Chapter 8 – Cassandra #2
It wasn’t a command. Wasn’t manipulation. Just a simple request wrapped in something that sounded dangerously close to concern.
And maybe I was weak. Maybe I was tired of fighting. Maybe I just wanted one more moment of feeling like someone gave a shit whether I lived or died.
“Okay,” I said softly. “I’ll stay.”
***
I didn’t change into his guest room clothes. Didn’t want to blur the lines any further than they already were. Instead, I sat on his couch and tried to figure out what the fuck I was going to do.
Rafael knew something was wrong. Had noticed my mistakes, which meant he was watching me more closely than I’d realized. And if he was watching, then Vance’s timeline was fucked. I couldn’t move forward with feeding intel until I knew Rafael’s guard was down again.
But Vance wouldn’t accept delays. Wouldn’t care that I was walking a razor’s edge between exposure and survival. He’d push, threaten, remind me exactly what he could do to destroy what little I had left.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, half-expecting another threatening message from Vance, but it was from Drew.
Don’t go to your apartment. Don’t access anything. Don’t do anything that could be traced or monitored. We need to talk.
Ice flooded my veins.
He knew. Somehow, he fucking knew.
My hands shook as I read the message again, searching for hidden meaning, for some indication of how much he’d figured out. But it was just those two sentences. Urgent. Warning.
We need to talk.
I typed back: What happened?
The response came almost immediately: Rafael’s putting surveillance on you. Says someone’s been accessing sealed files from your apartment. I bought you time, but you need to be careful.
The room spun.
Rafael was watching me. Knew I’d been digging into the archives. Which meant my access was compromised, my cover was blown, and I was running out of time to figure out what had really happened to my father before the entire organization came down on my head.
And Drew—Drew had lied for me. Had protected me when he should’ve thrown me to the wolves.
Why?
My phone rang. Vance’s number flashed on the screen, and my stomach dropped.
I answered on the third ring, keeping my voice steady. “What?”
“We need to meet,” Vance said without preamble. “Tonight. Same place as last time.”
“I can’t. Things are complicated right now.”
“I don’t give a shit about complicated, Cassandra. You’re three weeks behind schedule, and I’m starting to think you’ve forgotten whose side you’re on.”
Fury burned through my chest. “I haven’t forgotten anything. But if you want this done right, you need to back off and let me handle it.”
“Handle it?” His laugh was cold. Mean. “You’re not handling shit. You’re playing house with some Russian pretty boy and pretending your mission doesn’t matter anymore.”
How did he know about Drew?
The realization hit me like a physical blow. Vance had been watching me. Had seen me with Drew. Which meant he knew more than I’d realized, had more leverage than I’d thought.
“Meet me tonight,” he repeated. “Or I start making your life very difficult.”
The line went dead.
I sat there, phone clutched in my hand, feeling the walls closing in from every direction. Rafael on one side. Vance on the other. Drew somewhere in the middle, offering help I didn’t know if I could accept.
And underneath it all, the truth I’d been chasing for two years. The reason my father had died. The lies that had built my entire existence.
I was so fucking tired of running.
The front door opened, and Drew stepped inside.
He saw my face and stopped. “What happened?”
I could lie. Should lie. Keep him out of this mess before it dragged him under, too.
But I was tired of lying. Tired of carrying everything alone.
“Remember when you said if I was in trouble, you could help?” I asked, my voice rough.
He nodded slowly.
“I need help.”
The words felt like surrender. Like admitting defeat. But as Drew crossed the room and sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched, I realized it felt like something else too.
Like hope.
“Tell me everything,” he said quietly. “And we’ll figure it out together.”
So I did. Started talking and didn’t stop until he knew about Vance, about the intel I’d been feeding him, about the investigation into my father’s death, and the years I’d spent believing the Bratva had stolen everything from me.
I told him about the orphanage. About Rafael finding me three years ago. About the sick twist of fate that had put me directly under the control of the organization I blamed for destroying my life.
And when I was done, when every secret had been laid bare between us, Drew didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
He just looked at me with those gray eyes and said five words that changed everything.
“What if I have the itch again?” Drew asked, and there was something raw in his voice. Something desperate and real that matched the chaos in my chest.
I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the sudden, charged silence. The heat building between us was a physical thing, a pressure in the air. I stepped closer, my eyes locked on his. “Then we scratch it.”
No hesitation this time. No pulling back. No second-guessing.
I didn’t just push him; I claimed him. I stepped into his space, my hands landing flat on his chest. I could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my palms, or maybe it was mine. I pushed, and he stumbled backward. My mouth was on his before his knees hit the edge of the bed.
We collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and racing hearts.
His mouth wasn’t just on mine; it was consuming mine.
This kiss was deeper than before. His tongue plunged past my lips, tasting me, staking a claim.
It wasn’t a kiss; it was an exorcism, both of us trying to erase the distance, the lies, the bullshit, trying to find one real thing to hold onto.
His hands weren’t gentle. They found my waist, fingers digging in, anchoring me to him as I straddled his lap. One hand slid up my ribs, his thumb brushing the sensitive underside of my breast through my shirt. I gasped into his mouth, the jolt of pleasure sharp and electric.
“More,” I breathed, tearing my mouth away.
“Anything,” he rasped, his own lips attacking my neck, his stubble scraping against my skin in a way that lit every nerve on fire.
My fingers clawed at his shirt, desperate to feel skin, to anchor myself to something solid. “Off,” I panted, fumbling with the buttons. “Get it off.”
He broke the kiss to rip his own T-shirt over his head, and I helped him, my hands greedy. Finally. Skin. Hot, solid, male. My palms splayed across his chest, feeling the muscles jump under my touch as his mouth found my collarbone, sucking a mark.
“Cassandra,” he breathed against my skin, and the way he said my name like a prayer, like a curse, like he was drowning and I was his last breath, made something crack open deep inside my chest.
He flipped us, rolling me onto my back, his heavy, muscled body pinning me to the mattress. He loomed over me, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored my own.
“My turn,” he growled.
His mouth was on mine again, hard and demanding, while his hands went to the hem of my shirt. He pulled it up, his knuckles grazing the skin of my stomach, and I arched into his touch. I helped him get it over my head, and we threw it aside.
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, my hands fisting in his hair. “Don’t stop. Please don’t fucking stop.”
“Never,” he said, his voice a guttural promise. His mouth crashed down on mine again, and at the same time, his hands were at the button of my jeans.
We were a frantic tangle of hands, pushing denim and cotton out of the way. My jeans were unfastened, his were bunched at his hips. I felt him, hot and hard, pressing against me through the thin lace of my panties. He groaned, a low, animal sound, and ground against me.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the wet fabric.
“Your fault,” I accused, my hips lifting instinctively. “Drew, please.”
He hooked his fingers into the elastic waistband, pulling my panties aside.
The cool air hit my wet skin for a split second before his fingers replaced it.
He slipped one, then two, inside me, and I cried out, my back bowing off the bed.
He knew exactly where to touch, how to move, his thumb finding my clit with devastating pressure.
“You’re so ready,” he stated, his voice thick with arousal as I started to unravel.
“Don’t,” I begged, grabbing his wrist. “I want you. Inside me. Now.”
He positioned himself between my thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my slick folds. He pushed in slowly, stretching me, filling me. It was a perfect, agonizing friction. He stopped, just an inch inside, forcing me to meet his gaze.
“You’re sure?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question. It was a final warning.
I answered by grabbing his ass with both hands, my nails digging in, and pulling. I sank him to the hilt in one, desperate motion.
A scream tore from my throat. He was thick, and deep, and real. He drove into me, and there was no finesse, just raw, punishing need. He set a rhythm that was fast and deep, and I met him thrust for thrust, my legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper still.
His name was a chant on my lips, “Drew, Drew, fuck,” and for the first time in years, as he filled me again and again, I felt something other than fear.
That single, desperate, “fuck,” was his undoing.
He grunted, a low, animal sound, and his pace quickened. He pulled almost all the way out, the agonizing friction making me whimper, only to slam back in, hitting a spot deep inside that sent lightning straight to my core.
“You feel that?” he panted, his voice a low rumble against my ear, his stubble scraping my skin. “You feel how much I…fuck, Cass.”
“Deeper,” I demanded, my voice wrecked. “Drew, please.”
My nails raked his back, leaving marks I knew I’d see later, and he hissed. His answer was a guttural groan as he changed the angle, his hips tilting. He hit that spot again.
My vision whited out. My back arched off the bed, a scream tearing from my throat. “Right…there!”
That was it. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain, a bright, searing light behind my eyes. My muscles coiled tight, my entire body tensing around him.
“Drew!” I screamed his name, and it wasn’t a plea anymore. It was a release.
My orgasm hit me like a physical blow. It wasn’t a gentle wave; it was a goddamn tsunami, ripping through me, making me shake apart. My inner walls clenched around him, milking him, trying to take everything he had.
He felt it. His eyes, dark and blown wide, locked on mine.
He roared my name, a raw, broken sound, and his control shattered.
He pumped into me, hard and fast, a final, desperate rhythm, burying himself as deep as he could go.
I felt the hot, heavy pulse of his release inside me, the undeniable proof of his surrender, and it was the most real thing I’d felt all night.
His full weight collapsed on top of me, and I welcomed it, my arms wrapping around his sweat-slick back. We were both shaking, our breaths coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The only sounds in the room were our panting and the frantic, slowing beat of our hearts.
He buried his face in my neck, his breathing hot against my skin. I held on tight, my eyes squeezed shut, trying to anchor myself to this moment. To the solid, undeniable weight of him.
The fear was still out there. The lies, the war, all of it. It hadn’t disappeared. But for this one, stolen moment, it couldn’t touch me. He had been a shield.
He stirred, shifting his weight just enough to prop himself up on his elbows, looking down at me.
His hair was a mess, his eyes still dark and possessive, his lips swollen from my kisses.
He didn’t say ‘I love you.’ He didn’t make promises.
He just looked at me, really looked at me, like he was seeing every broken piece.
Then he rasped two words that hit me harder than the entire war.
“You’re mine.”
And I didn’t know if it was a promise or a threat. I only knew, as my heart thudded in my chest, that he was right.