Chapter 21 #2
“My mother would’ve turned fifty this year.” Her chest fluttered with uneasiness. “She grew up in that building. First a ward, then a steward. It was her domain. She ran it for most of her life, all while managing the bakery.”
She paused. “She used to say the building was stubborn. Like it wanted to stay standing. Like it knew it must, to protect the children inside.”
Ark studied her, his gaze so intent it felt like a physical weight. “Maybe she wasn’t wrong.”
“But what does it mean? Was it just luck? Higher construction standards? Or . . .” She trailed off as Ark’s eyes dropped to his bandaged hand. He flexed his fingers slowly, stiffly—a reminder of Starlight’s basement.
“We know something’s there,” he said. “Even if it’s not malicious, it’s present. Watching.” His eyes found hers again. “Protecting.”
She exhaled slowly. The warm glow from the hearth suddenly felt heavier, pressing in. Her mind still circled around her mother—fifty years ago, just born, maybe already loved by something unseen.
If that was true, nothing was as simple as it seemed. The building wasn’t just brick and mortar. Wood and nails.
Cold dread wound through her. “What are we truly dealing with? What’s holding Starlight together? And . . . how did it get there?”
Ark didn’t answer.
But she saw the same question staring back at her.
Ark washed the dishes while she made dessert. By the time she finished—two ramekins of warm custard dusted with cinnamon and candied ginger—he had settled on the couch. Anuck had positioned himself on his pillow in front of the hearth, staring at Ark.
She handed him a spoon, then curled up on the opposite end, feet tucked beneath her.
They ate in silence, the only sounds the crackle of the fire and the soft scrape of spoons against ceramic.
Candlelight traced the edge of his jaw, and when he turned his head, she caught the shape of his throat as he swallowed.
When he set his spoon down, his voice was lower, careful.
“Earlier in the courtyard,” he said. “I caught the tail end of your conversation with your friends.”
She went still, her spoon stopped mid-scrape. The bond mark. He’d heard . . . All of it? Enough of it? She bit her lower lip.
“You heard that?” She croaked.
“I caught the words ‘bond mark’ and filled in the rest.” He met her gaze. “Opalina and Lilibeth . . . are not wrong. If we want people to believe this engagement, you should carry my mark. My mother will surely question its absence.”
Cassia’s breath caught, but she gave a small nod. “I understand.”
“There are places it could be hidden,” he continued. “But . . . if the goal is credibility, something more visible will send a clearer message.”
He hesitated, then shifted to face her fully, his voice gentler now. “But what do you think?”
Cassia’s throat worked around a reply. How could she tell him the thought of bearing his mark had lingered in the back of her mind all evening? That the idea of his mouth on her skin—lingering, claiming—had wrapped itself around her spine and stayed there, humming?
She cleared her throat. “If it’s in the name of the mission, then I suppose—”
“It would be careless not to prepare.”
“Foolish, even,” she agreed. “We wouldn’t want to come this far only to be thwarted by an overlooked detail.”
Ark’s mouth twitched. “Perish the thought.”
The firelight caught his eyes—gold, steady, fixed on her like she was the only thing in the room. They moved slowly, deliberately, tracing her jaw, her throat, settling on the pulse fluttering at her collarbone.
“Then,” he murmured, “may I?”
She didn’t trust her voice. She only nodded and willed her hands still in her lap. He shifted closer. His hand rose to her shoulder, then stopped—claws glinting, fingers hovering just above her skin. She felt the hesitation in him. The same restraint she’d seen every time he’d wanted and held back.
She wouldn’t let him hold back now.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
Something broke open behind his eyes. His hand closed the distance. She felt his claws first—the faintest graze against her collarbone, precise as a jeweller setting a stone. His thumb brushed the collar of her cardigan, and her breath shuddered out of her.
His fingers moved to the neckline. One button, then another.
He eased the collar aside, baring the curve of her shoulder and the slope of her neck.
His claws whispered against her bare skin—lethal and restrained all at once.
The contradiction of it undid her: all that danger, held in perfect check by tenderness.
She had spent her whole life being handled carelessly by a world that thought her disposable. And here was a demon touching her like she was precious—with hands built to destroy.
He was so close now. She caught his scent—smoke and cedar. She couldn’t look at him; she stared at his collarbone instead, hands pressed flat against her thighs. Every inch of her prickled with awareness. His head bent down, dark tresses spilling over to cover his face.
The warmth of his breath reached her first. Then, his mouth touched her—a single, reverent kiss against the hollow just beneath her ear.
Cassia’s breath hitched. Her head tilted instinctively, baring more of her neck. The second kiss came lower, just above the spot where the neck joined shoulder. He lingered there, mouth warm against her skin, and her pulse fluttered wildly beneath it.
Then she felt his magic.
It was subtle at first—like heat caressing her skin.
Her breath caught on a quiet gasp as her insides opened.
Her body recognized his magic—welcomed it.
It spread in slow, spiraling waves, like a sigh that started deep and rolled outward, every nerve singing awake.
He kissed her again with lips parted and began to draw, the suction gentle but unrelenting.
His magic flowed, warm and heavy and sweet as incense, seeping into her skin.
He wasn’t just leaving a mark; he was pouring himself into her.
She could feel the mark taking shape—a deep, spreading pleasure that had her back arching, lips parting, breaths stuttering.
It dragged a sound from her throat she didn’t recognize.
Eyes slipped shut, her head tilting back to give him more.
He took it.
His hand came to her waist, grounding her. His mouth stayed sealed to her skin, and she could feel his restraint—how carefully he held himself, how tightly he reined it in, but his magic told a different story. It surged through her in pulses—wild, possessive, a drumbeat she couldn’t silence.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far.
He didn’t even lift his head. His hands slid from her waist to her back, climbing up to cup her shoulder blades, bringing her even more flush against him.
He kissed her neck again. He couldn’t seem to stop, as if her skin had become his gravity.
He groaned against her throat, a tortured sound that made her belly clench.
Cassia exhaled, shaky and hot, her hand rising without thinking to touch his jaw.
Ark didn’t startle. He leaned into her palm instead.
She shifted, slowly—just enough for her lips to brush the edge of his cheekbone, for her nose to rub against his skin.
He turned his head—