Chapter 42
CASSIA
Ark’s shower was steaming hot, but Cassia preferred it that way.
She stood under the spray, eyes closed, head bowed, letting the day rinse off inch by inch—salt, sweat, ash, and the invisible grit of uncertainty that clung tighter than anything physical. The anxiety had pressed so tightly around her ribs she hadn’t drawn a full breath in hours.
Now, she let it all go.
Mist rose thick around her, perfumed faintly with sandalwood and something unmistakably Ark. When the glass door slid open, she didn’t need to open her eyes to know it was him.
His hands came to her shoulders—broad palms, warm and sure, sliding over slick skin. His thumbs pressed into the knots of tension beside her neck. The pressure was claiming, knowing, like he had memorized her in pieces and was now putting her back together with nothing but touch.
She opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder.
There he was—bare, glorious. Water seeped through his dark hair and plastered it to his brow.
His chest was all hard lines and heat, slick with droplets.
The elegant curve of his horns rose through the steam.
Undeniably demon. And yet—so achingly familiar.
She turned toward him, water cascading between them, and reached up to brush her fingers along his jaw. His eyes softened.
“You’re still hurt,” she murmured. “Should’ve stayed in bed.”
He caught her wrist and brought her palm to his lips. “The bed felt too empty without you.”
She smiled. “I was planning to rejoin you.”
“Not quick enough.”
He poured amber-coloured soap onto his palms and began to move over her back—firm, kneading pressure that turned her muscles to liquid. He turned her, his soapy hands moving to her front—intimate but not demanding. She let him, her own hands coming to rest on his hips.
“You’re rather good at this,” she said, eyes fluttering closed as his hands swept over her breasts. “Do you bathe all your guests?”
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“Only the ones who single-handedly negotiate with mysterious magical entities and then carry their essence away in jewelry.” He nipped her earlobe playfully, and she smothered a chuckle.
“And only the ones I’m desperately in love with. It’s a very short list.”
She laughed—a real, full-bodied sound—and the last of her tension bled out. He rinsed her off, then gathered her close. They stood beneath the spray, foreheads pressed together, the world fading to steam and silence.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him—soft, unhurried. He returned it with slow heat, his hands sliding up her back, then down to cup her, anchoring her to him. She felt his desire between them, heavy and hot against her belly. And still, he held back.
Cassia leaned her forehead to his chest. “Let me take care of you this time.”
Before he could protest, she was sinking to her knees.
She looked up at him—golden eyes dark with want, his hand already reaching for her hair—and lowered her mouth to him.
His groan was immediate, low and guttural.
She took her time, worshipping him the way he had worshipped her, feeling his control fray with every passing second.
When he finally came undone, it was with a broken groan and her name on his lips. She pressed a kiss to his hip, then rose to her feet.
“Beautiful,” she whispered. “You’re beautiful when you lose control.”
He kissed her fiercely, then lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her down in the centre of the bed, his markings dark and smouldering in the dim light.
“Now,” he said, voice thick and low, “let me worship you properly.”
He kissed her knees first, then spread her thighs with reverent hands.
His mouth followed—slow, teasing—working up the inside of her legs until she trembled from anticipation alone.
When his lips sealed over the tender skin at the top of her thigh, magic rippled from his mouth into her flesh.
A black, curling mark bloomed beneath his lips.
He turned and did the same to the other thigh, then moved higher—to her belly, her breasts—leaving marks like brands of pleasure, of connection.
She was trembling by the time he lowered his head between her thighs. When his mouth found her, she cried out, her fingers curling around his horns. He knew her rhythms, the way her body sang under his touch, and he didn’t stop—not when her first climax hit, not when the second tore through her.
When he finally crawled up her body, breathless and burning, he pinned her wrists above her head. “If you want it gentler,” he rasped, “ask me now.”
She met his gaze. “No. I want you to lose control.”
He drove into her in one smooth, unyielding thrust. Cassia cried out—pleasure and shock twisting together. He stilled, his head dropping to her shoulder.
“Cassia,” he groaned. “You feel like home.”
He moved with a pace that bordered on brutal, the bed shaking beneath them. Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. When his mouth found her throat—right above her racing pulse—he suckled hard, and magic surged into her bloodstream like wildfire. Another mark.
He flipped her roughly, pulling her onto her knees, slamming back in from behind. She sobbed at the sensation, the new angle stretching her exquisitely. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets, back arching, thighs trembling under the weight of his pace.
He leaned over her, chest pressing to her back, his mouth finding that same spot below her jaw. “One more,” he whispered. “The last one. Let me—”
“Yes.”
His lips sealed over it and sucked hard.
Magic surged with his breath, striking her like a flare.
Cassia cried out—something wordless, shattered, divine—as the final mark took root.
Completion—as though some part of her had always ached for this, without knowing why.
Every thread inside her rewove. Her magic twisted with his.
Her soul bared itself, and his soul—dark, wounded, aching—opened in return.
She felt him—not just in her body, but in the marrow of her.
A raw, sacred pull. Their bond clicking into place like the final turn of a key.
Ark groaned against her skin, and then he was spilling into her with a ferocity that tipped her over the edge again. He held her flush to him, buried as deep as he could go, while the world fell away.
He collapsed over her slowly, careful even in his exhaustion, gathering her into his arms. One hand trembled as it brushed hair from her damp cheek, his thumb catching the remnants of her tears.
But she was smiling.
And he kissed that smile. Like it was everything.
Later, as she lay in his arms, her cheek against his beating heart, she whispered quietly, “Do you ever think about how we almost didn’t happen?”
Ark’s chest rumbled with a soft, dismissive sound. “No. It’s a pointless exercise. And I don’t like thinking about devastating things.”
She smiled against his skin. “It started as a transaction.”
“It started,” he corrected, his voice a low rumble beneath her ear, “as the most consequential decision of my life.”
She grew quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing a faint, silvery line on his chest. “And you don’t . . . regret it? Any of this?”
He shifted then, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his gaze. His eyes, ancient gold in the dim light, were utterly serious. “Regret?” He said it like the word was foreign. “Not a single moment. Not one.”
She traced a slow line down his chest. “You know, when I imagined my future, I never pictured a demon lord who doubles as an exorcist and artifact hunter at night.”
He chuckled and caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “And I never pictured a Kitchen Witch who’d make me want to be a better man.”
She snorted. “That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Good. I’ve never been good at small commitments.”
She smiled and kissed his chest. A beat of quiet.
Then Ark exhaled. “Talking about being a better man . . .” He turned on his side, propping himself on his elbow to look at her. “I’ve decided something.”
She tilted her head, looking up at him.
“I’m taking my seat on the Regency Council.”
Cassia stilled. He wasn’t just the demon who loved her now. He was something more—a player stepping onto a board he’d avoided for most of his adult life.
“My father needs someone at that table who isn’t jockeying for factional power,” he continued, his gaze fixed on her.
“Someone who remembers the point of unity was to protect the vulnerable, not consolidate power.” He hesitated, the mask of the cynical outsider falling away to reveal the resolute core beneath.
“It’s time I stopped watching from the shadows and started building something that lasts. ”
“For someone known for breaking rules,” she murmured, “you might be the only one who can remind them of their original purpose.”
He offered a fleeting smile. “Alderrath was a symptom. There are other vipers in the grass.” His eyes grew intent, the gold flecks seeming to burn.
“When I look at you—at the children—I see what I’m actually fighting for.
I’ve been selfish, hiding in my own solitude.
I want a hand in shaping the world they’ll inherit. ”
Something swelled behind Cassia’s ribs—fear and fierce pride tangled together.
“What do you think?” he asked, his voice softening.
She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his, anchoring herself to his warmth.
“Go,” she told him. “Be the firebrand. Shake their marble halls. But just remember: always come back to me.”
“Starling,” he said, and kissed her forehead. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”