The door shut behind me with a sound like a coffin closing. Great start.
Cassian’s room was the complete opposite of Valen’s golden palace of ego. No flashy bullshit, no “look how important I am” decorations. Just stone, steel, and a window that let the moon do whatever the hell it wanted. A weapon rack that looked well-used, a bed that screamed “function over comfort,” and absolutely zero personality.
“Wow,” I said, taking it all in. “Really went all out with the interior decorating, huh?”
He was standing by the window, shirtless, which was both distracting and terrifying. Moonlight turned every scar on his back into silver, and there were a lot of them. Some looked like battle wounds. Others… others looked like he’d put them there himself.
“They sent you like this?” he asked, not turning around.
“Like what? Dressed up like a virgin sacrifice? Yeah, that was their idea, not mine.”
“Voluntary or not, it’s working.”
Shit.
“I volunteered,” I said, which was technically true if you counted having a metaphorical gun to your head as volunteering.
He turned around, and I immediately regretted every life choice that had led to this moment. His eyes weren’t like other wolves’—they didn’t undress you or pity you. They dissected you. Like he could see straight through the silk to the poison tucked against my hip.
“Do you lie to everyone,” he said, voice level as a blade, “or just to me?”
“Depends on the day.” My throat felt like sandpaper. “Today’s been pretty shit for honesty all around.”
I walked to the table where someone had left a goblet—silver, ornate, probably worth more than my former life. My hands were shaking as I set it down, which was just fucking perfect. Nothing says “totally not here to murder you” like visible trembling.
“You’re afraid,” he observed.
“Yeah, well. It’s been a rough week.”
“But not of me.” He tilted his head. “Interesting. Why?”
Because you might be the only person in this hellscape who hasn’t tried to break me yet, I thought. Out loud, I said, “Still figuring that out.”
I reached for the vial hidden under my sash. The glass was warm from my body heat, which felt like some kind of cosmic joke. Here I was, literally carrying death against my skin, and it was the warmest thing I’d felt in days.
The cork came out with a soft pop. Sweet, sharp scent hit the air—faint, but there. Like almonds mixed with regret.
“Wolfsbane?” he asked, casual as discussing the weather.
I nearly dropped the fucking thing. “How did you—”
“I can smell it. Concentrated. Refined.” He stepped closer, and I caught his scent—iron, pine smoke, winter storms. Wild things that didn’t belong in cages. “Expensive.”
“Yeah, well. Valen spares no expense when it comes to murder.”
The poison shimmered as I poured it, clear and deadly and silent. Just like they’d promised.
“Did he send you to kill me?” Cassian asked.
The question hit like a slap, but his tone was almost… gentle? Like he was asking if I wanted tea.
I looked up at him. “Would it matter if I made it sweet first?”
Something shifted in his expression. Not anger. Not surprise. Recognition, maybe. Like he knew what it felt like to be backed into corners with no good choices.
His hand caught mine as I lifted the goblet. Warm, rough, careful. The first gentle touch I’d had in… Christ, I couldn’t even remember.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, little wolf,” he murmured.
“I’ve already lost it.” The words came out whispered, broken. True.
He was close enough now that I could feel his heat, see the silver flecks in those storm-grey eyes. Close enough to count the scars on his throat and wonder who’d put them there.
He took the goblet from my hand. Lifted it like a toast.
“You know what’s in it,” I said, because apparently I had some kind of death wish.
“I do.”
“Then why—”
“I want to see what kind of poison they taught you to pour with your eyes open.”
And then the bastard drank it. All of it. Like he was downing a beer instead of swallowing his own death.
“What the fuck,” I breathed, waiting for him to collapse, convulse, scream. Something.
But he just stood there, empty goblet in hand, looking at me like I was the most interesting thing he’d seen all century.
“That was either really brave or really stupid,” I said.
“Probably both.” He set the goblet down, stepped forward. “But I’ve been dying slowly for years. This is just… more efficient.”
Then his hands were in my hair, and his mouth was on mine, and I was kissing him like the poison wasn’t in his blood.
Like it was in mine instead.
His lips tasted like wine and wolfsbane and something that might have been hope if I was feeling optimistic. Which I wasn’t, because this was probably the stupidest thing I’d ever done, and I’d done some spectacularly stupid things.
But for the first time in weeks, I felt alive.
Even if we were both about to be very, very dead.
