Chapter 36
Waking wasn’t a sudden event, but a slow rise to the surface through layers of cotton and molasses.
The first sense to return was hearing. Beep...
Beep... Beep. A constant, slow, artificial rhythm.
It wasn’t the sound of Cassian’s heartbeat, but it mimicked his calm cadence.
Then came smell. The scent of mold, blood, and gunpowder was gone.
In its place, the aggressively clean smell of bleach, starched sheets, and fresh flowers—not lilies, thank God, but something soft, like peonies.
I opened my eyes. Sunlight streamed through half-open blinds, drawing golden stripes on the white linoleum floor. I tried to move, and my body protested. It wasn’t a sharp, cutting pain. It was a dull weight, a stiffness in muscles and bones, cushioned by a pleasant chemical fog. Morphine.
I turned my head on the pillow. The movement required effort. And there he was.
Cassian Varro sat in a beige vinyl armchair that looked designed for discomfort. He was slumped at an odd angle, long legs stretched out, head resting against the back, turned toward me. He was sleeping.
I watched him, drinking in the sight of him like water in the desert.
He was... undone. The impeccable suit had vanished.
He wore a wrinkled black t-shirt and sweatpants.
For the first time since I’d met him, there was stubble on his face—a dark shadow covering his jaw, aging him, humanizing him.
Deep circles sat under his closed eyes. The cut on his cheek was closed with surgical stitches, a black line on pale skin.
He looked exhausted. He looked like a fallen angel who had fought hell and won, but paid the price for passage. My hand, resting on the white sheet, moved. Just a twitch of the fingers.
Cassian’s eyes opened. There was no transition from sleep to wakefulness. He didn’t blink, didn’t stretch. One second he was asleep, the next he was alert, laser-focused. He leaned forward instantly. “Solaia?”
I tried to speak. My throat felt like it had been sanded. “Water...” I croaked.
Cassian stood in one fluid motion. He grabbed a cup with a straw from the bedside table. “Slowly,” he instructed, his voice hoarse from hours of silence.
He didn’t hand me the cup. He held the straw to my lips, supporting the back of my neck with his other hand. His touch was so light, so reverent, it contrasted violently with the memory of his hands covered in blood, holding a shotgun. I drank. The cold water was the best thing I’d ever tasted.
He pulled the cup away. “Pain?” he asked, his eyes scanning my face, searching for signs of discomfort.
“Bearable.” My voice came out a little stronger. “How long?”
“Three days.” He set the cup on the table and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to touch my legs. “They had to sedate you to reduce the brain swelling. Mild concussion. Two fractured ribs. Severe dehydration. And your wrists...”
He looked at my hands wrapped in soft white gauze. Guilt passed over his face like a passing shadow. He gently touched the bandage on my right wrist. “I should have killed Ivanov more slowly,” he murmured through clenched teeth.
“He’s dead, Cassian. It’s over.”
“Not for me. Every time I close my eyes, I see you in that chair.”
I brought my bandaged hand to his face. The rough texture of his beard brushed against my sensitive skin. “Hey. Look at me.”
He looked. The gray of his eyes was stormy. “I failed you, Solaia. I promised you safety. I promised no one would touch you. And you woke up in a basement with a knife at your throat.”
“You’re not God, Cassian. You can’t control the universe.” I smiled weakly. “Though you try very hard.”
“I should have predicted the betrayal. I should have seen the signs in Franco. I was distracted... by us.”
“Don’t you dare.” I hardened my voice, ignoring the pain in my ribs. “Don’t you dare blame what we have for this. Franco betrayed us because he was greedy, not because we slept together.”
Cassian let out a heavy sigh, taking my hand and kissing the fingers that peeked out from the gauze. “You fought,” he said, his voice dark with admiration. “The forensic team... they found the weapon. The blood on the carpet wasn’t yours. You shot him.”
“He was going to get in. I had no choice.”
“You were magnificent,” he whispered against my hand. “And terrifying. You’re definitely your father’s daughter.”
“I’m your wife,” I corrected. “I learned from the best.”
We were silent for a moment. The beep of the heart monitor filled the space, audible proof that I was alive. I looked at the armchair where he’d been sleeping. “Did you go home? Shower? Eat?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t left this room. My men bring what I need.”
“You look terrible, Cassian Varro.” I touched his beard again. “Like a vagrant. A very dangerous vagrant.”
One corner of his mouth curved into an almost imperceptible smile. “I don’t care. Until you woke up... nothing else mattered.”
I tried to shift to the side of the narrow hospital bed. It hurt, but it was worth it. I made a small space beside me. “Come here.”
He looked at the space, then at me. “Solaia, you’re injured. If I touch you...”
“That chair is going to wreck your back and make you grumpy,” I argued. “And I need to feel that you’re real. The morphine makes everything seem like a dream. I need the weight.”
He hesitated, the protector fighting against the needy man.
The man won. Cassian kicked off his sneakers.
He eased onto the bed with extreme care, as if the mattress were made of thin glass.
He lay down beside me, facing me, but keeping a safe distance.
It wasn’t enough. I pulled his arm and draped it over my waist. “Closer.”
He obeyed, pressing his body against mine from the side. He rested his head on the same pillow, his nose brushing mine. His scent—even sweaty, tired—was my home. I closed my eyes, feeling his warmth seep through my hospital gown.
“The traitor...” I began, remembering Franco’s voice on the intercom. “Franco. Did he survive?”
I felt Cassian’s body go rigid. The temperature dropped. “Franco is alive,” he said. His voice wasn’t the loving husband’s. It was the Executor’s. “He’s in the ICU at the Family’s prison hospital. The doctors stabilized him.”
“What’s going to happen to him?”
Cassian opened his eyes. I saw them up close. They were cold as nuclear winter. “He’ll be judged. By the Commission. And mostly... by us.”
“By us?”
“I’m not going to kill him in the dark, Solaia. He touched you. He betrayed your father. He’ll pay publicly. Everyone will see what happens to anyone who raises a hand against my wife. It’s necessary to restore order. And to make sure no one ever gets that idea again.”
A shiver ran through me. Not from fear of him, but from the reality of our world. “I want to be there,” I said.
Cassian frowned. “No. You don’t need to see that. It’s going to be... ugly.”
“I shot him in the leg, Cassian. I saw the bone. I’m not a child who needs to be shielded from blood anymore.” I squeezed his hand. “He invaded our home. He shattered our peace. I want to see his end. I need to see it to believe it’s over.”
He studied me for a long moment, searching for any sign of hesitation. He found none. “All right,” he agreed. “You’ll be there. By my side. As Queen.”
“As Queen,” I repeated, liking the sound of it.
“But now...” his voice softened, becoming again the man who brought me pastéis de nata. “Now you rest. I’m here. There are three guards at the door. The building is surrounded. You can sleep.”
I snuggled against his chest, mindful of my ribs. The sound of his heart, strong and steady, drowned out the monitor’s beep. “Cassian?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you. Even when you don’t shave.”
He kissed my forehead, long and slow. “I love you, Sol. Sleep.”
And for the first time in three days, I slept without dreaming of knives or darkness. I slept in the arms of the man who burned the world for me, and knew that when I woke up, he would still be there. The nightmare was over. The reign was just beginning.