Cassian Appreciation Week

“I thought you preferred books that are new and intact,” Cassian commented as he leafed through one.

“Well, yes,” you conceded. “But only if they're recent books. If they were written centuries ago like these ones—” You gestured to the small display “—then I prefer they look their age.”

Cassian hummed. “Got it.”

But as he set down the book, you could tell his attention was already elsewhere. Following his gaze, you noticed the daggers and pocket knives on sale a few stalls down the street. It brought a fond smile to your lips. Of course. Leave it to him to focus on blades and to you to focus on books. You weren't even surprised anymore.

You both spoke at the same time.

“Do you mind if I—”

“Go on.”

You exchanged an amused look, and then he smiled and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Whoever finishes first catches up with the other?”

You nodded, and Cassian walked to the other stall, his wings rising above people's heads, making it impossible to lose him in the small crowd.

Turning back to the books, you began studying a few of them.

Everything was fine. Until someone called your name.

You turned around to find the last person you wanted to see standing there.

Your ex.

He smiled, but there was something crooked in it—an edge that had always been there, but that you hadn't noticed until it was too late. Until you had fallen for him and he thought that meant you were his. His property. His toy.

You sidestepped his hug when he approached you with his arms open. Something shifted in his eyes.

“What?” he scoffed. “You won't even greet me properly now?”

“What do you want, Axel?” you sighed.

He straightened. “I saw you standing there. Just thought I'd come say hi.”

Your eyes darted around. The bookseller was talking to a client, and you spotted the tips of Cassian’s wings further down the street, still standing at the blade stand.

Axel stepped closer. “Worried, angel?”

You recoiled at the old nickname, at the wicked grin on his face, as if he not only knew your reaction, but also enjoyed it.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to stand your ground. “I told you I didn't want to see you again.”

“You did,” he said with a shrug. “But that was a year ago. I thought maybe you’d changed your mind by now.”

“I haven't,” you answered, though your voice shook. The people around you didn't seem to notice your distress, too focused on their purchases. “Never again means never again.”

He stepped closer again. You stepped back.

Before you could try to turn and leave—before things could escalate, since you knew he'd try to grab your hand—a faint scent of sandalwood and embers surrounded you.

An arm wrapped around your shoulders, its weight familiar and welcome. Soft lips kissed your temple.

“Here you are,” Cassian said, his voice calm and laid-back, curling a wing around you. “Is this guy bothering you, sweetheart?”

Your body relaxed slightly, leaning into his side.

Axel’s eyes narrowed. “We were just talking.”

“Were you?” Cassian pushed. “Because it didn't look like she wanted to talk to you at all.”

Not knowing what to say, you just nodded. Axel could be violent—you had learned that the hard way. And though it had been a year and Cassian was now by your side, you'd rather not risk making things worse.

But Axel didn't take the hint. And as if Cassian's arm around you wasn't obvious enough, he spat, “What's it to you anyway? Who are you?”

You tensed as Cassian smiled amicably, but he simply said, “I'm Cassian. I'm her boyfriend.”

Axel froze. He scanned Cassian head to toe, taking in the wings and the Siphons on his hands like he hadn't noticed them before. You saw the realization of who was standing in front of him dawn on his face, and his eyes widened.

Cassian’s smile was gone. His expression was unreadable, though you could see a flicker of anger in his hazel eyes.

“That's right, buddy,” Cassian said, voice low and dangerous. “You know who I am. So I suggest you get lost and never bother her again before I make you regret ever looking in her direction.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, and you held your breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Surely, Axel wouldn't be stupid enough to challenge Cassian. Because you know he'd stay true to his words and hurt your ex.

Maybe the promise of violence should have scared you, horrified you even. Instead, it only made you feel loved and protected.

Axel hesitated. He scowled, glared first at you, then at Cassian, and finally turned on his heel and left without a word.

You let out a sigh of relief only once he had disappeared from view. Cassian turned to you, pulling you closer, wings unfolding to shield you from the passersby.

“Thank you,” you murmured, sliding your arms around his waist and holding him tight.

Cassian cupped your cheeks with gentle hands, tilting your face up to look at him. “Are you alright?”

You offered a small smile. “Yes. Thanks to you.” Rising on your toes, you pecked his lips. “My savior.”

He smiled back, kissing the top of your head and pulling you against his chest. “Anytime, sweetheart. Just let me know if he ever bothers you again.”

“I don't think he will,” you replied, face buried in his shirt. “I think you scared him enough to stay away.”

His tone was smug when he spoke. “I had to. But that wasn't the scariest I could be. I kind of want to show him the real thing.”

You chuckled quietly. “Hopefully, you won't need to.”

And fortunately, just like you thought, you never saw Axel again.

*divider by @saradika-graphics

Wind howled outside the cabin and Cassian shivered. He wasn’t cold, the fires and numerous blankets Rhysand’s mother had sewn made sure of that, but he hadn’t been able to shake the memories. This was only his fourth Illyrian winter indoors, and he’d spent twice that huddled in a broken tent on the best nights, snow drifts on the worst. Those memories still left him chilled to the bone.  Cassian knew he should sleep. He was exhausted, wings nearly dragging along the wooden floor while he snuck down the hall. His brothers, or friends, or whatever the other boys who lived in this cabin were to him, would wake him before dawn to get to the training ring before the other children. They were the underdogs, the outcasts, the “ones to watch” all at the same time. Cassian might only be twelve, but he knew how life worked, especially for Illyrian men. He had no choice.  But he couldn't sleep. Not with the snow. Sleeping in a storm like this meant certain death. Knowing that was the only reason he’d survived as long as he had. And now it felt wrong to sleep in their cabin, with these boys, with her. 

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Thank you to @climbthemountain2020, @nocasdatsgay, and @lady-of-tearshed for for supporting me and helping beta this fic!

“The marriage is done,” she said, forcing away all thought of that earlier heat as a furrow creased her brow, as the truth of her infidelity settled across her like an unfortunate veil; one she wished she could forgo. “There can be no going back on it.”

No— but there could be no going back on this, either. No going back on the fact that she’d had another man’s hands on her bare skin, another’s man’s kiss on her neck, and another man’s body at her own command, her nails leaving marks behind like she had claimed him too.

The priests were right to fear the Danes, she thought idly as she dragged a finger along one of Cassian’s tattoos. Right to believe that Saxon women might find it easy to prefer the Northmen to their own.

Her own Dane snorted, now.

“Of course there can,” he shrugged. His hands idled on her skin, tracing patterns wherever he could reach as his chest rose and fell in a steady, contented rhythm beneath her cheek. Her skin burned wherever he lingered, every pass of his fingers a reminder of how he could touch her. Her breath hitched.

“Back home, a wife can divorce her husband for a great number of reasons,” he continued, still dragging his fingers up and over the curve of her shoulder, as light as feather, a touch so sheer it was teasing. He shrugged, glancing down at her pointedly, with a wicked gleam in his eye that caught in the light of the single candle he’d bothered to light before he took to unlacing her dress - I won’t have you in the dark, he’d said, when she begged him to leave it, to not stop kissing her, I want to see you - and now it was burning so low that Nesta was certain it would snuff itself out, soon. “Not least of which is the husband’s lack of prowess in bed.”

She smirked.

“Speaking from experience?” Nesta asked, her voice acid-sweet as his answering laugh rumbled through his chest and into hers, echoing through her bones, right through to her very centre.

His eyes darkened, and before she could so much as take a breath, Cassian rolled her onto her back, caged her body with his own, and trapped her earlobe between his teeth, nipping the skin as he hovered above her, his hand falling to her waist, dragging down to rest at her hip.

“Absolutely not, sweetheart,” he murmured against the skin of her neck. “No woman has ever left my bed dissatisfied.”

No, Nesta thought as her skin heated, tightened, and the hand at her hip swiped broadly down to her thigh. I bet they haven’t.

Still, she braced a hand on his chest and looked up into his face, at those eyes that threatened mischief still. She blinked, fixing him with her best imperious stare as she gave him a shrug of her own.

“That might be how things work under Danelaw, but not in Wessex.”

He rolled his eyes. “So leave Wessex, then.”

As if it were the easiest thing in the world— the most natural, to abandon a husband and a marriage when it proved to be worthless. Nesta huffed softly, marvelling for the hundredth time since crossing into Jorvik at the differences between his people and hers. At how different things might have been, had she been born just a little bit further north, to a father who worshipped a different set of gods.

“And where would I go?” she asked archly. “Here? To be your concubine?”

With another sigh Cassian rolled off of her, curling up beside her and pulling her once more against the wide span of his chest. He’d done that before, too. After he’d brought her to completion for the third - or was it the fourth? - time, he’d lay back to catch his breath and brought her with him, winding an arm about her waist and holding her like he couldn’t bear to be parted from her just yet. His body cradled hers again, and though Nesta knew, distantly, that this was something certain men and certain women did after they’d enjoyed one another’s company… Well, it wasn’t exactly something she’d had the chance to grow used to in her marriage with Tomas.

Cassian shrugged now, letting his palm rest flat against the plane of her stomach.

“I would be honoured if that is what you chose.” Another shrug. “But if you decided that you’d rather forsake men entirely and retire to a convent, I wouldn’t begrudge you that, either. You should have the chance to spend your life as you wish.”

“You take me to bed and then tell me you wouldn’t blink if I wished to enter a life of chastity?”

Cassian laughed again, the sound rolling and rich, undulating like the waves of the North Sea. “I didn’t say that, sweetheart,” he said, lifting a finger. “I said I wouldn’t blame you. I didn’t say I wouldn’t be hammering on the convent door every night, begging you to change your mind.”

“How very pagan of you, to threaten a nunnery.”

Another laugh— another sweep of mirth that travelled from the depths of his chest and through her spine, curling up, content, somewhere deep in her middle. His arm pulled her closer, his finger dragging a line across her hip as his tone turned thoughtful.

“Perhaps that’s what started all this,” he said idly. “The conflict. The raids - borne from the love of a man for a single, maddeningly beautiful woman."

Nesta stopped breathing.

“Oh?” she managed, looking over her shoulder and catching sight of his face, the mischief in his eyes replaced by something else. Something heavier, weightier, like a pound of solid gold.

He hummed. “Maddeningly beautiful,” he echoed, letting his fingers drift lower, splaying and curling around the curve of her hipbone. He dropped his head, peppering the bare skin of her shoulder with a hundred kisses. “You, my love, are my very own Valkyrie.”

“Should I know what that means?” Nesta asked as Cassian shifted his body around hers, easing her once more onto her back, his body draped over hers like a bolt of fabric. Idly her hands went to his hair, her fingers threaded through the strands, tangling in the braids as Cassian grinned and dipped his head to kiss her collarbone.

“The Valkyries are servants of Odin,” he murmured, his lips lingering at the space where her neck met her shoulder. “They scout the battlefield and guide warriors to Valhalla.”

Nesta frowned, even as she dragged her nails through his hair and felt his rumble of approval - a purr more than anything else - in all the places where his naked body was pressed against her own. Her understanding of the Norse belief system was weak at best, based entirely on the harried whispers of priests too terrified of heresy to believe anything else, and the few bits and pieces she’d picked up whilst staying in Jorvik.

“I…lead you to your death?”

Cassian lifted his head to grin at her, his hand drifting lower, his thumb swiping a path from the curve of her hip to her inner thigh. Her mind emptied, focused entirely on that hand, on the callouses of his palms against the swathe of her bare skin. He hummed, low in his throat.

“Perhaps I should put it in terms a Christian would understand,” he murmured, his nose grazing her neck as her senses became overwhelmed by him— by the weight of him, the heat of him, and the slow brush of his hands, dancing along her thigh. She couldn’t breathe, and all the while she felt his lips curving against her, a smile so wicked and sinful she half wondered whether he was the Devil himself, come to tempt her.

His fingers climbed higher, and she didn’t care if he was the Devil. Didn’t care if her immortal soul was damned.

Cassian’s lips curved against her once more.

“You lead me to Heaven, sweetheart,” he finished, his teeth closing around her throat.

***

It was the sun that woke her, in the end.

Streaming through the window set high in the wall above, and rousing Nesta from the sleep that had taken her after the candle had, eventually, burned its last. Cassian had scowled in the dark, mumbled something about how he hadn’t had enough of her, not yet, but even his limbs had been loose, his breathing even, and as his arm had snaked around her waist one final time, Nesta had rested her head against his chest and let his heartbeat lull her into a steady sleep.

And she was tired, now. Her entire body worn out; pleasantly exhausted.

Still. The morning sun made her blink twice, and though Cassian had told her days ago that nobody here would care what bed she awoke in - people don’t care who you are here. Who your husband is. Or who you choose to fuck - she couldn’t shake that lingering piece of her that cared about propriety. That said she was still a wife, even though she’d spent the night calling out another man’s name, and if word got back to Tomas in Wessex…

She didn’t want to find out what he would do.

The thought was sobering; a reminder of all the ways he could extract his revenge, punish her, for a crime that he was no less guilty of. She’d known it, and yet it all seemed so much harsher in the daylight, no longer softened by the glow of a candle. All the places Cassian’s hands had lingered burned now, and though it made her want to sink back into the safety, the security, of his embrace…

It wasn’t wise to linger.

So Nesta slipped from another man’s bed, throwing Cassian’s tunic over her head to cover her nakedness and shield her from the morning chill as she searched for her dress— the one he had so carelessly discarded last night. He had tugged the laces free, all but ripping right through them, and through the haze of desire that had made her breathless with want, she had recalled him tearing his mouth from hers for just long enough to pull the dress over her head, bundle the fabric roughly into a ball, and toss it into some distant corner. She hadn’t cared then, had been chasing his mouth like his kisses were the air she needed to breathe, but now, as she thought of the expensive weave of the wool and the creases that would never come out now…

A scowl crept into her features.

“Men,” she muttered darkly, casting her eyes over the breeches strewn across the floor, shed by such eager hands last night.

Slowly she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and, as she straightened, the soft sound of a gentle laugh rose from the pile of furs on the bed— sleep-heavy and rounded with contentment. The wooden bed frame creaked as he stretched, and, as if he enjoyed the sight of her bathed in the morning light and wearing only his tunic, Nesta looked over her shoulder and found Cassian reclining easily in his bed, one arm thrown behind his head as he watched her in her search. Behind him, carved into the dark wood of the headboard, the face of a wolf snarled at her.

“Did you say something, love?”

Pure male arrogance dripped from him, eyes like a furnace, and Nesta simply refused to let her own gaze dance across the sculpted chest that she had already traversed with her fingertips, for fear of making that sleepy, satisfied smirk spread. Instead, she kept her own expression flat as her fingers curled around her dress at last, plucking it from the corner he’d resigned it to, and huffing as she held up the fabric and let it dangle from her fingers.

“You ruined my dress,” she said flatly, counting each and every crease he had made.

He only grinned. “Perhaps I thought it looked better on the floor.”

“And what do you propose I wear?”

He lifted a brow, casting his eyes over his tunic, the way it hung to her thighs, leaving her legs exposed. He dragged his attention over her slowly, languidly, like he had all the time in the world to savour the sight of her. Hunger sparked— in him, yes, but in her, too. Like one night wasn’t nearly enough to sate either of them.

“I think that suits you just fine.”

Nesta scowled, another huff leaving her as she ran her hand along the length of his tunic and trailed a finger along the hem. Her eyes darted up, brow quirked in the kind of haughty expression that her mother, before she had died, had warned her on several occasions would earn nothing but scorn from the men she was expected to bend to. But Nesta didn’t temper it, and Cassian did not seem like a man inclined to berate her; his eyes were still dancing along her calves, his lip drawn between his teeth as he drank her in regardless of her scorn, like he hadn’t tasted every inch of her skin already.

“I am certain all of Jorvik will agree,” she said blithely, “since I can hardly leave the room wearing anything else. Not with my dress in such a state.”

It was an exaggeration to be sure, but still, her words found their mark as easily as an arrow, impeccably aimed. Cassian sat up, his eyes darkening as he leaned over the bed, his entire face lined with suggestion as the hunger in his gaze grew teeth and turned into something that reminded her of all the ways he’d pushed her, mercilessly, to the edge the night before. There were no more flecks of gold in the hazel of his eyes now, only his pupils, blown so wide Nesta thought she might be able to see into his soul if she looked hard enough. Behind him, the carved wolf suddenly looked so much more familiar.

“Oh, they’ll agree,” he said, his voice like silk, sliding across her skin and making her shiver. Suddenly she remembered that voice whispering in her ear last night, the way her name had rolled off his tongue as he lavished her with open-mouthed kisses. She remembered the sharpness of his teeth, the wicked edge to his smile. “But they’ll know to avert their fucking eyes lest I pluck them out.”

“And here I thought you were one of the more peaceful Danes.”

Cassian smirked— winked, as he lifted one leg and propped an elbow atop his knee. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me, love.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath a diatribe about his inconceivable arrogance as she plucked at the hem of his tunic again and cast another glance at her dress, so woefully creased from how tightly he’d gripped the fabric when it still clothed her, and how firmly he’d balled it up before tossing it away. But there was nothing for it. Swiftly, before he could make another comment - or get more than a passing glimpse of her body - she pulled the tunic over her head and threw it towards him, replacing it with her creased dress.

The Dane rolled his eyes, catching the tunic and casting it aside on the bed, letting it lie in its own little pile, the laces at the neck trailing over the edge of the mattress.

Still watching her, he reclined, lying back on his pillows and crossing his legs at the ankle. A man entirely at ease.

The hunger in his eyes seemed lessened, now.  Not gone, but less feral than it had been before, and as he settled himself against his pillows, drawing up the bolt of fur he used as a covering across his thighs, a quiet hum left him, one of appreciation as he dragged the tips of his fingers slowly across his lips. In contemplation, Nesta supposed. She rolled her eyes, running her fingers through her hair in a vain attempt at taming it, since he’d ruined that too— running his hands through it so fervently that it was a tangle now, almost beyond fixing.

And she opened her mouth to berate him for that, too, but as she turned towards the bed—

Suddenly Cassian was watching her with an entirely different expression on his face. Gone was the rogue of the night before— vanished, the man who had looked at her like he wanted to devour her whole, and spent hours tracing the contours of her with his teeth, learning the shape of her with his tongue. Entirely put away, the Dane who looked like he wanted to ravish her until there was nothing left of either of them but bones.

Instead, he was replaced by a man softened by the morning sun, the gentle caress of golden light sliding along his jaw. His eyes were heavy, like sleep still clung to him, and she remembered the way he’d cradled her against his chest, his hands gentle and his touch light as he buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes. Softly, a smile curved that sinful mouth.

Sitting up once more, the sheets pooled around his waist and exposed the tracery of scars on his chest as he held out his hand, palm to the ceiling.

“Come here,” he said, his tone made lilting with endearment, the sound softened by the slow smile pulling gently at his lips.

“If I get back into that bed with you, we shall never leave it.” Nesta shook her head, still trying to drag her fingers through her hair.

Cassian smirked, but kept his hand extended nonetheless. “True,” he said with a tilt of his head, sending the sunlight cascading across his neck, dancing along the silver torc banded about his upper arm. “But I am not asking you to get back into bed with me.”

Lightly he patted the space at the edge of the mattress before reaching over to the small wooden table kept by the bed, and picking up the carved comb that lay there, a series of symbols carved into its flat handle. She had no idea what they meant, whether it was runes or purely decoration, and for a moment Nesta only stared at it, so small in his hand, the fine teeth of it so seemingly innocuous.

“Sit.”

Nesta blinked. He raised a brow, like he found her evident confusion amusing somehow, and though she looked at that comb, and the space on the mattress, and the way he nodded to her tangled hair, still she blinked, waiting for the moment it all unraveled. After all, whenever Tomas visited her bed, he tended to roll over and find sleep when he was done, leaving her cold and unsatisfied and pulling down her nightdress to the sound of his snores. She hadn’t expected Cassian to want anything else, now that he’d had her.

Slowly she moved, like a rabbit waiting for a trap to spring, and as she lowered herself to the mattress, Cassian hummed in approval, pressing a swift kiss to her temple as she folded her hands neatly in her lap. Nesta kept her face forwards, and with ease Cassian straightened behind her, his presence a warmth at her back, and with a nimble touch he took up the length of her hair and slid his fingers through it— an act as intimate as anything they had shared last night. She fought a shiver, somehow feeling all the more vulnerable, all the more bare, than she had before.

She didn’t think anybody had ever handled her with such… care.

“My mother taught me to braid like this,” Cassian said slowly, pulling his comb from the crown of her head and down the lengths of her tangled hair.

His voice was quiet, vulnerable in a way she hadn’t heard before, like the intimacy of this moment wasn’t lost on him, either. Nesta turned to look over her shoulder, and his fingers stilled in her hair as he met her gaze for just a single, aching second before he pressed two fingers against her temple and turned her to face forwards again. The air thinned, and without a word Cassian set down the comb and ran his hand through her tresses once more, splitting it into sections with a more gentle touch than she thought was necessary.

“What happened to her?” Nesta asked.

And she couldn’t see his face, but she could tell by the slight waver that had been in his voice when he spoke of her that she was no longer with them, and the pain had been writ large on his face before he’d softly turned her away. His fingers didn’t pause as they began to weave her hair, and for a long moment Nesta thought he might not answer her at all, until—

“I told you that Saxons killed a woman I knew, once.”

“Your mother?”

Nesta felt, rather than saw, him nod. She heard the shifting of the mattress, the quiet whisper of the furs sliding across his skin as he moved. Still she remained quiet, letting his words land, sensing the pain in them— the old grief he still harboured, even now. And yet his fingers didn’t stop their work, light on her scalp, and the gentle tug on her hair was soothing as he twisted her hair into intricate patterns she couldn’t ever hope to recreate on her own.

“She wasn’t a warrior,” he continued gently, his accent deepening as he delved into his memory, baring a part of himself she suspected few had ever witnessed. His voice suddenly seemed far away, like it had drifted back across the sea. “She came here from the fjords to settle. I don’t know who my father was, but my mother saw the lack of land and opportunity across the sea and wanted better for me. For us. So she bartered her way onto a supply ship.”

He shrugged again, sent the mattress shifting beneath his weight.

“The Great army had already landed here by then. Had settled at Repton decades earlier. She knew there was a camp there, where she could find work and shelter and earn good coin. So she left me with Rhys’ mother, because the voyage isn’t fit for a child, but I think…” He trailed off. Swallowed. “She planned to bring me over too, eventually.”

Repton— Nesta knew that name.

Her heart rose to her throat, a sickness spreading through her as, slowly, she lifted her hand to her chest. As if it might stop the realisation from settling— as if it might prevent it from being true. And though she suspected already, she had to ask,

“What happened, Cassian?”

His hand curled around her shoulder, his palm resting against her warmed skin, and with his other hand he gently laid the end of her finished braid across the other shoulder, letting it trail down across her breast. Nesta’s finger’s rose to toy with its ends, dragging her finger over the plaited hair as she turned her head and searched over her shoulder for his face. When she found it, meeting his eyes, she found old grief carved there, as plain and as large as if it was still fresh.

“I think you know,” he said.

Yes— Nesta knew. Every Saxon in the land knew. How a battle had taken place, and so many Danes had been slaughtered that the land had run red with their blood for days. It was hardly a victory for the Saxons - the king of Mercia had lost control of his lands, lost many of his own - but a blow had been dealt to the Danes that day. Her heart stuttered, and it hadn’t ever occurred to her before, that the Danes that died that day might have had families of their own. That it wasn’t just warriors buried in a mass grave, but wives and mothers too.

“None of us know exactly what happened,” Cassian continued, his eyes piercing, holding Nesta in place. “Only that the Saxons killed so many of us, and didn’t think to spare those that hadn’t raised a blade.” He looked away. Shook his head. “For so long I waited for news of her. I was still a boy, but every day I would wait at the docks for a ship to come in from these shores. Every day I hoped that someone aboard would have had word from her. It wasn’t until months later that I heard of the battle— heard of her death.”

He paused.

“I hated Saxons for a long time, after that.”

Nesta was silent. Guilt that was not her own coated her throat until she didn’t think she could speak, and it made sense, that he’d despise her people, detest this land, and yet here he was, here he had been all this time, so beautifully optimistic about the peace that Alfred had agreed with Rhysand.

“What changed?”

He shrugged. Leaned back. “I killed a lot of Saxons back then, sweetheart.” He said it so smoothly, so calmly, like it was nothing but plain fact. “I had my revenge. But through it all I knew that she had wanted me to build a life here, and I didn’t think she would want me to continue slaughtering every Saxon I came across. So when Rhys decided to settle for good on these shores… In some way, I knew it was what she wanted.” A sad sort of smile curved his lips. “And she was always more forgiving than me, anyway.”

Nesta couldn’t help but echo that small smile, and as she watched his face brightened, a hint of that familiar mischief creeping back into his features as those beautiful, brilliant hazel eyes flared.

“I think she would have approved of you,” he said.

“I am a married woman, Cassian,” Nesta countered.

Cassian only snorted. “And yet here you are, in my bed.”She rolled her eyes. “God save me.” He laughed, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. And Nesta felt warmth spread in her chest, like this moment was one she wanted to keep. Here, in a Norseman’s bed, she thought she might finally understand what happiness felt like, what it could feel like, when the man one shared a life with wasn’t a hateful swine.

But then, as though the silence and the peace had only ever been transitory—

A sharp knock sounded on the door, loud enough to send a jolt through her entire body, still perched on the edge of the mattress, and neither she nor the Dane behind her had the time to react as whoever was on the other side of that door simply walked straight in, strides heavy and purposeful as—

“The gods have thrown us a bone, it seems,” Rhysand began grandly, his head down as he straightened the sleeves of his tunic, crossing the floor of Cassian’s bedchamber with ease and confidence, like he owned it, like he’d done so a thousand times. Oblivious to the way Nesta stilled; to the way Cassian seemed to be holding his breath.

And then the lord lifted his chin— saw for the first time the scene before him.

Rhysand stopped dead.

The rest of his words were cut off in his throat, a strangled sound swallowed as his face darkened. Sharp, his eyes shot immediately to the furs on the bed, still lying in a haphazard pile. To Cassian’s hair, mussed, and the bare skin of his chest, where tiny crescent moons still lingered, the size and shape of Nesta’s nails. Something like anger simmered in his face, twisting the fine lines of him into something altogether more intimidating.

“Well,” he said curtly, his eyes shuttered as he glanced at her, at the creases in her dress and the elaborate braid in her hair. “Seems I was mistaken.”

Through gritted teeth he spoke, and as he turned his attention to the Dane in the bed - who made no move to rise, like it perturbed him little, being discovered in such a state of undress - his violet eyes flashed with fury, and his scowl deepened as he huffed a sharp breath, one that seemed to saw out of him as his jaw tightened.

“Scouts on the walls spotted Azriel’s horse,” he said coldly. “You’re needed in the hall.”

He paused, his brows lowering over narrowed eyes as he looked Nesta’s way once again, taking in the evidence of the night before, and she knew there was no way to pretend that she hadn’t spent the night in his brother’s bed. Mortification crawled along her skin, her throat tight as she looked sideways, caught Cassian’s eye and wondered if he was just as undone by this as she was.

But the Dane only smirked a little, and rose languorous from his bed like a cat that had spent hours basking in the sun.

Rhysand’s face darkened - impossibly - further. He shot another glare Nesta’s way before plucking up a discarded pair of breeches and tossing them at his brother with no small degree of displeasure.

“The hall, Cass,” he said as he turned on his heel. “And bring the fucking Saxon, too.”

***

Smoothly, after pulling on his breeches and murmuring a soft give us a moment to Nesta before pressing a swift kiss to her cheek, Cassian slipped out of his bedchamber, only to find his brother waiting, murderous, in the hallway.

Thunder flashed in Rhys’ features, enough to make even Thor tremble, and if Cassian had been a weaker man, he might have shirked from the wrath in his brother’s gaze— might have waited for the swing of an axe. But Cassian only blinked in wry amusement, plucking at the collar of his tunic and straightening the neckline until he looked a little less like he’d just rolled out of bed, freshly-fucked.

Even in the face of Rhys’ encompassing anger, Cassian couldn’t fight the way his lip quirked at the thought. At the memory it brought, of Nesta’s hands in his hair the night before, her nails dragging down his chest, leaving marks behind.

Odin’s teeth, she was a fucking marvel.

“Would it kill you,” Rhys said quietly, his voice little more than a growl as his lips flattened into a thin, furious line, “to do as I ask, just once?”

Cassian canted his head to the side, a display of perfect, manufactured innocence as he smothered a gleeful smirk. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, brother.”

Rhys’ violet eyes sparked with fury, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Did I not specifically instruct,” he said, his voice a lethal whisper, as sharp as a blade and just as poised to cut, “that there was to be no in-fighting whilst the Saxons were here?”

“Saxons left days ago.”

Pointedly, Rhys looked at the door Cassian had just closed behind him. His lip curled in a sneer. “Not all of them.”

With a wry smirk and a raised brow, Cassian inclined his head and folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the wall and tipping back his head. Exposing his throat, like he was all but daring his brother to level a blow. A blatant display of Cassian’s blatant refusal to be cowed.

“She doesn’t count.”

“Like fuck she doesn’t count, Cassian,” Rhys seethed, hardly bothering to lower his voice this time, instead letting his dulcet tones carry down the narrow hallway. Thunder gathered in his eyes, his jaw tight, and oh, Cassian hadn’t seen him this furious since the incident with the blacksmith’s daughter. “I ordered you to stand down with Kallon, and I told you to stay away from that fucking Saxon. Do you have any idea what kind of trouble you’ll bring to our door with this?”

“With what?” Cassian asked smoothly, letting the smirk on his lips spread, even as it fanned the fires of his brother’s temper. With a soft exhale he flicked his eyes to the ceiling before bringing them back down to his lord, his oldest friend, his brother in every way that mattered. “Pick your quarrel, Rhys. Is this about killing Kallon, or the woman in my bed? Because you should know that I regret neither.”

Rhys’ eyes narrowed, his brows lowered until Cassian wondered if he ought to retrieve his seax from his room; if they weren’t about to take it outside and fight it out the way they did across the sea.

“Oh, I know you don’t. And therein lies the problem, doesn’t it?” Rhys hissed. “Need I remind you - again - that the woman I just found in your fucking bed is wed to a man who has the ear of the king? The king we are supposed to be at peace with?”

Cassian snorted. “We have never been at peace and you know it.”

His mind flitted back to the attack on the abbey— to Azriel, even now riding hard for Rhys’ hall, bearing news that Cassian suspected would confirm what he’d thought since the report of the attack first arrived. The peace was a smokescreen; as fragile and as transparent as glass.

“No. We weren’t.”

From the other end of the narrow corridor, footsteps sounded. A voice, weary and grim, and in tandem both Cassian and Rhys turned their heads to find Azriel striding towards them, still in his travel cloak and mud-spattered boots, as if Cassian’s thoughts alone had summoned him. His brother’s face was bleak, his scarred hands holding tight to the pommel of the blade buckled at his hip, and as he closed the distance between them, Cassian could tell immediately that whatever it was his brother had discovered, it had cut the throat of whatever tentative peace Rhys thought he’d agreed with the Saxons.

Rhys sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “I asked you to bring me proof. Did you?”

Azriel let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. His lips pressed together. “Something like that.”

His fingers flexed around the blade, and Cassian noted a small bruise blooming at his brother’s cheekbone, small and round, curiously similar to the end of a candlestick holder. Shadows hung heavy beneath his eyes, like sleep had evaded him for all of the nights he had been away, and a muscle twitched in his jaw that said the journey had been far from smooth.

Cassian quirked a brow. “Good hunting, brother?”

Something flickered across Azriel’s eyes, then. There and gone in an instant, but it was a look Cassian couldn’t decipher. Rhys swore under his breath, muttering low as he shot Cassian a final, furious look.

“You’re not off the hook,” he warned. “Not for Kallon, and certainly not for…” He gestured towards the door with a flick of a single elegant hand. “This.”

Without another word, Rhys turned on his heel and stormed down the hall, with nothing but a meet me in the hall barked over his shoulder. When he was gone, Az looked sidelong at Cassian.

“So,” he said dryly, “what did I miss?”

—

Seems unusual to me – before she posted one new picture at least every week and wrote a quote from a book or just something funny beneath it.

I also found out that she went to high school in the farest corner of Illyria and started to go to college in Velaris but there is no sign of her graduating from it. Seems fishy to me. She’s a clever girl and her subjects were impressive. Every time I look into her eyes I see how fast the gears are turning inside of her head. Something must have happened that changed her life. Maybe an accident? But there were no traces on her body that she had a fracture. There are no scars, just one on her lower lip. I always wondered how she got that.

Also, no pictures with a boyfriend. If she broke up with him, she would have deleted it, that’s for sure. But there also aren't any comments from guys under the pics. I hack into her account to read the messages. Nothing out of the ordinary. But there is one that concerns me right at the end. She wrote to one of her friends that she’ll be moving out of Velaris and needs some distance. But from what? The life she had I saw on her roll is one that every girl wishes to have. Her friend, Liza, texted her every now and then, asking how she was doing but YN was radio silent. I write down Liza’s number and add it to my notebook. I’ll contact her later under a preface and ask her if she knows anything about what happened to my YN. 

I take a sip of the whisky as the image of her flinching away from me makes my toes curl. Someone hurt her and I’m going to find out who. Clearly, it's not her dad. Otherwise she wouldn't have nice pictures of the two of them on her sm. But whoever he is, he’s next on my list. My mind is racing with scenarios of what might have happened to her. Did someone take advantage of her? My blood boils. I’m no step further and I slam my laptop shut. 

The last swing I take from my drink burns on my lips. I’ll have to interrogate her for answers.

THE PREY

The following two weeks Mask came every other day. Sometimes, he surprised me while I was in the shower or sneaked in while I was cooking. Other days he just stood in my bedroom already waiting for me, his arms crossed with his backpack at his feet. When I walk down the street now, looking at any kind of backpack makes me wet and I clench my thighs – it drives me nuts, having a damp spot in my underwear all the time.

But no matter how his methods had changed one thing did not. He’s still intimidating as fuck. That’s also why I follow his every command. By now I know that it will bring me nothing but a face fuck or spanking my ass raw if I disobey him. But there’s a part of me that gets turned on by that. Maybe I should talk to someone about that masochistic streak.

I was always better with rewards. He found out that he could get anything from me by praising me and calling me his ‘good girl’. He made me his bitch. Literally.

The different kinds of ropes he tied me up into a ball with was an experience I’ve never had before. He bound me down and fucked me on the bathroom counter. He used an open mouth gag to fuck my throat so hard that my mouth was sore for three days. Another night, he had my hands shackled behind my back as he laid me onto the sofa and lapped on me like a starved man before fucking my brains out. In a way he got rougher and softer at the same time. After he made me beg to be fucked by him, he did just that until he was satisfied and I was a sobbing mess, then put me in the tub with nice hot water and washed me before he laid me down on the mattress and was leaving again in the middle of the night.

I wake up with a sore body and stumble sleep-drunken into the living room. Every morning after having life changing sex with Mask I find a new gift of his neatly wrapped and brand new on my dining table. There it is again - a red box with a bow on top. 

My fingers grab the box to unwrap it. It nearly slips out of my hands. A silk mask for my eyes with a note to behave the next time he would see me. The beat of my heart hammers against my pulse point. I’m excited about what he would do to me.

I make my bed but instead of putting the silk in the box he got me for the toys, I place it on my pillow, so he’ll see it easily. 

Then I unfold the note and read his message. 

Take a look in your fridge

Oh god. My mind races with possibilities of what he hid in there. Maybe a plug made of ice? But then he would have written ‘freezer’. I race over there, the milk and ketchup rattle as I swing the fridge door open

It’s…cake.

A huge piece of chocolate cake with pink glaze is sitting on the fogged glass. I pull it out and see the note that was hidden behind it. 

Have some dessert for breakfast, little bunny

A wide smile stretches my face as I grab a fork and dig in. It’s delicious. My cheeks hurt from smiling and chewing at the same time. It’s been more than a year that I had a piece of cake and I’ve never had one that tasted that good. 

My heart drops, because I feel like I missed out on too much those past twenty four months.

I push the thoughts beside and replace it with the image of Mask going into a bakery and buying the cake for me. It’s such a sincere gesture. It feels so…domestic. My heart jumps at the thought that the tough Mask did such a lovely thing for me. I fetch the cell he gave me and take a selfie of me and the half eaten cake before typing my message and press send.

Thanks for this. x

He reads it a couple of seconds later and three little dots appear while he’s answering.

Eat everything. You’ll need the energy

My clit sparks and goosebumps prickle over my skin as I read his text. I can’t wait to see him tonight.

The first month in my new life is over and so much has changed. Now I’m rarely looking over my shoulder, I reckon my ex-boyfriend has forgotten me and got on with his life. But either way I won't print a life size-banner and throw a party that I’m free now because I still do not want to be found by him. I want this chapter of my life to stay dormant.

 I also think Mask would punish him if he ever tries to come near me again. The emotion of freedom and the threat of having a stalker overlaps completely. And he takes care of me. Oftentimes I feel him watching me when I work, go grocery shopping or sit on my favorite bench at the park reading my book. It’s crazy how I kind of feel more at peace, knowing he might be near – He’s the only thing I have to fear right now and that he only would hurt me with pleasure. The way he puts me on a leash gives me a freedom I’ve never felt before.

Also, I received my first paycheck and I decided to make my home more cozy. 

I went to the store and bought some nice candles. My apartment will be smelling like a fruit basket in no time. I also got some new bedsheets, lamp shades, bath bombs and some paint. I was so fed up with the murky green on the walls, instead I got my favorite color. 

To wait until tomorrow to start painting on my free day drives me up the walls. The need to redecorate my home becomes too big, having all that nice stuff now. So, I move the few pieces of furniture I have to the middle of the room and start to roll the new color onto the walls. The first stroke is like I’ve got a piece of myself back. Now I’m in control again and I can do whatever the fuck I want. I blink away the memories of my ex regulating everything about my life – clothes, food and my weight, forbidding having friends and restricting talking freely to my dad over the phone…his phone.

That first splotch of paint was just the beginning. I had no idea how to paint a wall so I only noticed halfway through that I was too short to reach the ceiling, not even when I stood on the shaky dining table.

Shit. Only ten minutes until my shift at the pub starts. And I look like a mess. Colorful paint all over my clothes and on my face and hands. I take the quickest shower ever but still I can make out the faintest dots on my face when I take a look close enough to the mirror. I grab my purse and rush out down the street, running into a solid wall of muscles. 

The impact has me bouncing back but two warm and large hands get hold of my upper arms. My eyes shoot around and I begin to ramble before I can see who caught me. “Fucking idiot. You should look where you were–” I look up into a set of glistening eyes that are common around here in Illyria. “–going.” I stammer as Cassian grins at me.

He’s the last person that I want to see right now. I want to rush past him but the set of freckles on his tanned skin is keeping me prisoner. They’re peppered all over his once-broken nose and he looks stunning in the daylight. His wet hair is in a bun, small drops of water are dripping down. The seams of his shirt are aching against the muscles of his pecs and his shoulders and the smile he wore would have any woman drop to her knees. 

But not me. I know what an asshole he is. He’s handsome beyond measure but he’s equally rude and arrogant. I’m wondering if any woman could tolerate him more than five hours (minus fucking, of course). Probably none. That’s why he’s in the pub constantly and I’ve never seen him getting home with a girl. 

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re running into my arms like you can't stay away from me.

I roll my eyes and scowl, brushing past him. “Get out of my way, bad boy. I’m late.”

His chuckle sends a shiver directly into my pussy. “Bat boy? That’s Captain Bat Boy to you.”

I laugh over my shoulder. “Captain of being annoying, maybe.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll drop by later. You can spill ale on me again—accidentally, of course.” I hear his smirk in his voice as he calls from behind me. It happened two days ago. I was hurrying through the pub and I tripped over the damned wave in the carpet, resulting in a beer-drenched Cassian. The image of his rippled muscles under the soaked fabric reminded me of a wet t-shirt contest. I clench my thighs so hard together that I forget how to walk for a couple of seconds.

Without turning around I mock him. “Keep talking and I’ll make it wine this time. Red.”

I ignore his laugh as I rush down the streets and through the open pub door. Feyre’s hair looks like a ferret built its nest in there as she draws stout after stout from the tab. With ease I throw my purse into the back room, change into another shirt and pull the little apron tight around my waist before swinging past her and start taking orders from the folks.

Everybody was celebrating the warmth of the day and I delivered dozens of pitchers to the tables. When the sun dipped behind the mountain range the guests left earlier than usual and the atmosphere became quiet. Cassian told me he’d drop by but I haven't seen him coming in and demanding his ale. I don't know why but it kind of concerns me. He seems to be a man that stays true to his words. Maybe something work related came up... Why do I even care? I don't even like him!

The next shift arrives and Feyre decides to send me home early. Normally I would stay for the extra money but I'm excited to have a few more hours to work in my apartment. 

“Fucking shit.” I curse when the keys slip out of my hand for the second time. I bow to them from the ground and attempt to push them into the keyhole again when the door of the house swings open. 

“Oh hello, dear.” My neighbour chimes with a genuine smile.

“Hi, Mrs. Peterson. How’re you doing?” I smile at the lady, holding the door open for her to prance out with her little dog that barely reaches my shins. 

“Same old, same old.” She says and I can’t peel my eyes from her perfect lined lipstick on her thinning lips. She’s about 100 years old but she keeps herself more than groomed. Always has a fancy hat on, a nice coat with brooch fitting her mood and colorful pumps. Her dog ‘Lady’ has a clip on her head, to keep the strands of brown fur out of her milky eyes. Mrs. Peterson is the nicest person I’ve ever met. She was the only neighbor that introduced herself and pinched my cheek telling me that she once was as beautiful as I was in her golden times. Then she placed her famous apple pie in my arms as a gift and ran her hands up and down my arms telling me ‘You’re too thin my dear. You’ve got to eat something’. It was two days after I escaped my ex and her warm pie was the first thing I ate after 48 hours. It was delicious.

“Have a nice evening with Lady.” I say as I’m about to walk up the stairs. 

“Oh, YN. I have to say your boyfriend is a saint.” Mrs. Peterson sings and I turn on my heel, shoked.

"B-boyfriend?" A cold shower rushes down my spine and my eyes go wide.

“Yes, dear. He carried my shopping bags up the stairs when he saw that I struggled. After that he hauled up piles of wooden planks and all sorts of tools up into your apartment. There’s been all kinds of noises all day long, sawing, drilling, hammering and anything in between..”

“What did he look like?” I ask her without even thinking about it. My mind runs with possibilities at who she means. Did my ex find me? Is he waiting for me in my apartment? Has he built a soundproof dungeon in my living room to keep me there?

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Her cheeks redden instantly and she clutches her pearls, chuckling like a schoolgirl. “You’ve got quite a catch there.” She chimes and lets the door fall shut before she strolls off. 

I stand frozen in the hallway of our multi-party house. Who is up there in my flat? Why would they talk to Mrs. Peterson and help her with her groceries? Probably for leverage on me, to blackmail me or else they would do something to her or her beloved dog. 

Before the panic attack can settle in I take three deep breaths. I don’t want to be that weak girl ever again. The cage he put me in had become too small for me now. I wouldnt let that fucker dictate my life anymore and I square my shoulders. My hand dives into my purse and I tap in the number that has the police on speed dial – just to be sure. After all, I have no idea what’s going to happen once I open the door to my apartment. 

I storm up the stairs and unlock my door, swinging it open with force as I frantically stare around my apartment. It’s eerily still and there is no one there. 

“Hello?” I call out and unglue my hand from the doorknob. My palms are sweaty and my hackles stand.

Fear sets in as I stay like a statue in the middle of my home, just before a hand slaps over my mouth from behind. “Don’t make a sound.”

THE HUNTER

I have her stripped naked in no time and strapped to a chair not even five minutes after she came home early. Fuck I wanted so suprise her with all of that. Instead I had to blindfold and cuff her. 

Now she’s sitting with her hands behind her back and her legs wide open tied up to each leg of the chair while her hip is on the verge of slipping from the edge.

I slapped her inner thighs and tits with my doubled belt for coming home early and I watched her getting wetter with every hit she took. When her pussy was ready, I inserted a vibrator egg into her and told her to count for me. She took a sharp inhale as I started it on the app on my phone and her mouth fell open in bliss. Her head fell back as she rocked the chair with her climax. When she came down, I kneeled before her and kissed her cheek tenderly. “Now you’re going to count.”

“C-count?” she asked in a sweet voice, still out of breath. My girl is confused. It’s cute.

I opened the sharpie and put a vertical line on her chest. I smirk as I stand up straight again. “You’re going to count your orgasms for me.”

My fingers glide over the glass of my cell and the music fills her apartment so loud that she can’t hear what I’m doing. While she’s marinating with the vibrator egg inside of her, I can go back to work. 

When I came here today I had other plans for her but when I saw that she painted the bottom half of her bedroom I couldn't help but smile. My little bunny wanted to get comfortable but she was too short to reach the ceiling. Seems that she needs her saviour once more. 

I began to unload the wood from my truck when her chubby-cheeked-dinosaur-neighbour Mrs.-I-Don't-Care began to spam-talk to me in the hallway. I wanted to seem natural to her so I played the good boyfriend, choked on dry cherry cake in her flat, had a heart attack from her overbrew coffee and nodded to her dumb ideas of who will win the next election. I practically fled and got back to work.

Paint drops are clinging to my hair and my hands as I smile at my accomplishment. I swipe the seat from my forehead and go check on her, grabing the mask and pull it over my face, just to be sure. She’s blindfolded but you can't be too careful. She’s been thrashing in her chair from the orgasms and her head is lolled to the side as she pants for air.

My calloused fingers tilt her head up and I look at her blindfolded face. I could swear her lips look ten times bigger now and the only thought I have is how they would taste against mine. But I restrain. “How many?” I ask in a stern tone.

“F-four.” She trembles. 

I pull the sharpie out of my pants and draw four straight lines on her bare chest. Her nipples are hard and her skin is so hot I’m wondering if she has a fever. If I'd touch her now, I won't be able to stop. 

“Now, be a good girl and go on counting. I’ll be with you in a bit.” She whines between her laboured breaths and I take a step back. She looks absolutely stunning and I have a boner again. I’ll finish the final touches until I will allow myself to devour her. 

The rest of the painting doesn't take long. I pull the tape from the baseboards and move the bed I designed to its place. My eye catches the stuck drawer of her dresser and I make quick work and repair it. I spread some oil on the metal and now it shuts completely - brand new. The lampshades are next. It’s coming together. 

Her moans echo over the music and I peek around the corner to see her climaxing again. I smile to myself and take a quick shower. I like it dirty but I don't want her new bed linens to be ruined with the paint that's littering my body. 

I throw the towel in the hamper after I dried my body off and catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I almost forget to put the mask back on. I’ve become so accustomed to being around her. The comfort she gives me drives me up the walls. I can't let my guard down.

“Tell me, bunny.” I ask her and tilt up her chin. 

“T-two more.” Her voice shakes and her body tenses as my breath fans over her skin. I move the pen over her skin and cross the first four streaks before I draw another one next to them. The vibration is off by a swipe on my cell and I pull the egg out and throw it behind her. We won’t be needing this anymore tonight. 

I slide the silk from her eyes. She blinks a couple of times, adjusting her sight to the dim light of her apartment. I cut the tape I tied her down with and pull her up gently, keeping her safe in my arms. Her legs are shaking but I hold her tight. I gaze into her pretty face, her cheeks are flushed and her pupils dilated. She feels so hot against my body as she melts into me. “You’re so beautiful.” The words slip from my lips too easily. Fuck. She’s got me wrapped around her finger. 

Her nostrils flare and she turns her head around, then her whole body. I keep my hands around her middle, still not sure if her knees would give in. She’s been sitting in that chair for too long. 

Her hands fly over her mouth with a soundless gasp as she takes her rooms in. She’s having trouble comprehending what I’ve done. I’ve had enough of fucking her on the chipped counters and the dingy sofa. The mattress on the floor had become non-negotiable. I’m not getting younger and she’s worth fucking her on a real bed. So, I built her one. thick wooden posts and a massive frame. For god's sake she could tie me to the beams and they wouldn't move an inch. 

Her breath catches in her throat as she looks around. Then she turns in my arms and gazes up at me. My heart skips a beat as her eyes line up with tears that are not because I made her come six times without even touching her. 

“You- you painted my whole apartment? And you built a bed? For me? H-how did you do that?” The cutest frown creases her brows and confusion laces her voice. She looks at me like I’ve hung the stars in the sky. Before I can say something sassy her arms fly around my shoulders and she practically jumps on me. One hand slides across her back and the other one holds her glorious ass, pulling her closer. 

Fuck she feels so good against me. And her unbelieving words clouds senses. The surprise was a success and I smile like an idiot, breathing in the smell of her hair.

"Thank you." She whispers, tightening the grip and nuzzles her head in the crook of my neck. I could stay like this forever. 

What? No! Not happening. She’s mine – not the other way around. I scold myself for letting her in so easily. I tell myself that I have her right where I want her. Weak for me and in my arms. Or is it the other way around? I can't let her have the upper hand. 

I’m in charge here. 

I keep her in my arms as I step over to the bed and throw her onto the mattress. A yelp escapes her lips and she rebounces on it while I’m kneeling on the bed a second later. Still weak from her time being tied to the chair, I grab her hands and pin them down above her head. 

Usually I would tell her what to do but I don't trust my words now. Instead I lean down and bite into her flesh through the mask, right where I painted the orgasm count on her chest. Her lungs fill with air at the contact and I move downward. I open my mouth wide to suck her tit into my mouth and bite down hard on her peaked nipple. The fabric protects it from drawing blood and she moans as the hormone cocktail floods her body after I release her sensitive skin. 

She’s panting heavily  again. It’s my favorite song. I push myself up, releasing her hands. “Turn around. On your hands and knees. Now.” I slap her thigh for good measure and I make sure to leave my hand print there. 

I unclasp my belt and make quick work to loop it around her neck, pulling it taut but not restricting her air, yet. Leaning back, I suck in air, completely in awe with the sight before me. “You look divine, little bunny.” I tell her, pulling on the makeshift leash and she moans while her head falls into the pillows. 

My hand drives over her thighs and bare ass. I consider tattooing or branding my name onto that. It’s mine after all. I slap her ass and she whimpers lustfully at the contact while shoving her hips back into my crotch.

“You want that cock?” I ask her teasingly, grinding the tent against her. I could explode right now. She mumbles unintelligible words into the pillows and I take my end of the belt and smack the leather on her hip. “Use your words, little bunny. Do you want that cock?”

She stiffens at my threatening voice but nods eagerly. “Yes, please.”

I smack the other side. “Please what?” I warn her. She’s so weak from the orgasm parade she had while tied to that chair. I have her right where I want her. My plan is set in place. 

A hiss rolls over her lips before she whines. “Please, I want your cock.”

“Where do you want it? I want you to say it.” I let some inches of the belt slip out of my hand to give her more air to answer.

“In my pussy, please.” She rocks back into me as she pleads. I growl and rub big circles over his raw skin. “That’s my good girl.”

My pants are zipped open and my cock springs free, he’s thick, angry and leaking. I grab my member and smear that precum all over her ass cheeks, writing ‘Mask’ with it. I fumble for the polaroid camera and the flash illuminates her body a second later. Then I position my cock on her entrance and pull her leash tight. I give her just the tip. Her head shots up by the jerky movement and she gasps. “Please, Mask.”

Her eyes roll back into her head as the name she gave me falls from her lips. I can’t deny her anymore. My dick pushes against her folds and I let go of it, positioning my hands on her hips, one still holding the end of the belt. “Now, push back on me, bunny. Show me how much you want that cock.” I encourage her with a dark voice.

She wiggles her hips and whimpers as she feels the length entering. Her eyes fall closed as she slowly pushes her hips to mine. She’s swallowing inch after inch like a champ, even when tears build in her eyes. My cock is on the larger side of big and she likes the pain. It's a win-win situation. 

She gasps when her ass meets my hips, I’m fully into her and she feels perfect. “Fuck, you’re so tight around me.” It pulsates and I feel her clenching down on me. I bite my lip, creating another kind of tension that prevents me from spilling into her right away. She has so much power over me again and I hate that I like it. 

I haul my hand back and slap it on her ass, the waves riding up her reddened skin. “Move, baby.”

She moans as dopamine rushes through her a couple of seconds later and begins to pound against me at an easy pace.

I pull harshly on the leather and restrict her air completely, pulling her up so her back is against my front. “Is that how you show your gratitude to your man?” I growl into her ear before biting her shoulder, leaving my mark. 

I throw her down again and she begins to rock against me faster.

My head falls back. I begin to pummel into her, meeting her halfway. After all, this isn't a punishment. I want something from her and she’ll give it to me. 

I play with her for a couple of minutes, hitting her thighs, grabbing on her waist and hips until I’m sure they would bruise. She becomes a whining and sobbing mess, her hair sprawled out on the linens. There are no thoughts inside of her head except pleasuring me and herself on my cock. I can feel her next climax building, she dripping with cum and her legs are drenched.

I can start now. 

“Why did you stop?” I hiss through gritted teeth, but she only answers with a moaned, “What?”

“Your social media. Two years ago. Silence since then.” I’m angry that she keeps secrets from me and I grip her tighter, growling. “Why?”

She’s breathing heavily and pants. “I- I wanted something different.”

She’s deflecting the answer. I hit her ass again. It glows in red and is puffy from the slaps before. “You used to post all the time. Pictures of your favorite cafés, stupid memes about not sleeping during exam week.” My eyes fixate on her face, hoping that I can read her thoughts.”Then. You. Vanished.” I tell her with every pump.

“I was exhausted,” she cries into the pillow, “Burnt out. Needed a reset.”

My eyes narrow and I don't respond right away. “The last photo you posted…you looked different.” I tell her and veil my concern with anger. “You were so thin. You didn't look like my little bunny at all.”

Her body goes slack and she’s so close to climaxing, I decide to go at a harder pace to press for answers. Hoping she’s too distracted to collect her thoughts. 

“Wasn’t eating r-right,” She mumbles and moans. “S-stress. I’m fine now.”

I exhale through my nose, not satisfied by her answer. But I’m determined to fuck it out of her. “What happened, YN?” My voice is sharp. I use her name as leverage to keep her threatened. 

She shakes her head gently, swimming in hormones, her voice is merely a whisper. “I just wanted to be free.” Tears run down her cheeks and her pussy pulses down on my cock. She’s seconds away from coming. I’m too.

I clench my jaw. The wall she built is solid. She isn't lying. But she isnt telling the truth either. Not all of it. I decide to let it go for now. I’ll make her tell me soon enough. I back off for now and reward her for the small answers she gave me.

“I want you to come on this cock, bunny. Right fucking now.” I growl and drive deeper into her like it would magically spill her secrets.

She screams and I restrain myself from catching her voice with my hand as she comes for the final time tonight. The sounds she makes for me are heavenly and I lose myself in her. Her walls grip me so hard it pushes me over the edge, too. I roar as she milks me. Her moans ebb down and I unfasten the belt around her neck, throwing it off the bed. 

I collapse onto her and we fall into the soft mattress. My whole weight is on her and I can feel her heart racing beneath me. We stay like that until her orgasm is ridden out and small whimpers fall from her lips.

My hand tightens around her middle and I turn us around until she’s pressed neatly into my side. I’m lying on my back and her head rests on my heaving chest. One arm slung around her frame and the other brushes her hair out of her pretty face.

My hand traces the red parallel streaks around her neck. They’ll be gone by tomorrow. I don’t want to get her into the uncomfortable situation where she had to explain to her colleagues why she was wearing a tight collar. This will remain our secret after all. I won't be sharing the memories of our intimacy with anyone.

Her eyes flutter shut while our breathing evens out soon. I trace her heated skin softly with my fingers.

Her hand comes up to my chest and her fingers slowly foxtrott over my pecs. “Thank you.” she mumbles, drifting to sleep with every second.

I breathe a grunt instead of questioning her with words. Luring her to explain further. 

“Thanks for today. For the cake. I haven't eaten something so good in a long time. Thank you for helping me with the paint. And thank you for the bed.”

I exhale at her sincere words but my mine catch in my chest.

“Thank you for being there for me.” she whispers just before her poultry lips part slightly and she’s deep into sleep.

Her words sting in my heart. They mean more than she tells me. When I saw that last picture of her, she looked so fragile. I want her to get back to the comfort weight she had before. Everyone likes cake, I just wanted to cheer her up. The thought of her going even a month without something as simple as a baked good makes my pulse race again. Hasn't she gotten cake in those two years where she was gone?

I want to tell myself that painting her apartment was an act out of pity but who am I lying to? I rewinded the camera feed and saw her struggling. All I wanted was to help her and feel more comfortable in her own four walls. And the bed… I want to tell myself that the sole reason I built it for her is that now I can tie her down and she would never be able to free herself. But the real reason is that I don't want her to sleep on the floor like a stray dog. I don't know entirely what happened to her but she deserves so much more than that. I’m determined to give her everything she needs. 

I throw the blanket over us and pull her closer, before I allow myself to rest and close my eyes just for a second with my bunny in my arms. 

The rumble of an exhaust of a car that hobbles over the cobblestone wakes me. My eyes adjust to the dim light of the sun that’s still hidden behind the mountains. 

Fuck. I never stayed with the girls I fucked. That’s a rule I never broke before. The thought that this is more than just fucking runs though my mind but it doesnt upset me. 

But still, I can’t be around when she wakes up. The mask could slip off and she could see who I really am. I pull the fabric from my face, grab the camera and snap a selfie of us. It’s the first picture of us together and my chest tightens at the thought that we look good together. She’s so beautiful and her soft form is the opposite of me. I want to protect her from any harm.

I bury my nose in her hair, smelling her perfume and our mixed scents, trying to carve it into my memory. I gently slip from the bed, cautiously watching her stirring against the cold air I leave her with instead of my body. She cuddles into the warmth of the sheets and lets out an exhale while she goes on dreaming. I hope it's about me.

I gather my clothes, slip into them and collect the polaroids I took tonight. I store them in the secret pocket of my jacket. Before I leave her apartment I take a last look at her sleeping.

I can’t think straight when she’s in the picture. She’s consuming my mind and everything I am. I want to fool myself and tell myself that I’m controlling her. But actually she’s controlling me. Am I still the hunter or is she haunting me?

tags @ashblooddragons @coffeebooksrain18 @lilah-asteria @donnadiddadog

Two empty glasses sat on the round table in front of him, his fingers curled around another full one. His other arm was wrapped around your waist as you sat on his lap, his hand lazily trailing up and down your thigh. You were sipping your own drink—you were still on your first one, as Cassian had teased you while nursing his third—and your eyes lit with amusement as you laughed at something that Rhysand said. Azriel had a faint smile on his face, a glass held securely in his hand while he leaned back against the booth, an arm draped over the backrest. Mor had already disappeared into the crowd, and Amren was shaking her head like a disappointed mother. The heavy scent of blood coming from her cup mixed with the stink of alcohol and sweat, but no one seemed to care.

When the laughter around the table subsided, Rhys looked over at Cassian with a lazy grin. “Well, tell us, brother,” he drawled, loud enough to be heard over the music. “How does it feel to be half a millennium old?”

Cassian let out a loud whoop, tipping back the rest of his drink before slamming the glass onto the table like it had personally offended him. “Five centuries, and I still look this good.”

“Debatable,” Amren muttered, swirling the dark, viscous liquid in her goblet.

“You wound me, Tiny Ancient One,” Cassian said with a dramatic hand over his heart.

You giggled, twisting slightly on his lap to look at him. “She has a point, though. You might be developing a wrinkle.” You tapped between his brows, where his expression was already furrowing. “Right here.”

“That’s not a wrinkle,” he huffed. “That’s a battle scar. From dealing with Rhys for the last 490 years.”

“Excuse me?” Rhys protested, leaning forward over the table. “If anything, being around me is what’s preserved your youth. I’m a delight.”

Azriel snorted. “You’re a menace. Both of you.”

“Agreed,” you chimed in, raising your glass to clink it lightly with Azriel’s. “To Rhysand, High Lord of chaos and questionable decisions.”

Rhysand gave you a mock-offended look. “That hurts more than—”

But you weren’t done. “And to Cassian,” you went on. “General of hangovers and heroic nonsense.” You kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, babe.”

Unlike Rhys, Cassian grinned as if you had blessed him with the best compliment ever. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer to him and pressing his mouth to yours in a sloppy yet passionate kiss.

Someone scoffed, then Rhysand’s voice cut through the haze that had started taking over Cassian’s mind when your fingers tangled in his hair.

Rhys booed. “Get a room!”

You pulled away with a giggle, but not before Cassian stole one more kiss. With a smirk, he brushed a thumb over your bottom lip to fix your slightly smeared lipstick. You playfully bit his fingertip.

He gave you a look more heated than the whole room, then proceeded to change the subject as if nothing happened. “Speaking of getting a room,” he began, looking at the mass of bodies writhing on the dance floor. “Mor has been gone for an entire song and a half. That usually means she’s either making out with someone… or dragging them into a dance-off.”

Like he hadn't been making out with you till a few moments ago. But that wasn’t the point.

As if summoned by the mention, Mor reappeared, cheeks flushed and grinning from ear to ear. “Both, actually.”

Cassian whooped again. “That’s my girl!”

You gave him a sideways look. “I’m your girl.”

He grinned at you, eyes glassy with drink and affection. “Yes, but she’s my chaos buddy. Big difference.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, drowning the remnants of your drink in one go before standing suddenly and grabbing his hand. “Well, birthday boy, you’ve had enough drinks and way too much confidence. Time to prove you still have moves.”

Cassian blinked up at you, clearly delighted at the thought of showing off. “You want me to dance with you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” You tugged him to his feet. “Before you drink yourself into a coma and try to fight a wall again.”

“It happened once,” Cassian pointed out, staggering slightly as you pulled him toward the dance floor. He had to maneuver his wings to avoid hitting people. “I thought it was looking at me funny.”

Rhys was already laughing, Azriel smirked, and Amren muttered, “This is why I don’t go to parties.”

Mor leaned over with a grin. “This is why I do.” She twirled around in her red dress, then she was gone, swallowed by the throng of people.

Your hand slipped into Cassian’s, and he followed you away from the table and into the crowd. The music seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was the excited screams and laughter of all the people now surrounding him.

His wings were tucked tight, but it was impossible not to bump into someone. Fortunately, it was so crowded and chaotic that nobody was bothered by it. So Cassian stopped worrying about it and tugged you closer.

The song—a fast, energetic tune—echoed in his bones as you pressed up against him and began moving. You ground on him, hips swaying and arms wrapping around his neck. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your dress.

Your lips moved, but Cassian didn't hear a single word over the noise. You had to shout for him to understand.

“Happy birthday, my love!”

Cassian’s grin widened, but he didn’t answer—not with words. He spun you, dragging your back flush to his chest, hands sliding along your hips like he’d done a thousand times before. Like this was just another dance in a long line of nights spent wrapped around each other. Because it was.

The music roared—some pounding mix that sent vibrations straight through the soles of his boots—and the crowd moved like one wild, living thing. Sweat-slicked bodies brushed against you both, heat pulsing from every angle. You moved too

Someone bumped Cassian’s wing and got a muttered curse for it, but then his mouth was at your ear, voice hot and dark.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said, voice barely audible but devastating all the same.

You tilted your head, just enough to look at him over your shoulder. “I haven’t even started.”

And then you really started dancing.

Cassian’s hands gripped tighter, possessive now, guiding the rhythm of your hips against his as a low growl grew in his throat. You moved together like two flames of the same wildfire—untamed, too much yet reaching for more, and perfectly matched. His breath hitched every time you rolled your body back into his, every time your fingertips grazed his chest or trailed up the sweat-dampened skin of his neck.

He was drunk off it—off you, off the bass, off the chaos and the sheer freedom in this cramped corner of Rita’s where nothing mattered but your body pressed against his.

All around you, people danced and laughed and shouted. Glass shattered somewhere nearby. Someone shrieked with delight. Mor appeared and disappeared a few times. Rhys danced at the edge of the floor with a pretty girl he'd just met. But it all blurred at the edges for Cassian, like you’d become the only clear thing in the room.

You spun around to face him, lips brushing his jaw as you whispered something he didn’t catch—didn’t need to. The tone said enough. It was a promise.

Cassian bent his head, his mouth finding your throat, leaving a single, burning kiss. Your fingers clutched at his shirt. One of his hands slid lower, dragging along the curve of your rear, and you shivered against him.

“Let's go get another drink,” he said, breath warm as his mouth trailed up to your ear.

You looked up at him, lips slightly parted and cheeks flushed. Whether it was from the heat and the dancing or his fleeting, teasing touches, he didn't know. But he hoped it was the latter.

A mischievous gleam entered your eyes. Cassian didn't hear what you said, but he was watching your lips so closely that he understood the single word.

“Shots?”

He nodded, a grin curling his lips. He took your hand and led you toward the bar, people stepping aside to make space for his wings. When you reached the counter, the crowd was less thick, and you could breathe something different than other people's sweat or perfume. Like alcohol and bad decisions.

“One round of shots,” you ordered when the bartender looked at you.

Cassian chimed in, “Make it two.”

You turned to him with a raised brow and a half smile. “You sure that's a good idea?”

“Nope,” he replied. He shrugged, then smirked. “But it's my fifth hundred birthday, babe. It's not the time for good ideas.”

You rolled your eyes, but he could see you wanted it too. And when the small glasses were placed in front of you on the sticky counter, you were the one who challenged him.

“Should we see who drinks them faster?”

Cassian grinned. Picked up one glass. And from that moment, everything was just bits and pieces.

Maybe two rounds hadn't been a good idea. Or maybe they had, and the bad idea came with the third one or the drink after that.

Because next thing he knew, Cassian was climbing on a table. The wood creaked dangerously under his weight, but he ignored your protests and your insistent tugs on his hand.

“Cass!” you hissed. “Babe, come down!”

“No!” He pouted like a petulant child who was being scolded. “It's time for my speech!”

His wings spread, knocking over a few glasses scattered on the table and almost hitting Azriel, who had prowled to see what the hell was going on. There were three girls trailing after him. Cassian wasn't sure if they were being delusional or if Azriel was planning to actually go home with one of them. Or maybe all of them. He wouldn't put it past his brother.

“Azzie!” His voice boomed over the music as Cassian pointed to him. “My favorite spy! My favorite Shadowsinger! My favorite brother!”

As if sensing the subtle insult, Rhys appeared beside you, an arm slung over the shoulders of the pretty girl from earlier and a drink in the other hand.

“Rhysie!”

A few people turned to see what was going on. Rhys simply arched a brow.

“My favorite High Lord!” The words were sluggish and slurred, but Cassian was just getting started. “My favorite brother!”

Rhysand turned to you. “Does he know he said favorite brother twice?”

You sighed and tried to reach for Cassian’s hand again. He snatched his hand back and almost fell off the table.

Instead of getting down, Cassian spread his arms as if to hug the whole club. Nobody but a small bunch of people cared. Less than ten people glanced at him.

“I wanted to thank all you who are here tonight,” he began, tone solemn even as his voice was swallowed by the noise. “It means a lot to me that you came for my birthday.”

“Cassian,” you tried again. “I don't think they—”

He cut you off immediately. “Not now, babe. I'm busy.”

“You're drunk,” Azriel countered.

Cassian chuckled. “Hell yeah I am, buddy.”

“Not really something to be proud of,” Rhys shot back.

Mor slipped out of the crowd to watch the show. “Oh, I am loving this!”

Amren was nowhere to be seen. Cassian assumed she was too short to stand out in a crowd as big as his current audience.

“Anyway, if you're done interrupting,” he said with a sharp glare to you and his friends, “I have something important to say.” He addressed the room once more. “I am so grateful to be here tonight! With my brothers and my friends and my family. I wouldn't be the person I am without them!”

Mor wiped away a non-existent tear, a hand over her heart. She might have been just as drunk as he was. Rhys was too focused on the girl as his side, and Azriel watched everything with a mixed expression of exasperation and amusement.

Cassian turned to you. Almost slipped again, but somehow kept his balance.

“I didn't forget you, babe, don't worry!” he shouted, stumbling over the words. “Everyone, look at my girlfriend! How beautiful she is, how smart. And she's mine. All mine. She's the love of my life.” He smiled at you, though it was a bit crooked. “Even when she tries to end my speeches.”

You couldn't hide your smile even as you shook your head. But nobody actually turned to look at you. Cassian didn't notice, too focused on you.

“Oh, and have I mentioned how sexy she is?” he went on. “Sooo sexy. The sexiest.” He chuckled to himself. “I'm going to tell you a story. There was this one time when I came home and I found her wearing nothing but this little piece of deep red satin, and let me tell, I—”

“That's it!” You hurried to the table, grabbing his hand before he could pull back again. “That's it, Cass. Enough. That's personal, and no one wants to hear that anyway.”

Mor, ever the gossip, leaned in closer. “I want to hear that.”

Cassian cheered for her, but you didn't give him time to say another word. You yanked him down and he stumbled heavily, his foot slipping until he was falling.

“Oh, no,” he slurred, but he didn't try to stop it. Just went down like a dead weight.

Azriel was there, catching him and helping you set him back to his feet.

“You should take him home,” he told you.

You nodded, but Cassian whined. “I don't want to go home! It's my birthday!”

He didn't remember your answer. Everything became black again. But he assumed you hadn't taken him home, because somehow you ended up in one of Rita's bathroom stalls. You were bent over the sink, dress hunched around your hips and panties yanked down to your knees while Cassian pistoned into you from behind.

“F-fuck…” you moaned, over and over. You were drunk too now, and the word was almost intelligible.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your waist, the wet squelch of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy filling the small stall. His groans were loud, animalistic, hips snapping against your ass over and over.

Then you were dancing again. Hands and mouths all over each other even amongst the crowd. Whispered words he couldn't hear over the music. The whole world was spinning around him, colors and sounds and faces blending together.

At some point, he drank some more. Then collapsed onto the velvety couch of a booth somewhere, with you sprawled over him like you were lying in your bed instead of a public space. But it wasn't unusual at Rita's, so no one bat an eye at the two of you almost falling asleep right then and there.

Cassian remembered begging you for another quickie in the bathroom. He didn't remember taking off his shirt, but suddenly it was gone. His slick muscles shone with sweat under the lights of the club, and you dragged your tongue across his chest. You licked him—right there, in front of everyone.

“You're drunk,” he chuckled. It was so slurred he didn't know how you understood it.

“You're drunk too,” you giggled. And licked him again.

Cassian only grinned.

He probably wouldn't remember any of it in the morning, but he couldn't care less. He wanted to live in the present and just enjoy the moment—with you, and with all the alcohol running through his veins.

*divider by @saradika-graphics