Page 127 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

His name tore from her throat. He reached around her, found the soft pulse between her thighs, and rubbed in tight, wet circles. She clenched and twisted beneath him, her rhythm faltering, and the last thread of his resistance snapped. His hips drove harder, faster, greedy for the sounds she made. The bond mark on her neck pulsed beneath his lips and he bit down—gently, not enough to break skin, just enough to feel her shudder.

When she came again—shaking, sobbing—he lost himself completely. Buried to the hilt, pressed flush against her back, he spilled inside her with a hoarse, strangled groan. His vision whited out. His hips kept moving, chasing the last waves of pleasure, until he collapsed against her, trembling, deeper than he’d ever been.

31

CASSIA

The morning light was soft through the window, barely a whisper on the floorboards. Cassia stirred beneath the sheets, caught between sleep and waking, aware of only the warmth and the steady heartbeat behind her. His arm was draped over her waist, fingers splayed against her stomach like he never wanted to let go.

Ark.

She smiled, eyes still closed, letting herself sink into the stillness of his home, the warmth of his body against hers. For one blissful heartbeat, she let herself believe this was all real. That this was her place. That she belonged here—in his home, his bed, his arms.

Then the memory of last night flooded in.

Her body went cold.

Ark shifted behind her, nose brushing the curve of her shoulder. His mouth was warm against her skin, lazy and affectionate and so perfectly suitable for a weekend morning, as if nothing could be wrong in the world.

“Good morning,” he murmured between kisses on her nape, voice still rough from sleep.

Her throat was too tight to answer.

“I was thinking,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her skin, “we could go out for breakfast. There’s a restaurant around the corner—tiny, but they serve the best egg dishes in Angelene. I want to see your face when you try them.”

She closed her eyes. The ache bloomed slow and awful in her chest. He would take her there. He would kiss her fingers over shared platters, lean in close like this was just the beginning. Like they could build something real.

But she knew: If she didn’t leave now, she never could.

She pulled out of his arms. The movement was abrupt, desperate—she couldn’t bear being held by him any longer. His warmth left her, and the cold that followed was immediate, hollow.

“I can’t stay for breakfast,” she said quietly, not even looking at him, didn’t trust herself to. “I’m going home.”

The silence that followed was thin and brittle. When Ark spoke, his voice was low, cautious. “I’ll drive you.”

“No.”

The lace of her underwear was ice against her skin, a shocking contrast to the memory of his warm hands peeling them away. Each piece of clothing she put on felt like a layer of armour, sealing away the woman who’d been warm and naked and loved just minutes before.

She didn’t look at him at all, focusing on the heap of silk on the floor instead. The thought of putting on her gown made her stomach turn. It wasn’t just the corseting or the boning or the impossible row of buttons—it was what it meant: wrapping herself back in illusion. Shutting out warmth and possibilities behind a mask she didn’t want to wear.

Behind her, the bed creaked. She heard him shift, heard the rustles of clothing, felt the change in the room. Tension thickened, and it was all she could do to not crumble.

“Cassia.” His voice was low. “Look at me.”

She froze. Fingers curled over her knees. She couldn’t turn, couldn’t breathe. This is the moment. Say it.

“It’s over, Ark.”

Silence stretched between them, taut as wire.

He asked, “What’s . . . changed?”

Cassia swallowed. Her throat was dry as paper. She forced a shrug. “Nothing. It was never real to begin with.”

A beat. Then another.

“That’s not the truth,” he said, voice brittle.