Page 37 of Cruel Deception
He doesn’t even blink. “Who says I did it for you?”
The words don’t just sting—they strip me bare.
“Oh,” I breathe, stunned, scrambling for footing. “Then... why?”
“I saved him,” he says, stepping to the oven, the sauce’s aroma cloaking his sharpness. “That’s all you need to know.”
I swallow, my mind racing. “I was going to ask Luca for help... about my mother.”
Cassian’s lips twitch—not in amusement, but something far more dangerous. A slow, knowing smirk.
“What do you think I went out to do after your little spider meltdown?”
I freeze, my breath catching. “What did you do?”
“Handled him,” he says, his voice low, menacing.
“You... killed Luca?” My voice trembles, horror rising.
“No,” he says, checking the pasta. “Kidnapped him. His men found him, saved him. I told him why I did what I did.”
I pause, trying to keep up. “And? Did he understand?”
“He tried to poison me,” he says, casual, as if it’s nothing. “Food’s done.”
I turn off the oven, my mind spinning—Luca tried to poison him? I thought they were brothers... I thought there was loyalty beneath all that silence.
I plate the pasta, the steam rising, and say, “Go to the dining room. I’ll bring the food.”
He lifts a brow. “Why?” He steps forward, takes his plate. “I’m already here.”
I follow with mine.
We take our seats—me at the far end of the long table, him at the center like two world leaders negotiating peace after war.
Opposing sides. One table. No trust.
Two people pretending this is dinner... instead of war.
Chapter 8
CHARLOTTE
Cassian picks up his cutlery with elegant precision, his every movement controlled, deliberate. He doesn’t look at me, not once, as he cuts into the pasta and lifts the first bite to his lips.
The room is too quiet—no music, no conversation, just the subtle scrape of silverware and the pounding of my thoughts.
I take the cue and reach for my own fork, my fingers trembling slightly.
The pasta is warm, delicious even, but it tastes like nothing to me. The silence between us is thick enough to chew. Still, I’m strangely relieved—he hasn’t mocked my body. He hasn’t recoiled. That alone is something.
But it isn’t enough.
“How long will this marriage last?” I blurt out, my voice quieter than I intend. The question feels like a stone dropped into water—final, irreversible.
He dabs his mouth with his napkin, unhurried, then glances up. His gaze is calm, unreadable. “Forever.”
The word hits harder than I expect.
