Chapter 13
Julian opened his laptop in a theatrical way with equal parts drama and a side of code wizard ego.
“All right,” he said, stretching his arms. “Give me a couple hours. Two, maybe three. I need to finesse this data so the system thinks Cass has been shopping in the dark for years.”
I arched a brow. “Can you do it without accidentally marrying my alias to a demon prince?”
“No promises,” he said. “Though it might improve your credit score.”
Con exhaled slowly. “We’ll check back in later.”
Julian waved a hand, already diving into his keyboard. “Go rest. Both of you. You’ll need your heads clear before the warehouse run.”
Manu agreed with a curt nod. “Once the invitation arrives, there will be very little pause between infiltration, retrieval, and extraction. Better to be sharp.”
Con didn’t need more prompting.
He touched the small of my back, light and steady, then guided me out of the conference room.
I didn’t fight him. Not yet. My body still carried the echo of the magic burn, though the fever had cooled.
As we stepped into the hallway, the mansion felt quieter, dimmed by the coming night. Lamps cast soft-gold over the floorboards, enough to see but not enough to chase away the shadows folding between empty rooms.
I followed Con toward the stairs, boots matching his stride.
At first.
But the path we took didn’t lead to the training yard or the foyer.
It led to my room.
I frowned. “Why are we heading back here?”
He didn’t look at me as he answered. “You’re not ready for another mission yet.”
“I am fine.”
“You were unconscious a few hours ago.”
“I’m not a fledgling.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You implied it.”
“No,” he said, turning slightly as we reached my door. “I implied you need rest. That’s not the same thing.”
“Feels the same.”
He opened my door without waiting to be invited in. Again. A habit I’d let slide because the last time I’d tried to reach the doorknob, I nearly keeled over.
But now I wasn’t weak. And he wasn’t subtle.
“Con,” I said as the door clicked shut behind us, “I don’t need a handler.”
He crossed the room and faced me fully, arms folding across his chest. “Good. Because I’m not volunteering for that job.”
“Really? Because it feels like you are.”
He inhaled, slow and controlled. “If I were handling you, you wouldn’t have nearly died in a graveyard or burned yourself out on the bedroom floor.”
“That’s not handling,” I snapped. “That’s battle. And we survive battle.”
“You barely did.”
Heat pricked under my skin, not from fever this time.
“You’re doing it again,” I said.
“What?”
“Hovering.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“I am not fragile.”
“I know that,” he said quietly. “I know exactly how strong you are. But strong people break too, Cass.”
“That doesn’t mean I need babysitting.”
His eyes flashed, gold deepening. “This isn’t babysitting. I’m not checking your homework. I’m trying to make sure you don’t collapse in the middle of a mission.”
“I’m not going to collapse.”
“You did collapse.”
“Once.”
“Once is enough.”
His voice cracked at the last word. Barely. A small fissure, but I felt it.
I forced myself not to soften. “I didn’t ask you to watch me all night.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I stared at him. He stared right back.
“You are infuriating,” I muttered.
“Good,” he said. “So are you.”
I turned toward my dresser, grabbing a blade I’d left on the top. I slid it into the thigh strap, letting the familiar weight ground me. “We don’t have time for you to wrap me in cotton and call it strategy.”
He moved closer. “No one is wrapping you in anything.”
“Except a cold cloth when I almost passed out. That part was literal.”
“That was necessary.”
“You say that a lot.”
“Because it’s true.”
I turned quickly, facing him. “And you need to stop acting like I’m going to fall apart if you blink too long.”
He stepped closer until he was only a breath away from me, his height casting a shadow over the lamplight.
“You almost died,” he said, voice low. “And you treat it like an inconvenience.”
The memory of his hand trembling on my waist flickered through me before I shoved it down. “I didn’t die.”
“You might next time.”
Something in my chest tightened. I looked away, focusing on the edge of the bed, anything but his face.
“And if I do?” I asked slowly. “You’ve lived without me before.”
“I didn’t know you then,” he said.
The words froze me.
His voice softened, but the emotion behind it was raw. “I didn’t know what it meant to feel you in a room. To sense you before I see you. To watch you walk straight toward danger with your chin lifted and your heart already halfway inside the fire.”
I swallowed. “Con—”
“You’re there every time,” he said. “And you’re all alone every time. Because you won’t let anyone help you carry any of it.”
“I let you,” I whispered.
“When you’re dying,” he countered. “Not before. Not when it matters.”
The words hit harder than any blade he’d ever used.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s true.”
I looked at him, breathing slow, controlled, trying to keep the storm inside contained.
“You think I’m pushing myself to get away from you?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“You think the way I fight is about avoiding you?”
“No,” he said. “But the way you refuse help is.”
The quiet between us stretched long enough that the air felt heavy.
Then I said, “I don’t want to be handled.”
He nodded once. “And I don’t want to lose you.”
There it was. The truth neither of us had asked for but both had already sensed.
I stepped past him, pacing once, then turned back, unable to keep still.
“You’re treating me like a fledgling.”
“I’m treating you like someone I care about.”
“That’s the problem.”
His brows dipped. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know what to do with that,” I said. “Care is dangerous. Care pulls you off your axis. Care makes you hesitate.”
“You didn’t hesitate when you dragged that poison out of Raven’s bloodstream,” he said.
“That was different.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is,” I insisted. “She’s my family.”
He stared at me in a way that made my breath stutter. “And I’m what?”
The room went still.
He hadn’t meant it as a threat. Or a trap. It was a quiet question. An honest one. And I hated honest questions because they asked for honest answers.
“You’re…” My throat tightened. “Complicated.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “So are you.”
“This is not the time for whatever this is,” I said.
“You mean honesty?”
“I mean whatever is happening between us that neither of us has the bandwidth to unpack right now.”
He stepped closer again, slower this time, giving me space to move if I wanted to.
I didn’t move.
“You don’t need to unpack it,” he murmured. “But you need rest. You’re not stepping into that warehouse half-drained.”
“I’m not drained,” I argued.
“You are,” he said quietly. “I know the difference between stubborn and stable.”
“Con—”
“You can fight me,” he said, “or you can sit down for an hour, drink some blood, and let your body recover before we break into a fortified illegal smuggling hub.”
I opened my mouth to retort, then closed it.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
And because the ground under my feet still felt a little too soft for me to pretend strength didn’t have a cost.
He watched the realization shift across my face.
“Sit,” he said gently.
My jaw clenched.
He waited.
I exhaled slowly, then let myself drop onto the edge of the bed. Not defeated. Simply choosing not to make everything a battle.
Con didn’t gloat.
He sat beside me, leaving an inch between us.
Enough to give me room.
Not enough to feel alone.
After a long quiet moment, he said, “You don’t have to be a fledgling for someone to worry about you.”
I stared at my hands. “I don’t know how to let someone worry without feeling weak.”
He turned his head slightly. “Then let me teach you.”
My heart thudded once, hard.
I didn’t answer.
Not yet.
But I didn’t pull away when he reached for my hand again.
The silence between us changed.
It wasn’t heavy now. It wasn’t full of all the ways we hurt each other with half-truths and stubborn pride. It felt… suspended. Like the space between heartbeats right before something important happened.
Con’s hand was still wrapped around mine.
He didn’t squeeze, didn’t tug, didn’t try to pull me closer. He just held on—warm, steady, present. I could feel the roughness of his skin against my knuckles, the contrast between his cool body and my still-too-warm pulse.
“You don’t have to be good at this,” he said quietly.
“At what?” I asked.
“Letting someone worry. Letting someone stay.”
My throat tightened. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It isn’t,” he said. “But it’s worth learning.”
I turned my head to look at him.
His profile was cut in soft light from the lamp on my dresser. Strong jaw, dark hair falling a little loose over his brow, gold eyes watching me with a gentleness that would have terrified the woman I was a century ago.
It still terrified me now.
“Con,” I said, “I don’t know how to be any different than I am.”
His mouth curved, almost sad. “I’m not asking you to be different. I’m asking you to be… more. For yourself, not less.”
“That sounds vague and frustrating.”
“Welcome to relationships.”
A laugh slipped out before I could stop it, short and quiet, but real. The sound relaxed something inside him; his shoulders eased, the line of tension around his mouth softening.
He turned his hand, threading his fingers between mine instead of just holding my wrist.
“I meant what I said,” he went on. “I can’t watch you destroy yourself. Not with magic, not with guilt, not with this idea that you’re only valuable when you’re bleeding for someone else.”
I swallowed. “It’s hard to see myself any other way.”
“Then let me try,” he murmured. “Let me see you that way for both of us until you catch up.”
My chest hurt.
“I don’t want to be your project.”
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re my equal. That’s the problem. You keep acting like you aren’t.”