Page 35 of Cruel Deception
I wake with a start, not on the couch but in the bed, a soft duvet tucked around me.
My heart lurches—a large figure lies beside me, still, a black silk band covering his eyes.
I stifle a scream, my chest aching, until reality crashes in: I’m married. This is Cassian, my husband.
How did I get here? Did he carry me? The thought’s impossible—he recoiled from my touch last night—but we’re alone in this penthouse.
I exhale, steadying myself. “Scared?” His voice cuts through, low, emotionless, the band still in place.
“I was,” I admit, my voice soft, testing the air between us.
“Thank you,” I add, hesitating, “for... bringing me to bed.”
“I didn’t,” he says, flat, pulling the band off and rising, his back to me, all lean muscle and ink under his unbuttoned shirt.
My stomach twists. If not him, who? “Then... who did?”
He sits up, pulling off the mask with a sharp motion and rising from the bed. I watch him, unsure if I should follow or keep my distance.
He strides to a corner desk, its sleek mahogany holding a laptop and papers.
He taps at the screen, his movements precise, ignoring my question.
Panic flickers, but his presence, cold as it is, anchors me.
“Please don’t go,” I blurt, hating the plea in my voice.
Maybe it’s the spider he unleashed earlier, or the fleeting comfort of his scent, but I need him here.
“I’m here,” he says, emotionless, his eyes on the laptop.
The words, bare as they are, ease the knot in my chest.
“Erm...” I stammer, staring at his tall frame, the words I want to say—about my scars, his silence—stuck.
His gaze lifts, blue eyes piercing, and I look down, cowed, as if he’s claimed me as his monster.
“About your scars?” he says, reading my mind, his voice neutral.
My lungs freeze. I wasn’t expecting him to bring it up, not like this.
What does he think? Does he see me as ruined, like Nico did? Incomplete? A woman missing what most men obsess over?
I brace for cruelty. “I don’t care,” he says, turning back to his laptop, zooming on an image—a grainy photo, maybe a face. “Can you cook?”
I blink, stunned. No insults, no pity, just... indifference?
“Charlotte,” he says, sharper, noting my silence.
“Yes,” I say, snapping back. “I can cook.”
The subject shift whiplashes me.
“I’m hungry,” he says, closing the laptop.
I stand, fear ebbing, a spark of purpose igniting.
And somehow, cooking for him feels like something I’d do without hesitation.
