Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
Cassia
I don’t know how long we’ve been standing here.
Long enough for my heartbeat to slow. Long enough for the fear from earlier in the night to settle into something else. Something warmer. Something dangerous. Something I shouldn’t even be entertaining.
His office feels nothing like the rest of the club. No pulsing music. No bodies pressed too close. Just quiet, shadows, and walls covered in art that look old enough to have survived entire lifetimes. There’s a coldness to it that I guess should be expected from someone who is a king.
Realistically, I know I should be cowering in fear. After all, I saw this man toss someone across the hall without so much as a grunt. But I’m too interested in my surroundings. I move around the room without really thinking.
Paintings. Sculptures. Fragments of history captured in oil and stone. Some of them are violent. Others are intimate in a way that makes my throat tighten. Lovers frozen mid touch. Blood caught in motion. Faces twisted with devotion or grief.
“They’re beautiful,” I say softly.
I hear him behind me. Still. Watching.
“They weren’t collected for beauty,” he replies. His voice is controlled, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s still wound tight from earlier. “Most of them were taken as trophies.”
I glance back at him. “That doesn’t mean they can’t be both.”
He looks almost caught off guard by that.
I turn back to the wall, studying a piece that appears to depict a battlefield at dawn. It should be haunting. The pain and anguish painted on the canvas are enough to be memorable, but I can’t take my eyes away from the subject. A single figure standing at the center, untouched.
“How long have you had these?” I ask.
“A long time.”
That answer feels deliberate. I can’t help but smile at his avoidance technique.
“You talk about these like you remember when they were made.”
“I do.”
Bingo. There’s no denying it now.
I swallow hard. I knew what he was. I knew who he said he was. But hearing it like that makes it real in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. I’m truly standing next to a king. A vampire king at that. He looks nothing like what mainstream media depicts.
Still, I don’t step away. It’s like I can’t. I feel like a magnet. Something inside of me wants to get even closer to him.
We fall into an easy rhythm after that. I ask about a piece, and he gives me a clipped answer. I ask another question, and he elaborates despite himself. Somewhere along the way, his irritation fades, replaced by something closer to reluctant indulgence.
We’re different. That much is obvious.
But we also share strange similarities. An appreciation for quiet. A dislike of crowds that pretend to be connected. A mutual understanding of sorts. I feel closer to him than I have to anyone else besides Miriam.
Still, it’s clear that he’s different. The attention I’m getting from him is more than just curiosity. It’s like he’s studying me. He watches me closely while we talk like he’s memorizing reactions. Like he’s cataloging something he doesn’t quite understand yet.
Eventually, his attention sharpens.
“So tell me,” he says, turning to face me fully. “What are you doing working here?”
I tense.
The answer sits heavy in my chest. The truth is messy. Embarrassing. Still raw. Unbelievable to most, but maybe it’d be believable to him. Either way, it’s not something I want to get into right now.
Instead, I give him the easier version.
“Miriam thought it would be a good place for me,” I say. “She wanted me close.”
He doesn’t respond right away.
When he does, it’s with a look that tells me he doesn’t believe a word of it.
Thankfully, he lets it go.
Before I can exhale in relief, the door swings open.
A man steps inside, tall and rigid. He doesn’t hesitate to start talking, even though his eyes flick to me for a moment.
“My King. The situation outside is handled. The humans involved have had their memories wiped.”
A deadly growl vibrates through the air, and I watch as Orpheus snaps.
“Why,” he says coldly, “are you telling me this like it’s an accomplishment?”
The guard stiffens. “You asked for updates.”
“I asked for results,” Orpheus barks back. “I should not need to be informed that you managed to clean up your own mess.”
The air gets heavy. I can feel it pressing against my skin. A second ago, I would’ve said he was calm and level-headed, but after this, I can tell there’s a viciousness inside of him. A savage streak that takes little to provoke.
“I apologize,” the guard says carefully. “I thought you’d want to know.”
“You thought wrong,” Orpheus snarls. “Do I need to stand outside myself for you to remember how to do your job?”
The guard’s jaw tightens. He bows his head. “No, my King.”
“Then get out.”
Once again, the guard doesn’t hesitate. He leaves without another word.
I stand there, frozen, my stomach twisted into knots.
That was different.
That wasn’t controlled authority. That was cruelty.
When the door shuts, I turn on Orpheus without thinking.
“You didn’t need to talk to him like that.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
He looks at me like the world just tilted.
“What did you say?”
“He was doing his job,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “You don’t need to verbally tear people apart to prove a point.”
For a split second, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.
Then something unreadable flashes across his face.
“No one,” he says slowly, “speaks to me that way.”
I swallow but don’t back down as I blurt, “Someone should. It’s not nice. You should respect those who work for you. They deserve it. Especially dealing with your sourly self.”
Another long pause.
Both of us stare at each other for a long beat, neither one of us wanting to back down. Slowly, his lips quirk up into a smirk.
“Who are you?”
For a second, I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or himself, but I take the chance to answer him. I exhale. “My name is Cassia.”
“Cassia.”
The way he says it back is quiet. Deliberate. Like he’s tasting it.
The tension shifts after that. Still sharp. Still heavy. But different.
Hours pass without me realizing it.
Eventually, the club below goes dark. The silence deepens.
I feel it then. The pull. The awareness. The heat that settles low in my stomach when he steps too close or looks at me for too long.
I don’t trust it.
“I should go,” I say, breaking the moment. “It’s late.”
“I can have someone take you home,” he offers immediately. “Or I’ll walk you.”
I shake my head. “I’m a big girl. I can get home on my own.”
He doesn’t look happy about it.
But he lets me leave.
As I step back into the night, one thought repeats over and over in my head.
This was a mistake, and I’m not sure I care.