Chapter 43 #2
He wheeled forward to the desk and reached into a drawer with visible effort. Cassia instinctively stepped forward, but he waved her off.
“Stop fussing. I am not a relic yet.”
There was no heat to the words, only dry amusement. Still, she flushed and stepped back.
He retrieved a small velvet case and opened it, revealing a series of carefully preserved photographs—glossy with enchantment, resistant to time’s wear.
He passed her the first one.
Cassia stared. A dark-haired man mid-dance, one hand at a woman’s waist, his expression soft with wonder.
“This is Ark,” she said softly, “at a younger age? But—”
“No,” Kassenor said.
She looked again. The resemblance was uncanny—the same tilt of the head, same fingers curled with unconscious care rather than possession.
Even the eyes had the same flicker of restraint behind reverence.
But now that she looked closer, she saw this man’s build was slimmer, his horns slightly less curved.
“That was taken at our engagement ball—mine and Delphyne’s,” he said.
Then, he looked at the photograph again, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
“She wore a dress with crystal beading that snagged on every bloody thing. Threatened to set it alight halfway through the evening. I told her she outshone the chandeliers. She said I was full of smoke, but she stayed by my side all the same.”
He passed her another photograph.
This one she knew. The event photographer had taken a picture of her and Ark, dancing at the Yulefrost ball. Her laughter was suspended in time, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. But what struck her now was Ark’s face. The openness in it. How his expression mirrored Kassenor’s.
He picked up the photo and touched the image gently, his fingers pausing over his younger self.
“I had thought,” he said, voice low, “if my son ever looked at someone the way I looked at her that night . . . if he felt even half as fortunate as I was, then there’s no argument in any realm strong enough for me to stand in the way.”
He lifted his gaze to hers. “‘The one I love, loves you.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
Cassia’s throat ached. She smiled, blinking quickly. “You remembered.”
“These days, I forget much. But that, I remember.”
She looked down at the photograph again, her vision blurring. She blinked hard, once, twice, until Ark’s face came back into focus. Her words had mattered. And she hadn’t known, until this moment, how much difference they’d made.
Inside the box, she glimpsed other portraits: Kassenor and Delphyne standing side by side on what looked like their wedding day, and them again, each holding a baby wrapped in dark velvet.
Ark and Oromon, so small they fit in the crook of their parents’ arms. A family.
Cassia stared at the image. At the four of them, whole and unbroken.
She thought of the few photographs she had of her own family—her mother, young and smiling.
Her father, thin even before the illness took him, but still standing.
The three of them, together, before everything changed.
Her throat tightened.
“You have a beautiful family,” she said.
Kassenor’s fingers stilled on the velvet case.
“I sometimes wonder,” she said softly, “what it would be like to have that. A family I came from. People who share my blood.” She shrugged, letting out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “But I’ve made peace with that. Mostly. Most days.”
He didn’t speak, but he studied her with that same careful look she’d noticed when he turned puzzle pieces between his fingers—weighing her, though she couldn’t tell on what scale.
Then, he said, “You see, I’ve found that the happiest people are the ones who stop asking where they came from and start deciding where they’re going.
” He fitted the photographs back into their velvet case carefully.
“Any gardener will tell you—it’s not where the seed fell that matters.
It’s what you do with the soil you’re given. ”
Cassia smiled. It sounded like something her mother would have said whenever she’d asked about family. The words settled somewhere quiet and warm in her chest—a reassurance she hadn’t known she needed.
“Thank you,” she said. “For showing me the photographs. For listening.”
He closed the case with a soft click. His head tilted toward the door, slightly ajar, a gentle smile touching his face as faint laughter drifted from the sitting room—the sound of his family gathered together, warm and unhurried.
“Now, let’s return to the others,” he said, already turning his wheelchair toward the door. “I believe there was mention of winterberry cake.”
Dessert had been served and enjoyed in front of the fire.
Kassenor was right: it was an excellent winterberry sponge cake soaked in plum wine with a generous serving of spiced cream.
When she and Ark were ready to leave, farewells were brief but warm—just enough to signal they’d see each other again before the end of Yulefrost season, or before Oromon returned home to Valien.
In the front hall, Cassia tugged on her gloves, smiling to herself, the last echoes of laughter still coursing through her. Ark helped her into her coat, smoothing the collar. As he wrapped her scarf, his fingers lingered against her cheek.
“Ready to go, Starling?”
She leaned back into his solid warmth for a fleeting second. “If we must.”
They waved goodbye to Orlen, who held the door open, and stepped outside into the night, the air crisp with frost and starlight. Lanterns lined the walkway, their glow soft and golden beneath gently falling flakes.
Cassia smiled up at Ark, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “You know, a certain demon once informed me that Yulefrost is the most auspicious night for . . . new beginnings.”
Ark’s brows rose, a slow, knowing smile gracing his lips. “Did he? How forward.”
“Shameless,” she agreed, leaning into his side. “Tall, dark, and brooding. You’d probably disapprove.”
He closed the small distance between them, his presence blocking the gentle wind. “On the contrary. He sounds like a demon of impeccable taste.”
“Oh? And do you know if this demon plans to follow through on his tradition?”
His arms tightened around her. “I dare say he’s been planning it all evening.” He ducked his head, his breath warm against her ear. “In fact, he’s been remarkably patient.”
A thrill shot through her. They walked some more, snow crunching softly beneath their boots. She could still feel the heat of his words against her ear, the promise coiled in his voice. Patient, he’d said. She wondered how long that patience would last.
“You know,” she said, aiming for casual, “you never told me why you don’t drink caffeine.”
“You never asked.” A pause. Then, quietly: “Would you like to know?”
Yes, she thought. Very much. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of sounding eager.
“I already asked Lilibeth.” She pressed her lips together, suppressing a laugh. “She said . . . caffeine can be a strong aphrodisiac for pureblood demons. Overwhelming, even.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Lilibeth has quite the imagination.”
She laughed. “Is it true?”
He stopped and turned to face her. The lantern light caught his eyes—half gold, half shadow—and the look he gave her was slow and deliberate. Intimate.
“Would you like to find out?” he murmured.
Her pulse skipped. Delicious heat bloomed low in her belly. She wanted to push him. Wanted to see how far his restraint would stretch before it snapped.
So she tilted her chin up. “Why? Do you need a cup of coffee? It is the longest night, after all.”
A low sound rumbled in his chest as he seized her waist. He held her there, in the circle of his arms, beneath the falling snow. The kiss he finally gave her was slow, deep—a promise of what was to come. A vow whispered against her lips. A seal upon the future they would build.
In the silence that followed, Cassia couldn’t help but think how strange and beautiful it was. She’d started Yulefrost in an orphanage that needed saving. Now she was ending it wrapped in wool and starlight, the children safe, beside the one person who made even the coldest winter warm.
They walked on, hand in hand, into the longest night.