Once I was out of the hospital, I started spending more time with Kai. Dinners. Drives. Stolen kisses that left me breathless.
Coming home late became routine. I liked it that way.
But one night, when I walked in—glowing from the most romantic rooftop dinner in SoHo—I found Cassian on the living room sofa. Arms folded. Jaw locked.
“Where have you been?” he asked, voice tight.
I blinked. “I didn’t realize I had a curfew.”
“It’s midnight,” he snapped. “You live under this roof. Maybe act like it.”
I shrugged off my coat, breezing past him. “You’re not my father, Cassian. Why do you care?”
I tried to slip past him again, but Cassian stepped in front of me, his eyes locked on my neck—sharp, possessive, burning.
Then he spoke, low and dangerous. “Is that… a kiss mark?”
I paused. Turned slightly, catching the glimpse of it in the hallway mirror—a bold, red stain just beneath my collarbone.
Kai. Of course.
I met Cassian’s gaze head-on. “Yep. My boyfriend put it there. So what?”
I didn’t owe him anything. Not explanations or permission.
A flush crept across Cassian’s cheekbones.
Without another word, I walked past him and disappeared into my room, the soft click of the door sealing him out—and me in.
…
For the next few days, peace returned to the house.
Or so it seemed.
Until one morning, as I stepped out of my room, still half-asleep and heading toward the kitchen for coffee—Cassian appeared.
No warning or hello. Just fury.
