Chapter 14 #2
She gazed down at his palm, brows drawing together. “What kind of magic does this?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “This thing—whatever it is—is guarding Starlight and everyone living there. It doesn’t like intruders, like me.” He looked at her. “Have you ever felt anything at Starlight? Anything at all?”
She considered the question. “I’m half-human, so I might not be as sensitive as a full-blood witch. But I’ve always felt safe there—like the house itself was looking out for us. It just feels like home.” She met his eyes. “Can we find out more about it?”
“I intend to. I’ve talked to Caius and Rhodes about it, and they’re equally perplexed.” He paused. “But we need to be careful. This entity has been keeping the children and staff safe for years. If we’re careless, we risk turning a guardian into something far less friendly.”
The concern in her eyes turned fierce. “You think it could hurt them?”
“I think it doesn’t know the difference between a threat and a stranger. Until we understand what it is, I’d rather it not have to decide.”
Cassia nodded. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. After a beat, she said, “Caius and Rhodes. They’re not just your friends, are they?”
He stilled. “What do you mean?”
“The three of you seem very close. Like you see each other every day, and not just for idle nights on the town.”
His guard rose—a reflex honed over years of keeping this part of his life separate. He didn’t like questions about his friends, or Aegis & Ash. Didn’t like the way curiosity pressed against the walls he’d built.
“Right,” he finally said. “We are more than that. Partners. Colleagues.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
Ark didn’t answer. She was watching him, waiting. The half-smile he offered was tired. “That’s a longer conversation. And not one I want to rush.”
He could feel the questions still hovering behind her eyes. She pointed out, “That’s the second time you’ve dodged the question tonight.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But I did promise I’d show you one day.”
Cassia tilted her head. “Will you? Really?”
His gaze held hers. “I will. Just . . . not tonight.”
Understanding flashed in her expression—edged with something tender. He knew he owed her more. Their arrangement, false as it was, entitled her to answers. Still, she didn’t push.
“Alright,” she finally said. “I’ll wait.”
She returned to tending his hand, and Ark watched her in the firelight—this woman who didn’t flinch from the monsters at the Aetherium or strange wounds born from a cellar door. Who didn’t demand more than he could give, but somehow tempted him into giving it anyway.
From the hearth, Anuck made a little mrrreow, as if he witnessed and understood everything.
Carefully, Cassia tied a knot and secured the bandage. “There,” she said softly. “Try not to ruin it within the hour.”
He gave a small, lopsided smile. “No promises.”
She packed up her box and returned it to the kitchen. Ark stood slowly and crossed to a glass-front cabinet between two bookshelves. Something had caught his eye earlier: a gold trophy glinting behind the firelight. First Place—Little Mineola Winter Harvest Loaf Competition.
The date beneath it made him pause: precisely two decades ago, to the day.
“You won a competition twenty years ago?” he called out, approaching the kitchen. “We should celebrate the anniversary.”
But her expression changed the moment the words left his mouth.
The warmth drained from her face. Her jaw tightened and she went very still, as though bracing herself, preparing for impact.
More questions pressed against his teeth.
What was it about that trophy? That date?
He could feel the cold where a door had closed, but she gave him nothing to hold on to.
And because he remembered how she’d let him keep his silences earlier, it felt right to offer the same grace.
“Another time, perhaps,” he said.
Cassia didn’t smile, but the tension in her eyes eased. “Another time,” she echoed, softer now.
They lingered in the pause. Outside, ward-lamps flickered to life. Inside, the air smelled of lavender and clove—more comforting than he’d expected.
He should leave. He also didn’t want to.
He made himself carry his mug to the kitchen and set it in the sink. “I should go.”
Cassia didn’t argue. She walked him to the door, arms folded loosely.
“Thank you,” she said. “For dinner. For the auction. For everything.”
His lips curved. “Thank you for letting me inside your house. For tending to my injury.”
And for being the only person who’d tempted him to expand his small circle of trust.
His hand was already on the knob but he didn’t turn it.
Something hovered between them—close enough to touch, but not ready to be held.
He looked at her. The firelight caught the copper in her hair, the shadows beneath her eyes.
Her fingers toyed with the doorframe like she didn’t want to say goodbye.
He didn’t want to either, but he said, “Good night, Cassia.”
“Good night, Ark.”
He stepped out into the crisp night air. The scent of thyme and honey followed him down the path like a ghost he didn’t mean to take with him. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
It wasn’t until he reached the carriage that he realized how glad he was that this wasn’t a farewell—just a pause.