Page 34 of Cruel Deception
I stand, creeping to the door, my voice a whisper. “Who’s there?”
A groan answers, low and pained.
Reckless, I open the door, and Cassian stumbles in, his dark hair a mess, his Tom Ford shirt untucked, whiskey and sweat rolling off him.
His blue eyes are glassy, his scar stark under the dim light.
He sways, barely upright, his left hand braced on the wall.
“Cassian?” I step toward him, concern overriding fear.
He raises a hand, halting me, his voice slurred but sharp. “Stay back.”
“Let me help you inside,” I say, scanning the quiet estate for threats—nothing but shadows and sea.
“I don’t need your help,” he snaps, staggering forward, his hand never leaving the wall.
He collapses into an armchair, not a king now but a wounded beast, his right hand clutching his stomach, his face pale.
“Why’d you get drunk?” I ask, kneeling before him, searching for blood, bruises, anything to explain his state.
Nothing visible, but something’s wrong—his breathing’s shallow, his jaw tight.
“You’re not my mother,” he growls, his eyes flashing. “Don’t question me.”
“You’re my husband,” I counter, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands. “Let me help, or I’ll watch you suffer and not care.”
He grunts, a sound of pain or defiance, and tries to speak, but his head lolls back, his body slumping.
His eyes close, his breathing evening out—he’s passed out.
I stand, staring at his face, unguarded for once.
He looked like a man who’d just seen hell and walked out burned.
His lips, full and soft, contrast the hard lines of his jaw, his scar a story I don’t know.
Even monsters sleep, but damn, he’s beautiful, a dark angel carved from ruin.
I want to drag him to the bed, but he’s too heavy, and I’m not sure he’d let me touch him, even unconscious.
I linger in the silence, unsure what to do next.
Cassian sleeps across from me, draped over the chair like a fallen god, but even in his rest, he looks dangerous. His knuckles are red, his shirt rumpled. Whatever happened tonight—he’s not ready to speak about it. Maybe he never will.
Should I wait here? Should I check his phone and see where he went?
No. That would be crossing a line I’m not ready for. A line that feels even more dangerous with him.
So I just sit—arms wrapped around myself, staring at him, wondering if I’ll ever be able to break through all that ice. He’s a stranger in every sense.
Can I ever crack his ice? I know nothing of him—his family beyond Luca, his past, his pain.
The only thing I know for sure is... I stole his bike. And he stole my life.
If Cassian won’t help find my mother, Luca might, now that I’m a Moretti, however twisted the bond.
My eyes grow heavy, the TV’s drone fading, and I slip into sleep.
