Chapter Six
Cassian
My jaw is clenched so hard it’s a miracle my teeth don’t crack while Enzo—my younger brother—presses another piece of gauze against my collarbone. He’s grinning like the little menace he is.
“I still can’t believe you passed out from a one-inch blade,” he snorts.
I shoot him a look that would make most people want to hide, but Enzo just keeps laughing.
“I didn’t pass out because of the blade,” I growl. “I was high on her. The adrenaline—”
“Oh yeah, sure,” he interrupts, wiping his hands with dramatic flair. “Totally. You passed out because you were… what? Overstimulated?”
I glare harder. “I was high. On. Her.”
He found me with my face buried between her thighs. That should have been enough proof.
Enzo cackles like it’s the highlight of his week. “Just admit it, Cass. Tiny little necklace nicked you and you dropped like a tree.”
My fist twitches. So does the vein in my forehead. “Just wait. When the curse hits you, I’m going to laugh just as hard.”
“That damn curse isn’t real. Our father being knee-deep in some woman doesn’t mean we’re doomed.”
That some woman is our mother… but she wants nothing to do with us. We look too much like him.
“We’ll see about that.”
My eyes flick to his secretary—Mia? Mina? No. Mila. She’s pretending she can’t hear a thing, rearranging papers on my desk for the tenth time. She shouldn’t even be in here.
Why is she here, witnessing my humiliation? Because Enzo wanted her here. He “needed her in his sight.”
And that right there? That’s the curse he thinks isn’t real. He’s orbiting her and hasn’t even noticed he changed direction.
The second Enzo tapes the gauze down, I’m already standing. Buttoning my shirt.
I mauled my Anya. Christ. I lost myself. I shouldn’t be angry at her. I’m not. She lashed out because she was terrified—because I cornered her, pushed until she thought stabbing me was the only way out. She aimed for my neck but hit my collarbone instead—a small mercy. Even a blade that small can do real damage in a place like that.
I don’t want her scared of me.
I want her near me—where I can see her, steady her, get to her before she spirals.
A man should be able to spend five minutes with the woman he’s obsessed with without worrying she’s going to stab him out of panic. Goddamn it.
I roll my sleeves, grab my keys, and head straight for the door.
Enzo calls after me. “Where are you going?”
“Her apartment.”
I drive fast and reckless. I’m bleeding through my shirt again, but I don’t give a single damn. Her neighborhood gets worse the deeper I go. Some guy on a stoop watches my car like he’s logging the license plate for later.
Wonderful.
This is where she lives? My girl stays here? My little doll walks these streets at night?
I curse, park crooked, and don’t bother fixing it. I take the stairs—of course the elevator is dead. By the time I reach the third floor, my breathing is harsh, but not from the climb.
She wrote her address on her hiring papers at the club. Taking those home and memorizing every detail wasn’t… legal.
Ask me if I care.
Her door has a dent at the bottom, like someone kicked it years ago. I slam my hand against the wood hard enough to rattle the frame.
“Anya.” My voice comes out deep, rough. “Open up.”
I feel her behind the door.
“Anya,” I say again. “It’s me.”
“I thought I killed you,” she whispers through the door. She thinks a one-inch blade would take me down? That’s almost sweet.
“You won’t get rid of me that easy.”
She’s still watching me through the peephole. I plant my palm against the wood.
“Open the door. Let me in.”
“No,” she murmurs. Her voice is thin. “You—you killed someone because of me. And I stabbed you. And I— I can’t—”
I lean my forehead against the door. “Anya. Look at me.”
“You didn’t kill me. You didn’t even hurt me—much. I passed out because I was high on adrenaline. And on you. You were terrified. I know that. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“But you killed—”
“He touched you,” I snap. “So he died. End of discussion.”
She gives a small, broken gasp.
“Anya, open the door. I’m bleeding. You’re scared. We’re not doing this through a piece of plywood.”
“No.” She hisses it. “I don’t trust you.”
It lands sharp. But she’s right. What have I done to earn her trust? Cornered her. Fired her. Lost control. Killed a man in front of her.
She’s sane not to trust me. And yet I want it more than my next breath.
“I’m not angry at you,” I say quietly.
“That’s worse,” she snaps. “Why aren’t you? What do you want from me? I don’t understand you!”
“Let me in so I can explain.”
“No.”
“Anya.”
“No.”
“All right,” I murmur. “Have it your way.”
I pull my leg back and kick the door in. It flies open, slamming the wall behind it.
She stumbles back with a yelp, hand over her mouth. I step into her tiny apartment and shut the broken door behind me.
“Hi,” I say softly.
“Cassian…”
“You should’ve opened it when I asked.”