the hallway and demand what game he thought he was playing.
Instead, I pulled in a long, trembling breath and let it out slowly. Sparks danced around my fingers like static.
One night, and he had managed to unmake me.
I looked toward the staircase leading to my suite. The thought of him—of his things already being delivered to the room beside mine—sent another hot rush through my bloodstream.
He’d left me. And now, somehow, he was moving in.
I rolled my shoulders back and started up the stairs, each step deliberate, the storm in me building with every move.
If Constantine Vonhof thought he could walk out of my bed and into my home like nothing had shifted, he was about to learn exactly how wrong he was.
I returned to my suite hoping the familiar space might calm me.
It didn’t.
I was pacing when the knock came—quick, too urgent. The air still hummed with the remnants of my anger as I opened the door. A young courier—barely older than a fledgling—bowed quickly, her face pale.
“Lady Cassara,” she said, breathless. “Constantine Vonhof requests your presence in the training hall immediately.”
Of course he did. Con never sent a note when he could send a summons.
“Tell him I’m coming,” I said, voice flat.
The girl nodded and darted away.
When I arrived at the practice room, the fury that had burned all morning had condensed into something colder, sharper. The heavy doors groaned open, releasing the familiar scent of steel, sweat, and magic. Overhead lamps washed the ring in pale light that gleamed off weapons lining the walls.
And there he was.
Con stood in the middle of the sparring ring, already geared—black leathers, vambraces, sword in hand. His dark hair was damp, his expression unreadable. The air around him felt charged, simmering with restrained intent.
When he lifted his gaze to mine, he smiled. “This is more like it.”
I strode forward, letting the doors slam shut behind me. “You called,” I said tartly.
He cocked his head, studying me, but didn’t rise to the provocation. I moved to the opposite edge of the ring and summoned my weapon. The spear slid into place with a whisper of metal.
My magic brushed it—just barely—and the air shivered. Weapons rattled on their mounts, some lifting before settling again. Blue-white light glinted around my fingers.
Con’s eyes flicked toward the disturbance. “It seems I’ve made a mistake,” he said quietly.
I spun the spear, leveling it at him. “Moving into my suite? Yeah, I’d say so.”
His mouth twitched, but his voice remained steady. “No. Leaving the bed before you woke.”
That stole my breath—just for a moment—but I masked it with a glare. “You made a choice.”
He began circling, sword low but ready, movements controlled and deliberate. “Yes—just not the one you assume. In battle, it’s tradition to take another’s duties when a comrade has been injured or drained. You needed rest. I ensured your recruits were trained.”
A bitter laugh tore from me. “You honestly expect me to believe you left because you wanted me to sleep?”
He didn’t answer. He kept circling, watching me with a predator’s patience.
“I’m not fragile,” I snapped. “And training is the last duty I’d ever give up.”
Con exhaled slowly. “It appears my error was greater than I realized.”
“You think?” My grip tightened. “You’re you, Con. You won’t change, and neither will I. It was stupid of me to think you would ever—”
I didn’t finish.
He moved.
The first strike was fast—clean, precise—so quick I barely had time to parry. Steel collided with enchanted alloy, the sound echoing sharp and violent. His movements were effortless, practiced; each blow pushed me back another step.
I recovered quickly, matching him blow for blow, but his control was infuriating. No anger. No recklessness. Just skill. The kind that explained why no one in the clan ever beat Constantine Vonhof.
The fight found its rhythm—fast, relentless. Sparks burst with every clash, the scent of metal and ozone filling the air. My heartbeat thundered, my fury feeding the magic under my skin.
He wasn’t trying to injure me.
But he was trying to make me hear him.
When he finally stepped back, breathing barely elevated, I thought he’d call it. But then his eyes—molten gold—flared, the thread of red flickering at their edges.
“I told you the truth, Cassara,” he said, voice low. “I will never let you go.”
The words struck deep.
Magic surged up my spine, wild and volatile. My grip trembled.
“Then stop running from me,” I said, the admission slipping out before I could cage it.
He stepped closer, lowering his blade. The gold in his eyes burned brighter. “Maybe I’m not the one who’s running.”
The air snapped between us, alive with more than magic. Neither of us moved. The silence felt like the cutting edge of a blade.
And for the first time that day, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to strike him again—or close the space between us entirely.
The charge from our last exchange still hummed in the air—steel, breath, magic, and words neither of us planned to speak.
The room felt smaller now, though neither of us had stepped far.
Con stood in the center, sword lowered, chest rising in controlled rhythm.
I leaned on my spear, trying to calm the storm beneath my skin.
The silence stretched—fragile, weighted.
When he finally spoke, his voice was gentler than I expected. “Cass,” he said—not a command, not a reprimand. Something softer. “I’ll make mistakes.”
The admission caught me off guard. He wasn’t a man who acknowledged fault easily.
He stepped forward, sword still down, eyes steady. “I’ve spent centuries as a warrior. Every partnership I’ve had was built on orders and trust forged in war. Not this.” He inhaled. “Not something… human.”
A tiny part of me eased, though I didn’t answer.
“I haven’t been in a relationship since Amelia,” he continued quietly. “And you know how that ended.”
I did. Amelia had been a wound carved into him so deeply the scar still lived in his eyes.
“I’m probably worse than you,” I said, barely above a whisper. “At… all of this.”
His mouth curved—not amusement, but understanding. “Then give me a chance to fix my mistakes. I won’t repeat them.”
I looked away, staring at the burn mark our fight had left on the mat. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Neither do I.” Another step. The space between us measured in heartbeats. “But if this is going to work, we need to communicate. I won’t leave without telling you again.”
The words should have soothed me. They only stirred the ache rooted under my ribs.
“You think that’s why I’m angry?” I asked quietly.
He tilted his head. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” I said. “I’m angry because you didn’t explain why you left. You made a choice and vanished before I even understood what it meant. You’re impossible to read, Con.”
Something flickered in his eyes—regret, maybe. “You’re right. I should have spoken to you first.”
The admission settled between us like a fragile truce.
I forced myself—just this once—to see it from his side.
A man who’d lived centuries as a weapon, who’d woken from something intimate only to face the world demanding he be unbreakable.
He’d been alone so long that letting someone in must have felt like failure.
I sighed, heavy. “I’m not exactly winning ‘girlfriend of the year,’ either.”
That earned a real, if small, smile.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but he added,
“Because you’re not my girlfriend, Cassara.”
My breath stilled. “Oh really? Then what am I?”
He stepped close—so close I could see the shimmer of gold and red threading through his eyes.
“You’re my bride.”
The words hit like a bolt of lightning.
I stared at him, unsure I’d heard correctly. “Your—what?”
“My bride,” he repeated, unwavering. “You think I would share a night like that with someone I didn’t intend to keep?”
The air seemed to thin, heat curling between us again—not anger this time, but something heavier. Dangerous.
“You—you can’t just decide that,” I managed.
“I didn’t decide it,” he said. “I acknowledged it. There’s a difference.”
My pulse thundered. My magic hummed against my skin.
I wanted to argue. I wanted to deny it. But his tone wasn’t possessive—it was a vow spoken like stone.
He closed the final distance until his breath brushed my temple, steel and smoke and something undeniably him.
“You can hate me if you must,” he murmured. “You can fight me. You can run. But do not doubt this, Cassara. You are mine—and I am yours. That’s what this means.”
The training hall fell silent, the weight of his words sinking deep, irrevocable.
And as I met his gaze—golden, unyielding, fierce—the anger that had fueled me all morning twisted into something else entirely.
Something I didn’t dare name.
Something that had already claimed me long before he spoke the word bride.