Page 62 of Bitten & Burned
I opened it, slower this time.
Cassian stood there. Not imposing, not looming—just present, the way only he could be. That steady gravity of his pulled the edges of the room into place. Arms full. A folded blanket slung over one shoulder. A small basket in one hand. And in the other… a pair of glasses.
“Thought you might want something to eat,” he said, voice low and even. “No pressure to have it now.”
I stepped aside without a word, and he entered—crossing the space like he’d done it a hundred times, setting the basket down near the lounge chair without asking where. He seemed to know instinctively which surfaces would benefit from what.
From the basket, he pulled two wrapped parcels of food, a napkin-wrapped bundle of utensils, a jar of olives, and a covered tin of what smelled like still-warm bread. The scent curled up from the tin in a soft, yeasty cloud, the kind that made my stomach ache with hunger.
And finally, the wine glasses.
He set them beside the pitcher of water on my side table, giving them no more attention than if he’d placed a fork.
“I’d brought them for water,” he said quietly, without looking at the bottle in my hand. “Didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for.” His voice carried no question, just quiet accommodation.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because it wasn’t just dinner. It was an invitation—and not the kind that demanded a yes. It was a gentle outstretched hand with no strings attached.
Cassian stepped back from the table, adjusting a fold of the blanket like it mattered.
“I’ll be outside if you want company,” he said.
I looked at the food, at the wine glasses. At him.
“You could stay,” I offered, soft and automatic. “If you want.” The offer felt too bare, too much like opening a door I didn’t know how to guard.
The words left my mouth before I could check them. I didn’t even know if I meant them.
Cassian looked at me for a moment. Not searching. Just… seeing. As if the version of me in his eyes needed no explanation.
He gave a quiet breath of a smile. Not sad, not cold. Just understanding.
“You don’t have to ask me out of politeness,” he said gently. “Not tonight.” The refusal was soft enough to land without bruise, but firm enough to hold me where I stood.
I opened my mouth, but couldn’t quite argue.
He stepped toward the door.
“You’ve had enough demands placed on you this week,” he said. “You don’t need another one in the room.” The truth of it slipped under my ribs before I could block it.
My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say to that, either.
Cassian didn’t wait. He nodded once—gracious, as always—and let himself out.
The door clicked softly behind him.
I was alone again.
And for the first time since it all started, that felt like the right thing. Solitude, for once, didn’t feel like a punishment.
I stood alone in the conservatory, the silence expanding to comfortably fill the room.
The wine bottle was still in my hand. I hadn’t touched the food. I hadn’t sat down.
Cassian was gone.
He hadn’t said it with judgment, but his words lingered anyway: You don’t have to ask me out of politeness. Not tonight.
