Sleep is impossible. The poison still burns in my mind—not the champagne, but the image of Cassian drinking death meant for me. His hand shaking just slightly as he held the glass. The sweat on his forehead he thought I wouldn't notice. The way he touched my back after, like he needed to remind himself I was still breathing.
He could have let me die. Should have, probably. Third time's the charm for Greyhaven brides.
I wander the dark halls in nothing but silk and restlessness, my bare feet silent on cold marble. This house that felt like a prison two weeks ago now feels like a puzzle I'm desperate to solve. Every room holds a piece of him—the boy in the photographs, the man who plays monster, the stranger who held me while I cried.
Then I hear it. Piano music, soft and aching, the melody that's haunted my dreams since the garden. I follow it like a moth to flame, finding him in a drawing room I've never seen. The only light comes from the moon through tall windows, painting him in silver and shadow.
He plays with his eyes closed, his whole body moving with the music. Not the controlled violence from the training room, but something raw and unguarded. His fingers dance across keys with the same precision he uses to break bones, but gentle. So achingly gentle.
He knows I'm here—his shoulders tense slightly—but he doesn't stop playing.
"My mother taught me." His voice is rough whiskey in the dark. "Before my father broke her fingers for making too much noise."
My throat closes. I move closer, drawn by the pain in his voice, the beauty in his hands creating something instead of destroying.
"She said music was the only beautiful thing in this ugly world." His fingers slow but don't stop. "I play when I can't sleep. When the blood won't wash off even though my hands are clean."
The confession hangs between us, more intimate than if he'd stripped naked. This is Cassian without armor, and it terrifies us both.
The music stops. The silence is so complete I can hear both our breathing—his controlled, mine not. He reaches for bourbon I hadn't noticed on the piano, drinks like he's drowning.
"My father claimed to love her." His voice is hollow, staring at keys like they hold answers. "But all Greyhaven men... we're cursed. Every man who truly loves destroys what he loves most."
"That's just a story—"
"My grandfather killed my grandmother in a jealous rage. My father slowly murdered my mother with his love. His father before him drove his wife to suicide." He laughs, bitter as the bourbon. "We're all monsters in the end. Love just reveals it."
He drinks again, and I see his hand trembling. Not from poison now. From fear.
"I swore I'd never love anyone." He turns to look at me finally, and his eyes are black holes in the moonlight. "Then you cried in my garden and ruined everything."
The words hit like physical blows. He stands abruptly, vulnerability shuttering closed like a door slamming.
"I need to work."
He stalks toward his study, but I follow. I can't let this moment slip away—this glimpse of who he really is under all that beautiful violence.
His study is chaos. Photos from tonight's party, security footage, notes in his sharp handwriting. He's trying to bury the man at the piano beneath the monster at the desk, but his hands still shake.
I pour myself whiskey from his decanter without asking. The burn helps me find words.
"How do you do it?" My voice cracks. "How do you decide who to be?"
He looks at me then, really looks, and something in his face breaks. He tells me about his father's games—making seven-year-old Cassian choose which servant would be punished for spilling wine, which guard would die for letting someone escape.
"Violence became my language. Protection became my religion." His laugh is broken glass. "I protect what's mine by destroying everything that threatens it. Just like him."
The pieces click into place—why he won't touch me, why he drinks poison rather than let me, why he looks at me like I'm salvation and damnation combined.
"You're terrified." The words escape before I can stop them. "Not of me. Of loving me."
His jaw clenches. "Aren't you listening? Every Greyhaven man—"
"You're not them." I move around the desk, drawn by invisible strings. My hand lifts to his face, tracing the scar through his eyebrow. "You're not your father."
His eyes snap to mine, dangerous. "Not yet."
He catches my hand, grip tight enough to bruise, but I don't pull away. The contact burns, electric, inevitable.
"My mother died when I was fifteen." The confession spills out. "Car bomb meant for my father. He remarried within a year. I think... I think he was relieved she was gone. One less weakness."
"Esther—"
"Maybe we're both broken. Products of our fathers' sins, trying not to become them."
Something shatters in his control. He pulls me onto his lap, hands framing my face with desperate gentleness.
"Then we'll heal wrong, together."
I see myself in his eyes—not the innocent girl from the garden but someone harder, sharper. Someone who could match his darkness.
"I'm changing," I whisper. "The violence tonight... when you killed that man, I felt safe. Protected. I wanted you to do it." My voice breaks. "What's wrong with me?"
His thumb traces my lips, and I taste bourbon and truth. "Nothing's wrong with you. You're adapting. Becoming what you need to be to survive our world."
"Becoming like you."
"That should terrify you." His voice is raw. "It terrifies me."
His thumb is still on my lips, and I part them slightly, my breath hot against his skin. His whole body goes rigid, his other hand tightening in my hair. I turn my face into his palm, pressing my lips to the center—not quite a kiss, but enough to make him inhale sharply.
"Esther." My name is a warning, a prayer, a surrender.
For a moment, just a heartbeat, I see Ian from the garden—the man who held me while I cried, who called me princess like it meant something precious. Then he's Cassian again, but now I know they're the same man fighting himself.
"I'm tired of being afraid of this," I whisper against his palm. "Of you. Of wanting you when I should hate you."
His control cracks. He tilts my face up, and we hover there, sharing breath, the inevitability of it making my whole body shake. When our lips finally meet, it starts soft, searching—a question more than answer. Then my fingers tangle in his hair and his control snaps. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air, like he's been starving for this since the garden. His hands shake against my face, and I realize he's holding back, fighting not to bruise me with his desperate need.
"Cassian," I breathe against his mouth, and he groans like I've shot him.
"I won't be gentle." It's a warning and a promise. "I don't know how to be gentle anymore."
"I don't want gentle." My nails scrape his scalp. "I want you."
He's already moving to claim my mouth again when he freezes. I watch the war in his eyes—desire battling with the curse he just confessed. His hands shake harder as he sets me aside, standing abruptly.
"Not tonight." His voice is wrecked. "Not when you're still deciding if I'm a monster or a man."
I stand too, facing him across inches that feel like miles. "What if you're both?"
He looks at me with such raw pain it steals my breath. Then, for the first time since the garden, I see a genuine smile—small and broken but real.
"Then God help us both."
He leaves me standing in his study, shaking with want and something deeper. Understanding maybe. Or recognition.
We're the same, I realize. Two damaged souls pretending we're not already falling.