Page 41 of Cruel Deception
Cassian stepped out wearing a black shirt and loose dark slacks, barefoot, his hair mussed like he hadn’t slept—or had been pacing for hours.
He walked straight to the bike, his eyes fixed on it with an intensity that surprised me. Reverent. Possessive. He ran a hand over the handle like someone might touch a newborn child.
“You found her,” he murmured.
I nodded, smiling despite myself. “Luca did. He told me.”
Cassian looked up, something shifting in his gaze—darkening, then softening, almost like gratitude. Almost.
He stretched his hand toward me. I understood.
I handed him the key.
He swung a leg over the bike, turned the ignition, and let the engine roar to life beneath him. The entire courtyard vibrated with it. He looked... different there. Not like a mafia heir, not like my husband. Like someone completely free.
He looked at me. “Get on.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Get. On.”
So I did.
I climbed up behind him, wrapping my arms around his torso. My chest didn’t ache this time—thanks to the padding—and for the first time, I held him the way I wanted to that night outside my grandfather’s house.
“Hold tight,” he ordered.
I did.
And then we took off.
The bike soared forward, the tires gripping the road like claws, the wind screaming around us. My hair whipped behind me, my arms locked around him, his scent—dark spice and leather—wrapping around me like something wicked.
He didn’t slow. If anything, he went faster, twisting through streets like the city belonged to him. I couldn’t stop the laugh that broke from me, wild and breathless. It was the first real sound of joy I’d made in weeks.
He was a monster. But he could fly.
And tonight, I let myself pretend I was flying with him.
We made it back to the estate. I was the first to swing off the bike, boots hitting the concrete with a thud, legs still sore from the morning trek.
Cassian dismounted after me, expression unreadable, movements smooth but sharp.
“Come,” he said simply, turning and walking ahead.
I followed, slightly limping but refusing to show it.
My calves were still tight from that long walk earlier—from the penthouse to the estate gate—but at least now, I had the damn access card.
No more forest hikes through a mafia fortress.
Cassian led me into a part of the house I hadn’t been before—not a living room, not a bedroom. It felt like a vault. Dimly lit, no windows, cool air, and rows of weapons displayed on the walls. Knives, guns, all lined up with clinical precision.
A locked cabinet of what looked like poisons or sedatives. Tactical gear hung like shadows in the corner.
He gestured for me to sit on a leather bench. I did, slowly. The room smelled of oil and steel, and my pulse quickened. This wasn’t just a weapons room. It was a message.
Cassian walked toward the nearest display of guns. He ran his fingers along a matte-black pistol like it was familiar, personal. Then he picked it up and turned to me.
