#vampire!cassian

Fingers trace over your throat, pockmarked with tiny puncture wounds, skin aching around the slightly swollen marks. Memories of the fear and alarm upon feeling those gleaming incisors skating across your neck rush in, the overpowering strength of his hands on your body, shoving your head to the side so he could drink deeper. The hot spill of blood as it dripped down over collar bones, the mad frenzy in previously sharp and clear eyes. He’d seemed utterly undone, at the mercy of his own hunger as he’d fed.

Your pulse spikes in your chest, fear diluting in your lifestream, breathing deepening as you hastily peer around the room. Searching for something that could possibly help keep the beast off of you. It’s a stupid thought, you know that—why would he have the means to his demise so readily available? In his own home, no less. That would be idiotic.

“Sleep well?” A low, silken voice asks, making you scream, flinching back as you snap your head to the doorway. He’d entered on completely silent feet—the door hadn’t even made a sound. “Now, now. There’s no need for that,” he chides soothingly, “you’re alive and well. No need for theatrics.” But your nails are practically tearing at the sheets with how tight you’re gripping them. Something like him—something that drinks the blood of women, relishing in draining away their youth—can be nothing but pure evil. Hell incarnate.

“Stay away from me,” you grit out lowly, back pressed against the plush cushioning of the headboard. “You have no power over me. Let me leave.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you intently, before lowering his head, a mix between a sigh and a laugh huffing from his lips. Raises gleaming violet to pierce into you, as if able to pin you to the bed with a glance alone. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that,” he says amicably, still in that velvety voice of his, like satin brushing teasingly across your skin. “You see, little devil, I have lived centuries in this world. Travelled far and wide, sampled a number of women and men alike, and yet I’ve never once come across a taste quite as exquisite as yours.” Protectively, you raise your palm to your throat, as if blocking the skin from his view may serve a chance for freedom—or undo what he’s already found.

“Because of that,” he continues leisurely, as if he hasn’t turned your life upside down within the span of a breath. “I will be keeping you for myself, here, in my castle. Is everything clear?” You blink, dread sluicing through your veins.

“I’m not— You can’t do that.” You splutter quietly, incredulity and fear drenching your tone in horror. “I’m a living person. You can’t just lock me up. That’s— That’s wrong.” You manage to whisper, too shocked to bellow.

“You don’t have a choice here. Well, not one you’d like,” he muses idly, hands sliding into the pockets of his dark, tailored trousers. “What is it?” You grit out anyway, attempting to conceal your trembling fingers.

The charming smile fades from his elegant mouth, slipping into something blank and unreadable. “Either, you can agree to my generous offer and remain mine in this castle,” he says, voice turning to freezing silk, prowling toward you in the low thunderous light. “Or, I can take my final drink now, and let you pass on into the next world—or rather, into the next half world.” He reaches the edge of the bed, but you’re too terrified to move.

Even as he pulls his hand from the neatly stitched pocket of his dark trousers, you remain still. Petrified, until his icy hand settles on your throat, thumb and index finger pressing to the soft sides beneath your jaw, tilting your head to him. “You should know: I would not be kind if you forced me to turn you,” he murmurs tenderly, leaning over the bed, bracing his forearm against the headboard. “You are quite to my tastes,” he says softly, lowly, “I would hate to see you become a servant, instead of what you could be.”

“And what is that?” You manage to ask shakily, forcefully pushing yourself as deep into the headboard as you can.

Glittering violet briefly scans your features, then the edges of his mouth are curving, dipping down to nose at your throat. Sharp, piercing teeth graze the shell of your ear. “Cared for,” he answers, cold lips brushing the erogenous skin, fingers flexing around your neck. “Desired,” he murmurs softly, dipping lower, skimming the erratic pulse of your life force. “Cherished.”

Incisors scrape, and you flinch, muscles contracting with fear.

He pulls back, staring down at you from not even a breath away.

“So, my dear,” he muses, “what will it be?”

You stare at him, eyes widened, pupils no-doubt dilated with fear. You swallow thickly, overwhelmed by the intensity of him, the heaviness of his presence, the dominating sense of self rolling from his powerful figure. Pulse spikes with the thought him ending your life—would the rightness of thwarting him be worth an eternity of obeying his word? At the mercy of his absolute power?

“You wouldn’t ever taste my blood again if you turned me,” you rasp, trying to force the tremors from your voice. “You’d lose the exact thing you’re trying to gain.” Sharp eyes flash, his jaw working at your brazen answer. “Are you sure you want to test that, little devil?” He asks, voice rougher than before, anger and hunger kindling in his eyes. “I’m offering you a life of comfort and care in exchange for your compliance. Anyone can see you’re gaining much more than I am out of this agreement.”

“Which is exactly why I know you won’t turn me,” you return shakily. “Why give so much for something so unimportant, right?”

A muscle feathers in his jaw, then he’s pushing away from you roughly. “You’re being foolish,” he warns, eyes glittering with hunger. “Maybe I won’t turn you, but I believe you’re somehow forgetting I don’t need your permission to take what I want.” His fingers flex at his sides, shoulders rolling subtly before he’s sliding hands into his pockets. As if to calm the urge to pin you down and drink.

You stiffen in your place. Reconsidering his offer. If you refuse, but he decides to take anyway, where will you be kept? In some subterranean dungeon, left to lie and rot on a damp pallet of hay? Locked in some long-forgotten room, only allowed out when he wants to feed?

Rhysand senses your doubt, honing in on it like the beast he is, able to smell the indecision. “Think about it,” he says calmly, earlier hunger banished, not a trace to be found. “I have some visitors to see to, but will be back this evening for your answer,” he smiles politely, turning for the door but pausing at the threshold. “If you need a reminder of what it feels like…” You could swear his eyes darken with glee at the way your muscles contract, legs pressing together as you remain huddled to the head of the bed.

“Until tonight, then,” he grins, gleaming white teeth glittering in the low light. The door sweeps to a close behind him, leaving you alone with a choice to make. A sense of impending doom weighing in your blood.

————

You have to get out. It’s the only viable solution.

You don’t want to be stuck as a glorified chicken for the rest of your life—used until you’ve grown too old, then devoured entirely. You have no preferable choice, so you’ll have to make your own, and escaping seems like a pretty good idea.

Easing down a breath, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the pale blue cotton of your nightgown swishing softly at bare ankles. Peering around the room, you search for anything that could be used as a weapon against a…whatever he is. Some blood-sucking devil.

The neatly preserved figure of gleaming armour catches your gaze—if a weapon is to be lying about somewhere, surely it would be here? With a spark of hope in your chest, you creep forward on what you hope are quiet feet. Not that you should be too concerned. Despite how silently he can move, the castle seemed intimidating in size, and you doubt he’d be able to pick up footsteps from so much as a corridor away.

Your pulse spikes as you eye the short scabbard wrapped over the waist of the armour, slightly shaky fingers pulling on the string to move it around. There’s a handle poking from it’s top, and your heart stumbles in your chest. With trembling hands, you pull the string loose, tying it instead around your own waist, thumbing the blade free experimentally. It’s so clear you can make out the gleaming wetness to wide, frightened eyes.

Breathing deeply, you return the blade to its new home at your hip, tip-toeing for the door, hoping he will have left it unlocked. Underestimating your drive to keep your own pathing. You will not have choice taken away from you.

The handle turns, and the door swings open on well-oiled hinges.

A cool wave of relief sweeps over you, pulling it open to peer down the long, stretching hallways either side. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary to be found. Except maybe the blood-red carpeting. You should have realised how strange it was, how macabre the whole setup is. Maybe it’s a lovely colour, but not one you slather your entire house in, let alone a whole castle.

Shaking your head, you slip out over the threshold, silently bringing the door to a close at your back, before making your way down the stretching hallway. You move silently, keeping to the edges of the carpeted floor—as if you’d be able to hide from him. In the pale gown, you stick out like freezing blue lips in a rose garden.

Following the path he had taken you to dinner, you manage to relocate the entrance hall, heart beating wildly in your chest, eyes darting left and right frenetically, searching for movement. It’s an open stretch. Once you’re out there, you’ll have to go straight for the door. There’s nowhere to hide yourself once you step out into the hallway.

You take in a steady breath, then step out into the open.

Silently, you make your way as swiftly as possible down the curving case, feet padding softly along the well-polished boards, trying to keep sound to a minimum. The heavy-looking door looms before you, menacingly staring as you approach. Hairs raise at the nape of your neck, but you push away the apprehension, hands shaking as you reach for the knob.

It doesn’t shift.

You try pulling, but nothing.

You twist it harder, using both your hands, but to no avail.

Mentally you curse—you’d hoped it would be unlocked like last time. He’s seemingly taken some precautions, then. You’ll need to find another way out, or maybe the keys… Where would keys be?

They could be anywhere, you realise despairingly, and in a castle this large, you don’t have the time to spend painstakingly searching for them. You’ll have to find another exit. Every home has a backdoor, there must at least be one for the servants he mentioned—there’s no way they’d be allowed entrance through this hall.

“Who are you?”

You scream, jolting away from the voice, turning to find a man at your side—he’d been completely silent, just like Rhysand. You stumble back, hands shaking at your sides as you take in his towering figure. Wearing dark leather, surrounded by the glowing red of the castle, he cuts a terrifying silhouette. With black hair that come to his shoulders, and the eyes that feel like they can pierce straight through bone, you can feel in your blood he’s the same creature as the Lord.

The blade at your hip weighs heavily, but you know from a single look there’s no way you’d be able to do anything with it. You’re more likely to end up slicing yourself open, dripping over the blood-red carpet.

His lips part in an almost wolfish grin as he takes you in properly. “Oh, I see,” he drawls, stepping closer. “You’re one of Rhys’, aren’t you?”

“Please…” you breathe, heat building behind your eyes. “I don’t—…I just want to leave…” Lungs spasm with fear, and his nostrils flare delicately, before taking a step back. The man raises his arms placatingly, exposing his palms in a sign of peace. “I’m not stopping you,” he says lowly, still baring his teeth in a smile.

Your tongue swipes out to wet your lips, staggering a step back hesitantly, then another. Never taking your eyes from his hulking figure.

Your muscles involuntarily contract with soul-deep fear as a blood-curdling snarl rips through the castle’s interiors. A wave of bone-crushing terror smacks into you, like a flash of lightening followed by the roll of thunder as something dark pulses through the building. The man’s smile widens at the sound, turning a little feral. “Better be on your way,” he warns roughly, voice like gravel. “Before the beast catches you.”

Heart pounding, you spin on your feet and run.

You could swear his low chuckle follows on your heels as you sprint from the room, nearly stumbling over your own toes as you pass over carpets and rugs, running through doorways and dodging around rich, plush armchairs and large, heavy instruments. Fire crackles in one room but you have no time for pause, feeling that power closing in no matter how far you run.

Feet slam on the polished wood of floorboards, and you spot an open door down the stretching corridor. Without care for noise, you dart inside, snapping the door to a close, hurriedly taking in your surroundings—it’s a frighteningly large library. Cases of books tower on wide-set shelves, neatly stacked but tightly packed, perfect to hide within.

Not giving it a second thought, you make for the towering furniture, darting between the aisles as quickly and as quietly as possible, keeping your eyes wide for any sign of movement. If you can just wait until you feel this cloying power pass, you can try venturing out again.

You think back over the conversation which must have been in the morning if he said he would return at night. He’d said he’d had guests to see to—that man must have been one of them, but how many are there? Are they all like him? They must be. Unless they bring humans along with them? What if there are more beasts prowling the halls for you now that signal has practically shot lightening into anything capable of breathing within the castle?

“You aren’t supposed to be in here.”

Muscles go taut, stomach tightening as cold dread ices your skin.

You turn rigidly on your heel, coming to face another man, wreathed in darkness. Silky hair gleamed in the low library light, his sharp hazel eyes pinning you to the spot with a single look. You shake your head, managing a single wobbly steps back, before he’s slowly prowling forward, gaze trained on you like he’s finally locked in on his prey.

Turning, you stumble away, running back through the tall cases, now understanding their disadvantage. He can’t see you, but you also can’t see him. Fighting your growing terror, you break from the shelves, running toward a door that will no doubt only lead you deeper into the castle, separate from the one you came in from. But he appears before you in a blur of shadow, and you smack into the stone-like muscle of his chest—utterly freezing, utterly lifeless. Death wreathed in darkness.

You still in your spot, staring up into sharp, predatory eyes with visible terror, vaguely remembering the blade at your hip.

“What are you doing here?” He asks lowly, hands kept casually at his sides, but you don’t doubt he could strike at any moment should the desire take him. “I— Please,” you beg, internally screaming for your body to move, to turn and run from the beast before you clad in the skin of an angel. “Just let me go,” you breathe shakily, stumbling back.

The man watches you silently, coldly. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he says shortly, “either you can obey and I’ll escort you back to your room, or you can make this painful.” Your eyes widen, pressure building quickly, the blade practically searing into your skin. If you comply, you’ll probably be locked up. You’ll never escape, and choice will have been taken from you. But if you fight… Even against something as terrifying as him… It will be on your own terms.

But you’re not a fighter—at least, not in the face of this particular beast. The best you can do it run.

You spin on your heel, turning for the door, but a stone-cold hand has already gripped your shoulder and you cry out in pain. His hold is like ice, stern and unforgiving. “Fine,” he mutters, making to—

“Hold on, Az,” that voice drawls, pure terror slicing through your stomach.

One was impossible enough, but two? There’s no way. You’re going to die.

The man—Az, he’d said—stops, his grip lightening by a fraction. “She’s Rhys’, Cass. We should return her.” Muscle trembles beneath his grip, neck craning to turn to spot the other man at your back, having come in through the hallway. He shrugs nonchalantly, as if the warning gleam in the shadowy one’s eyes doesn’t bother him. “That’s his fault for letting her out,” he drawls, coming to stand closer behind you. Too close.

His hazel eyes drop to yours, that wolfish smile breaking across his lips. “Besides,” he says lowly, “you know he only keeps the good ones around for more than one meal.” The man—Cass—steps closer, hands going to your waist as he lowers to your throat, pulse spiking as he noses along the smooth expanse. “This is it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your skin. “This is what I picked up, Az. She smells so good.” He pulls away, pulling your hair to the side, exposing the bare top of your shoulder and you tense, remembering how little clothing you’re wearing. How unprotective it is. “Go on,” he urges quietly, “give her a try.”

Az narrows his eyes, but relents, curiosity getting the better of him. Spine turns rigid as he dips down, nosing along the column of your throat, feeling the trembling pulse of your life-force beneath his mouth. You hear the sound of him inhaling, scenting your skin, before pulling away. “See?” The man at your back drawls. “I’ve got a good nose for these things. I told you I smelled something delicious.”

“Rhys has good taste,” the other answers flatly, “unlike some people, Cassian.” Still, his eyes remain on your throat for a little too long for your comfort.

Cassian doesn’t seem bothered by the jab, instead raising one of his hands from your hip to trace along the stuttering pulse of your heart, grazing down your neck. “I bet she tastes good,” he murmurs, and you can feel the weight of his gaze alone, hairs prickling beneath its intensity. “Cass,” the man at your front warns, voice low and cold. “She’s Rhys’. He won’t like it if you decide to put your grubby teeth all over her.”

Cassian pays him no mind, and Az’s grip on you tightens, pulling you toward him, aiming to distract the other. “When was the last time you drank?” He asks distastefully. Cassian shrugs again, “I assumed Rhys would provide a meal, and since he has such good taste,” he says pointedly, “I thought I’d enjoy myself.”

Another beastly snarl rips through the halls of the castle, and Cassian muffles a low chuckle. The man before doesn’t seem to find it as funny, the shadows at his back darkening. “What did you do this time, Az?” The man asks, lips curved with mirth.

“You’re the one who said you wanted to slip away,” Az hisses in a flash of canines. That deadly thrum of power intensifies, and you realise it must mean Rhysand is approaching. Whatever Az had done, the illusion’s over. It feels like he’s already right outside the door.

“Are you going to drink, or not?” Cassian asks, rough fingers slipping beneath the neckline of your gown, thumbing at the soft buttons at your front, slowly un-popping them in order to move the fabric out of the way of his teeth. “I don’t want to share Rhys’ meal,” Az says, a note of distaste to his words.

“Why not? It wasn’t a problem a couple of centuries ago,” Cassian drawls, challenge in his tone. “What happened? Spend a few decades fawning over a woman and suddenly all taste for adventure’s gone?” He scoffs, the taunt clear in his deep voice. “You’ve lost your touch, brother. You’re getting soft.”

A warning snarl drags from the other man’s throat, hazel eyes flicking to the door.

But Cassian sees his chance, head dipping down, incisors piercing your throat, biting down and spilling blood. Your lips part in a scream, paralysed as his venom enters your body, making your limbs feel heavy and clunky.

“Cassian,” Az hisses roughly, forcefully ripping him from you. Pain stings through your shoulder and collar bones, the only thing keeping you up being the hand at your hip and the chest at your front. Pressure wells behind your eyes at the ache, blood trickling down your skin. “What’s gotten into you? One scent catches your attention and suddenly centuries of discipline dissolves?” He snarls lowly, aware of the pulsing power that’s filling the room.

Cassian’s silent, but you can feel his body begin to tremble at your back. Fear drenches your skin as his grip tightens on you with the same display of inhumane strength Rhys had shown after his initial bite. Weakly you try to press closer to the man before you, but his attention is now trained on the blood beading at your throat, the puncture wounds already sealing over.

Terrifying hunger fills the dark hazel of his eyes, and you want to shrink away.

“You’ve got to try her, Az,” Cassian rasps at your back, voice low and strained. “Fuck, that’s the best I’ve ever had.” Wide eyes lock with hazel, silent and pleading. You’d take being returned to that room over this easily, no doubt in your mind.

The dark, raging power grows closer, reaching it’s peak. He’s right there.

Az’s lip curls back for a moment, but then he’s forcing the neckline of your gown over your shoulder, tearing at the lovely cotton in favour of piercing his canines into the softness of your neck. Your head tips back, falling into Cassian as your lips part in a soundless scream, rounding into a pained shape as he drinks, his own venom sinking into you.

Already dizziness is taking over you, but then Cassian is curving over you again, mouth parting, incisors sliding back into your skin with a now pleasurable pain. Arms go limp at your sides as their bloodlust wraps around you, completely overpowered by their hunger as hands grip and grope at your skin.

Tears push from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as the ecstasy spins your mind, wickedly turning the pain into something soft and blissful. Making you want them to drink deeper, wanting to have their teeth in you, to put their hands across your body.

Darkness explodes through the room, rage blasting through the soft warmth of lust, pulling you from the jaws of vampiric seduction.

The world tilts a little as they pull away, but without the adrenaline of their venom you feel weak. Like you’re unable to go on.

The last thing you remember is the fierce grip on your hips, the possessive touch over your back and shoulders as icy violet brings the night to its crescendo.

Then everything explodes in glittering black.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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The memory comes back in bursts. Golden hair. Green eyes. A set of dimples almost as startling as the sharp set of fangs he donned. Voice a low rasp that even without compulsion could bring anyone to their knees.

Used to it, is what you are. Selling yourself to make a dime in the city of Starlight, where vampires roam freely, drunk off of lust and well, blood. They crave it like the moon chases the sun, needing it to survive, just as you need the shiny coins lining their pockets for that exact reason. A trade to survive.

You told yourself that you wouldn’t stay here long, fleeing from your home court to find out if the others were any better.

The first time you had ran into one of the creatures of night, you almost hadn’t survived. Just like tonight, the vampire drank and drank, eyes glazed over like they were painted with lechery, his firm hold pinning you to this very chaise had gone soft, pliant like a lover’s as your blood sated the primal urges flashing hot beneath his skin. He was hungry, starving nearly, pupils pinpricks and canines as sharp as the knife stowed in your boot.

The owner of the bloodhouse, Aima, had greeted you with a sinful smile and offered you refuge for the night in exchange for your services. Sleeping with him you could handle, but as he led you to a room with nothing more than a wink, you knew you should’ve kept running.

Even the werewolves weren’t quite as ravenous as the vampires.

Groaning, you manage to force your arms under you, shoving yourself up. Your head spins like a dancer’s twirl, her captivating beauty only one you’d been able to view as a server at the party, silver tray in white-gloved hands, offering fae wine to royals who ignored you completely or glared at you as if the action alone would send you bursting into flames.

It never did though, even as much as you wished it would.

Coins glint in the low light sweeping in from beneath the door. They’re scattered everywhere, running from across the sofa to the floor. One tumbles down the front of your gown as you right yourself. The hungry vampire who paid for your services had either come to his senses when the haze of bloodlust had washed away from his vision, guilt fueling him to toss the payment haphazardly in his haste to leave, or he simply did not care, the only thing stopping him from being able to come back even if he had sucked every drop of your blood dry would be if he didn’t pay. 

They always pay.

It takes you longer than you’d like to collect all of the coins. Your head is dizzy and your breathing is labored as you move sluggishly throughout the room to gather your payment. It takes you two tries to curl your shaking fingers around the first one, appendages colder than the vampires skin themselves, stiff and stinging like needles.

You count, then stuff the few extra coins in your boot, right next to your knife. The rest you’ll leave for Aima. Hopefully you can slip out without him seeing. You huff as your fingertips brush the hilt. Fat lot that it does. You’ve never been able to so much as reach for the weapon, as more powerful vampires can paralyze their prey. Handy for them, very much a danger for yourself.

Your knees buckle as you try to stand but you can’t stay here any longer. Aima will come looking soon, when he either realizes you’re in here alone or when he walks by and doesn’t hear the muffled moans and gasps of the ecstasy that comes with a bite. 

You might only have mere moments, so you lock your legs and twist the doorknob. Your body feels heavy. Sweat already lines your brow just from the effort you’re using to keep your body upright. You lean heavily on the wall as you stumble your way down the familiar halls, legs unable to bear your full weight with the amount of blood you’ve lost tonight.

Close. So close to completely losing your life. You never wanted this for yourself.

The iron door is almost too heavy for you to shove open. You’re sure your shoulders will be the perfect evidence of how you’d shoved your body into the metal, mottled purple, green, and yellow. But not even those colors will take the eyes off of the red holes in your throat.

You don’t live far from the bloodhouse, five blocks at the most in an apartment building that has seen better days, next to a neighbor who drinks and fucks like she has both on retainer.

Even so, it’s yours. You can’t wait to hear the slide of the lock on the door with you on the other side, safe for the night. With the tip the vampire had left you tonight, you wouldn’t have to go back to the bloodhouse for a few days, but with the way that your head pounds and your neck burns like flames, you’ll have to spend all of the extra money you’ve earned on seeing a healer tomorrow, and you’ll continue in this never ending circle of Hel you’ve managed to find yourself in. 

City of Dreamers, what a lie.

You trip over upturned cobblestones. Your knees crack loudly on the ground, echoing through the abandoned streets, and you know the vampires nearby will stir. You can feel your palms tear open on the stones as you try to catch yourself. The last bit of energy expels from your body and you slump to the ground, a breathless lump in the middle of the streets. The bite of your hands is the only thing keeping you from slipping into the warm embrace of darkness yawning a chasm in your mind.

Forcing your eyes open confirms what you’ve thought. Your palms are bleeding and you know without a doubt that one of the creatures lurking in the night will follow like a bloodhound, hungry.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be for you, a wholesome meal for the vampires of the Night Court. Maybe it had been your mistake to flee here, even if the lure of having all your dreams come true was the one thing on your mind. You should’ve gone to Summer or Autumn. Surely sirens and kitsune are better than vampires. Dawn would’ve been ideal but you never would have had enough money to travel all the way to the Lands of the Angels.

A voice cuts through your thoughts like a blade through soft flesh. It’s rough, a strain of confusion as he speaks your name.

“Cassian?” you gasp, blinking away the darkness trying to swallow your vision. He towers over you, even more so than he had that single time he’d bought your services for the night. You can still remember the flash of his stubble against your neck when he went in for the bite, pressing a soft kiss to the skin before a brush of his fangs, sending a shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the icy cold of his skin and everything to do with the handsome male.

But he hadn’t come back. It was unusual for a vampire not to return to the bloodhouse after a particularly tasty meal, and you had more returning customers than you could count, but Cassian had never been one of them.

“What are you doing out here all alone at night?” He sounds like he’s scowling and when you finally focus on him he is. His thick brows are furrowed and there’s a frown adorning his perfect face. His hazel eyes glow as they take in your crumpled form.

It’s so hard to lift your head up to meet his gaze, heavy with cement. “Bloodhouse,” you breathe, “Greedy–ah, greedy asshole.”

Cassian growls low in his throat. You watch his nostrils flare as he takes in your scent, the blood on your palms, coating your throat, and the slow pace of your heart. That’s how he knows you’re not yourself. The last time he’d seen you your heart had been beating so fast he thought it might try and jump from your chest into his. 

It’s why he hadn’t come back. He could’ve sworn that his own heart had jumpstarted in response to yours, jolting in his chest when it had been an unmoving thing sitting inside of him for centuries. You smelled like the sweetest perfume and tasted like ambrosia of the gods. The tender touch he’d used to hold you close to him turned iron as he tore into the cushions trying to hold himself back from draining you and mounting you all in one.

If he had blood running through his veins it would be boiling. He’s angry nonetheless, and you can tell by the way he goes as still a stone for a second, thunder raging in his gaze and wings twitching at his back. 

His gaze goes soft as he looks you over once more. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “You’re too cold. That’s not good, especially coming from me.” He tries to joke, brushing some of the damp hair from your face. You’re too hot but you’re shivering, lips tinting blue. 

“I’m f-fine,” you whisper, but your teeth are clacking too hard for you to make out the words.

Cassian tuts softly, making sure you’re secure to his chest. Large, membranous wings unfurl from his back, and the moonlight shining down across them makes him look like a winged hero. 

Your winged hero.

“Let’s get you home.”

You’re too weak to protest, to even stay awake as he flies. You would love to see the sparkling stars above and the twinkling city proper as he goes but your eyelids feel like anvils, shutting on their own accord.

You rouse when Cassian lands, the jolt of his feet on solid ground again stirring you from your slumber. 

“Where are we?” you slur, looking around in wonder. Your eyelids are still heavy, the comforting feeling of unconsciousness that your body screams that it needs is drawing you in like one of those sirens from Summer, but you force yourself awake, drinking in your surroundings.

It’s a quaint home, buttery light casting warmth throughout the room. There’s a fire raging in the hearth and Cassian snags a blanket off of the back of the well-worn sofa as he goes, tucking you in. 

You bury your nose into the softness of it, and the smell of sandalwood melts your straining muscles.

“This is my home,” Cassian says gently, and before you can even think about protesting, he’s answering. “I will be taking care of you, sweetheart. That’s an order.”

“An order?” you snort, peering up at him. His hazel eyes are a shock of freshness as he holds your gaze, not needing to look up to know the way throughout his own home. “Who do you think you are?”

The smirk he gives you makes your head spin. You squeeze your eyes tightly and let your head fall against the hard planes of his chest again. “An order from the High Lord of the Night Court’s commander of armies.”

You huff in his arms, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as his boots hit the first stair. “I’m no soldier.”

“No,” he agrees softly, “But you are a survivor.”

Something coils in your chest and you refuse to open your eyes, to answer. If he asks you’ll blame it on the loss of blood, the throbbing in your throat and head becoming louder and louder the longer you stay quiet, pounding like his boots against the wooden stairs.

You let yourself be, floating in and out of consciousness as you cuddle into Cassian’s strong chest. There’s the sound of water, and he adjusts you for a moment as he pours sweet scented oils into the bath. The room fills with the warmth of sandalwood, the scent that’s clinging to his very being.

Cassian murmurs your name, and when you blink up at him, he smiles. “I’ve run you a bath. It will help warm you up and I’ll take a look at your neck afterwards. Are you able to get into it on your own?”

You look at the inviting tub, filled to the brim with bubbles. There’s ripples of heat wafting from it and the thought of even sitting in something that luxurious brings tears to your eyes.

He sets you on your feet but your knees buckle. Cassian holds you upright and you try to cling to his shirt but your grip is weak.

“I can’t,” you shake your head, an errant tear escaping. It rolls hot across your cheek and the male before you is quick to wipe it away, shushing you soothingly. “I need help.” 

You can see his throat work around a swallow but you don’t call it out. He nods once, curtly, like this is just another mission he’s on, formulating a plan and how best to execute it. Overthinking it.

His fingertips are deft as he pulls at the ties of your dress. It falls away in a wave of blue but you don’t blush or shrink away from him, you’re much too tired. Cassian holds your hand while you slip out of your undergarments and helps ease you into the water.

You sigh, immediately settling back against the side, reclining so your body can absorb as much of the warmth as possible. You’re still feeling a little dizzy but the aroma of Cassian helps ground you, calm you.

“Can I take a look at your throat?” Cassian asks after a few moments. He’d been a statue at your side as you settled, the little pleased noises you released going straight to his cock. He willed stillness into his bones, thought about the worst things imaginable, like the bathrooms at the warcamps or the beast living in the library.

You hum in agreement, tilting your head away so he can have a better look.

Cassian plants himself by the side of the tub, fingers brushing your wet hair away from the wound. He hisses, cursing. The wound is tender, red dribbling out of the marred flesh. The bastard must’ve been half-feral with the way that these punctures look. He’s undeniably furious.

“Well, how bad is it?” you ask, though by his reaction you think you already know.

“You’ll have to drink some of my blood,” he answers, and you can hear the grimace in his voice, “But I think a tough female like you will pull through.”

You let your head fall his way in a lazy motion, wincing as it stretches your wounds. You try to cover the twist of your mouth with an unconvincing grin. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, affirming. “Yes, you’ll live. That’s an order.”

Your smile turns real. “Sir, yes sir.”

Cassian chuckles as he brings his wrist to his mouth. You watch with intrigue as his sharp, glorious fangs rip into the delicate skin of his wrist. When he moves the bloody arm towards you, you catch the sight of his pink tongue lapping up the remnants of blood on his lips and you wish he was doing that to your skin, your mouth, your cunt–

“Drink,” he demands softly, hazel eyes nearly glowing in the low light, as if he can tell what you were thinking.

You do as he asks, a tentative brush of your tongue that drags heat up his spine with the motion. You nearly moan at the taste of him, all hot and heady like a drug. Your second gulp is eager, blunt teeth clamping at his wrist like you’re a vampire of your own.

Cassian lets you drink as much as you want, even after your wound begins to close. He watches you closely, his pupils becoming larger and his breaths become deeper the more you swirl your tongue against his skin. This is everything to him, to have what he’s been aching for but not letting himself have for so, so, long. 

This…this is better than him drinking your blood, the sweet sight of you taking your fill from him, the prideful feeling that he’s providing for you fills his chest.

“Thank you,” you breathe, breaking him out of his trance. He blinks, not realizing that your lips had left his skin. Apparently it’s not only vampires that can paralyze their prey. 

“You’re welcome.”

He stays by your side, helping you with the soaps even though you feel better than ever. You feel like a whole new woman, ready to go back to the bloodhouse and kick Aima’s ass. Cassian’s blood is vibrating through your body, and it feels like every icicle that’s been slowly forming in your body after these last few months of working at the bloodhouse melt. You feel invincible, and as your head clears you begin to understand the very appeal to blood the vampires of this court have.

“You look cold,” you murmur before you can think clearly about what you’re saying. “You should get in.”

Cassian frowns, “Get in?”

You nod, even though your heart trips at his reaction. Your anxious fingers skim the top of the water, wisps of heat coiling around your fingertips like smoke. Shrugging, you answer. “You look cold out there.”

“Cold,” he whispers, “Always so cold.”

Your heart aches for him in that instance. He can see it in your eyes, too, that you care. So he takes off his shirt.

The fabric lifts over his body, revealing rippling muscles that look carved from precious stone. Your breath catches in your throat and your heart skips in your chest. 

Cassian tosses the clothing into the growing pile at his feet. His hazel eyes are hot as they take you in, the top of your knee sticking out of the water and up, to the mark on your throat, now only to pink dots across your otherwise smooth skin. They linger on your mouth, and when he meets your gaze, you know that you’re his.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” His voice is throaty, rough like he’s been screaming for years. “Because if I get in that tub with you, I don’t think I’ll be able to let you leave.”

His admission makes the breath catch in your throat. You don’t dare break eye contact, even as you see the way his pupils dilate in response to the way your heart picks up in pace.

“I know.” 

The breath leaves his chest in a whoosh and nearly as fast his trousers fall to the ground.

“Are you positive?” he asks again, ever the nervous gentleman, so close to having what he’s always wanted.

You roll your eyes, sitting up further so he has room to join. The water slides down your body and Cassian can’t seem to look away, his throat going dry when it covers the bottom of your breasts.

You flutter your lashes at him, a siren beckoning its prey into dangerous waters.

Two innocuous letters lie on the table and are the primary focus of the two sisters. One is addressed to both in the familiar scrawl of their sister, while the other is scrawled elegantly in an address to Elain. For a moment, nobody moves. However, Nesta can feel Elain's indecision and familial concern warring with personal excitement. Nesta picks up Feyre's letter and jerks her head at the other. 

Hiding a smile, she sees her sister carefully tearing with guarded excitement into her letter as her own eyes scan the contents of her sister's letter.

It has been over a month since Feyre last wrote to her sisters from Paris. When Feyre moved to the French capital to pursue her artistic dreams nearly four months ago, she sent regular letters to Nesta and Elain. The letters were not the most affectionate or frequent (about two to three a month), but they were perfunctory. They let her know that Feyre is safe and doing well. 

Nesta feels the worry ebb from her chest as she finishes the letter's contents. Next to her, Elain folds the letter and places it back into the envelope. Her spine is straight, and her movements are controlled and precise, unreadable to anyone who isn't her sister. "Good news?" She asks as casually as possible without letting her suspicions show regarding her curiosity about Elain’s mystery letter.

Elain shrugs, "You first. How's Feyre?" 

"She is doing well. She apologizes for the late letter, saying she was selected to exhibit at the World Fair and was focused on that."

Elain's answering beam is bright like the Sun: "World Fair! That's amazing. Although a little word would have been nice." 

Nesta nods, her shoulders raising slightly in a silent, resigned expression. Feyre has always been passionate. She gestures to the envelope still clutched tightly in Elain's hand, "So, good news?" 

The middle Archeron's head bobs as a spark enters her eyes, "They agreed to take me on as their landscapist. They would cover all training and living expenses as I shadow their current staff." She trails off hesitantly.

Sensing the hesitation, Nesta asks, "But?" 

She nibbles on her lower lip slightly before speaking, "It would be a live-in job at their country estate for the first couple of weeks before I get transferred to take care of their London townhouse." 

Nesta smiles. Leave it to Elain to worry about a small thing like leaving her sister alone in the city that pretty much grew up in, "Go, it's just a few weeks. Imagine how much reading I can get done." 

Nesta frowns as her attention gets snagged by maroon spots on Feyre's letter. She brings the paper closer to observe the spots, completely missing what Elain has been saying. 

"Nesta!"

She snaps her head up, "What?" Nesta asks, trying to keep her irritation at the interruption hidden from the surface and let Elain only see her concern for her alone.

Elain's brows are creased in worry as she repeats slightly exasperatedly, "Are you sure you'll be alright by yourself?"

Nesta scoffs and rolls her eyes good-naturedly, "Go, I'll be fine!" She insists as Elain’s worry turns into unbridled happiness. Like the very first day of spring after a long winter, the joy from Elain spreads like wildfire.

She observes as her sister excitedly runs to draft her response, only turning her focus back to the letter in her hand after she is alone in the sitting room. 

She draws a sharp breath. She must be paranoid, right? She must have been reading too many novels recently. Why else would a letter look blood-splattered? 

She pushes the thought away and picks up a half-read journal from the desk. It's nothing, it's probably nothing. 

It’s likely a new type of ink, the color of maroon.

It’s nothing.

***

Nesta sighs to herself as she looks up from the newspaper clipping and at the cream-coloured building, raising a hand to the door handle for what has to be the fifth time. She knocks on the door before she talks herself out of it.

Is she overreacting to engaging a private detective because of an obscure brown spot on a letter? 

Maybe, but she's not letting that stop her.

Her back is rigid as she walks up the stairs, her shoes somehow hitting the carpeted surface a little too loudly. She cautiously pokes her head into the second-floor flat when the pressure of her knock pushes the door open. 

"Hello?" She calls, unable to keep down the shiver that traverses her spine, feeling like she's being watched. 

Thick curtains cover the window and shroud the entire flat in semi-darkness. The room is disconcertingly neat, without a single frame or stationery out of place. She cautiously pads across the room, taking in every framed article - from the arrest reports of major crimes like murderers and arsonists to more minor offenses like lost antiques.

Nesta starts to zoom in on a recent article of a French aristocrat getting mysteriously mauled when she spots a small poster poking out from under the chair. Intrigued, she lowers until she is balanced on the balls of her feet and picks up the sign, her blue-grey eyes widening at the picture of an elegant glass-domed building and the wordings above it: PARIS EXPOSITION UNIVERSELLE 1889

The Paris World Fair - where Feyre’s art will be showcased. Her heartbeat picks up. Of course, there are many, many reasons that this private detective has for having a copy of this poster. A possible theft or even an art enthusiast. It doesn’t have to mean anything. 

She startles at the sound of a door opening from a distance. She hurries to slide the paper back beneath the seat and draws herself to full height. Her face returns to its usual haughty impassiveness when the man enters the sitting room. Nesta bites the inside of her mouth to avoid giving away a reaction to his appearance.

Though he is dressed in sharp casual attire, every stride is taken with powerful military precision. Piercing hazel eyes lock with hers for a second before they sweep over her body, assessing. Despite how it raises every hair on her body, the gaze draws a slight upward tilt of her chin at him. A cocksure smirk graces his lips as he clocks the action. It cuts through the stern features and raises the right eyebrow, where a thin scar dissects it. 

"Please," he gestures to the armchairs before the fireplace, "Sit, and we can get started."

Nesta wordlessly makes her way to the seat, taking care only to lower herself as he does.

The man leans back with his legs crossed casually, "So how can I help you today, governess?" 

To her surprise, the muscle in her jaw tenses as the smirk on his mouth grows, and she asks lightly, "Ah, is this the infamous deductive skill I keep hearing about? The great Cassian Everly at work?" 

He leans forward and uncrosses his legs almost obscenely wide, a gleam entering his eyes, "Would you like to find out?"

Recognizing the challenge, she scoffs, "And give in to your dying need to show off? I'll pass." 

The detective shrugs, quickly brushing off the insult. He leaps off the chair, the feet of the furniture scraping against the ground as it moves backward with the sudden impact, effortlessly crossing the distance between them to grab the exhibition poster from the bottom of her seat. Green and gold flakes dancing around his pupils in teasing, knowing, "So, who in Paris do you want me to look into?" He asks too casually, yet Nesta can feel the threat.

This man is dangerous, she realizes almost belatedly as their faces are inches apart. Her eyes unwittingly take in every handsome feature, even once daring to dip down to his mouth. Her following words come out more breathless than she ever intended, "Rhysand Night." The name leaves her lips as the spell around them breaks like glass.

For a split second, his brows creased. The look passes so quickly that it leaves her doubting if she even saw it. She continues, feeling the need to explain while her face becomes a little flushed at her unexpected confession, "He is my sister's sponsor. A sort of agent for her artwork. They left for Paris nearly four months ago, then nearly two months ago, my sister stopped sending us letters." She hands him the letter, "Until this finally arrived three days ago."

He takes the envelope from her, rough fingertips lightly brushing against soft skin. He carefully scans the paper products before giving the contents of Feyre's letter a quick read. "The brown spots," he declares, evidently isolating the same abnormally as she did, "are simply coffee stains." 

She bristles, asking almost indignantly, "So not a cause of concern?" She can’t help but cross her arms at his dismissal, slightly disappointed at his quick assessment.

"No," he agrees but pockets the letter nonetheless, "but if you still want a report on Night, I'll take the job." He says as he stands up and holds out a hand to her.

She smiles tightly, "Thank you." She intones as blandly as she can as she grabs his hand to stand up. Now, on her feet, she realizes he is but a couple of inches away as he takes her hand and raises it to his mouth while meeting her gaze with his hazel eyes that promise something to her.

She tries to ignore the knot in her stomach, tightening as his lips brush her knuckles, "I'll have it ready for you in three days." His eyes darkened as the words rolled off and caressed her skin in playful, hot rasps, "Pleasure doing business with you, Nesta." His name has her goosebumps rise as she snatches her hand away and walks as gracefully as she can out of the rumor like a Queen. When she no longer feels his gaze on her, she picks up the pace and allows herself to disappear into the crowd.

***

Nesta raises a porcelain cup to her lips and sighs deeply at the fragrant scent of the tea. The world passes in a rapid swirl of dark French woods outside the window before her. She sinks back to the velvety cushion, her mind again drifting back to the private detective throughout her journey from London to Paris.

She isn't quite sure what she had expected after her visit to the investigator. However, a young courier at her doorstep asking for payment with comprehensively documented papers was probably not it. Not after the burn of his stare etched into her brain, or the pressure of his lips on the back of her hand left her tingling for hours—her hand flexes from the mere memory of it.

Then she stiffens, her back impossibly straight, like a prey under attack. 

Unable to shake off the sudden unease, Nesta whips her head around the empty carriage. There is something out here. She's sure of it. 

The train lurches just as she stands, causing her back to collide with a solid, warm wall with an "oomph." Thick, calloused hands grab either side of her upper arms to steady her.

"Easy there," a low, husky voice haunting her dreams rumbles, kicking her heartbeat up a notch.

"Detective," she mumbles, her body still hyper-aware from the strange fear that struck her earlier. 

Numbly, she turns to face the newcomer. The grip on her arms tightens as her chin raises to meet him eye-to-eye. Time stills as hazel eyes meet stormy blue. She feels the lump forming in her throat as she takes in his form. He was undeniably attractive before, but now, with brown skin reflecting the silver sheen of moonlight in the most gentle, sensual caress? The man is devastating. 

Brown pupils dart around her face as the edge of his lips curves upwards, giving the teeniest glimpse of pearly white canines, "Fancy meeting you here." 

She swallows heavily as the world begins to move again. The rhythmic sound of the train against the tracks returns, loud and flashy, and kicks her excellent sense back into gear. 

She narrows her eyes, demanding, "Are you following me?" She asked as accusingly and haughtily as she could, trying to land a blow on him.

The accused waves a dismissive hand as a deep chuckle escapes him, "Trust me, if I was following you, you would never even know I was." A hand disappears into his lapels, "I guessed you would be here, and I came to return this to you."

Three pounds, the exact amount she paid him for the work. 

"Why?" 

"I know Rhysand Night. We are very good friends." He pauses, contemplating his next words, "It did not seem right to charge you when I already knew most of the information presented." 

She shakes her head and raises a hand to close his fingers around the coins. She says, "I paid for information. It matters not how it was obtained so long as it was factual."

A look of surprise overtakes him, but he silently pockets the money anyway. She turns and settles back into her seat, the glassware clinking as she once again brings the cup to her lips and sips the tea. 

"May I?" 

He sits beside hers at her nod, facing the racing, dark forest beyond the window. 

"How did you know I would be here?" She asks, unable to quell the curiosity, and almost immediately regrets it as he perks up. His smile is almost irritatingly triumphant. 

"You were always going to find your sister. No matter what anyone, even me, says about those brown stains on the letter. That glint in your eyes told me that the day we met. Considering your employment, you need a week's notice and sufficient headroom to book your transport. Of course, there are several ways to travel from London to Paris, but a person of your stature and financial position? This particular Dover and Calais route offers security and speed without burning a hole in your savings." He said, all matter of factually, as if he knew the exact steps she would make from one meeting with him.

She blinks, absorbing the information. The teacup in her hand rattles slightly as she places it back down. "You're not that impressive," she informs him curtly. 

He smirks, "But I got it right, didn't I?" He crooned as her hackles rose while the smile on his rugged, handsome features only grew like a cat who captured the canary in a trap.

She doesn't deign to give him a further chance to gloat and asks, "So why are you going to Paris? It can't be for me." She intones sharply, determined to cut his fire with her ice.

Though the burning gaze says otherwise, he tells her, "The World Fair is always full of mysteries. I'm here to see which one I can uncover this time."

The chair drags against the carpeted surface as she stands, bidding him a farewell, "Then I guess I'll see you there." She says flatly as she can without revealing how scared she is at his unnerving comment. She is almost at the door in her haste when his voice calls out with a touch of panic:

"Nesta?"

His face is touched, just barely, with nerves as she stops in her stride and turns back to him expectantly. As her gaze meets him, the nerves fade from his face as he smiles like a devil at the sight of her.

"Don't leave Paris without saying hi." He says it like an order, but she can hear his question beneath the façade. He can’t fool her, and she can’t fool him.

The sides of her lips twitch upwards as she heads back, "I'll see you around, detective." 

***

Nesta slides down the staircase of the hotel lobby and instantly spots the man waiting for her at the base. He takes a gloved hand, raising his lips in greeting. A stray wavy strand escapes from the neat bun and falls to tickle her hand as molten hazel brands her. 

"You look exquisite, Nesta."

She lets her gaze rake through his body, dressed in the most layers she's seen. Though every tailored shirt, vest, and jacket clings to his muscled form and attracts wandering eyes. She murmurs thanks as she takes his elbow and loops an arm around. She stands half a step too close, the proximity sending a message more evident than anything that can be said out loud. His elbow is tight around hers as they exit the building, leaving behind gloved whispers.

He offers a hand as they step out of the carriage, greeted by a row of neat, affluent townhouses. He tilts his head towards her slightly, his mouth curved into a small smile, "I think you'll like this." 

She releases a breath she hasn't realised she has been holding as they walk through an intricately designed door. Her ears pick up on the dreamy and melodic harmony of strings and winds, the music stirring something profound within her. There is a splattering of applause as the piece ends before a solo piano act begins in a flow of lively keys. 

"Is that Claude Debussy himself?" She whispers to Cassian in disbelief, her arm tightening around him. "How did you-" The words trail off as she finds herself unable to finish the sentence. 

How did he know her love for music? She wonders, her breath hitches in her throat at how his eyes hold tender affection as he observes her reaction. It is all Nesta could do to meet the gaze head-on.  

He answers, "I thought you might enjoy this." As if it is no trouble at all to jump through hoops for her happiness—the things she holds dear.

She squeezes his arm and gives a small smile in return. With a little bow, he leads her onto the dance floor. His palm is heavy on her waist as another warms her hand through her glove, their bodies so close that the space between them heats up. The first note of the piano has them moving, her feet following quickly in his lead.

There is an ease to dancing with Cassian, she realizes. The proverbial wall between them thins with every spin and twirl of their bodies, with every swell and fade of the piano. 

"How are you enjoying Paris?" He asks, his cheeks slightly flushed from the movement, "Was the visit to your sister all you hoped it to be?"

Their hands drift apart as she spins away, effortlessly joining again as the dance spins her back into waiting arms. Her eyes narrow, "Fishing, Everly? I'm sure you know full well how it went." 

The evening with Feyre and Rhysand the night before was fraught at worst and awkward at best. Even the extraordinary charm of her sister's art sponsor could not dispel the awkwardness of her unannounced arrival. Conversations were tense and stilted, leaving Nesta more suspicious than when she first stepped through the door. 

"Feyre," she continues, their feet moving quickly in time, "Feyre is different. I can't quite put my finger on it, but she does. And I'm not leaving until I figure it out." 

"Cassian," he says instead.

"What?"

Their eyes lock as they circle each other, their steps in a perfect semicircle, "Call me Cassian." 

A little laughter bubbles up her throat, escaping her lips in a huff. The music comes to a close and ends the dance with a dip. Strong arms support her securely as he pulls her back upright, their faces inches apart. For a stretched beat, hazel eyes darken and dart towards her lips. His sculpted lips are parted, almost in anticipation. 

She steps back, giving him a little bow as etiquette demands. "I'm not leaving Paris until I figure out exactly what is going on, Cassian." She feels his weighted gaze even hours after they have parted.

***

The moon hangs high in the sky as Nesta sneaks out of the exhibition housing the World Fair artworks. The night is still, and the building feels eerily abandoned. Even the warm summer night fails to tamper the shiver that travels down her spine. 

She looks back at the shut wooden door and heaves a sigh. Once again, there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Feyre's artworks, while stunning in their bright coloured strokes, are standard. Normal like Feyre's flat is, regular like her studio is. Not even a paintbrush needed to be put in the right place. 

The golden brunette thoughtlessly tugs the hood of her coat over her head and heads back to the inn. The fast pathway has her cutting through a park, keeping her footsteps light and quick. 

She stills when the sound of a throaty moan slices through the silence of the woods. She should move, she should move. 

But she doesn't. 

Despite her better sense, Nesta moves safely behind the trees toward the sound. Stormy blue eyes widened to mimic the moon above while blood roared through her ears. 

It was Feyre and Rhysand. With another man, she doesn't recognise. 

Except Rhysand has what could only be fangs extended pointedly at tender skin. Feyre's lips are fused to his neck, arms holding him tight in an embrace. She lifts her head, exposing her own set of razor-sharp canines and blood running down her chin. Nesta watches, horrified, as Rhysand releases the man's hand and whispers into his ear. 

The man retreats, his steps heavy and slow like a zombie. Nesta's vision tunnels back to the couple. Rhysand approaches her sister with a predatory gleam, his mouth opening wide as Feyre bares her neck at him. It is too obscene and intimate both at once. 

Nesta opens her mouth to scream. 

But no sound escapes. A rough hand clamps tightly over her mouth. "Don't make a sound or even move a muscle." 

Her heart stings with betrayal at the familiar voice. She begins to shake as another strong arm encircles around her middle. Her breath feels cut off as she soars high up in the night sky, stopping when the street lights are nothing more than fireflies blinking in the dark. Shakily, she turns to look up at her captor. 

She thinks bitterly that it is unreasonable for him to look so beautiful, bathed in silver moonlight. It distracts her, pulling her attention away from the monstrously large leathery wings flapping to keep them airborne. Or elongated fangs that can pierce her flesh like a hot knife through butter. No, instead, she is entranced by the way the light reflects off the contours of his face and accentuates his cheekbones, the way his hair gathers deliciously in the wind, taunting her fingers to reach up and yank. 

His eyes are darker than she's ever seen, pupils blown wide, pushed to the edges until there is just a rim of gold. 

Her brain slowly moves again, and her blood speeds as she seethes, "You've been lying to me all this time. Covering up for them, distracting me, and leading me in circles." 

"Nesta," the voice is strained.

Cold fire surges through her veins and laces her words, "Bring me back down now."

"They could've killed you if they've seen you." He argues sharply. 

She barely hears him over, her heart pounding in her ears, pushing aside the chill of fear to dig her nails deep into muscled forearms, "Bring me down. Now." 

She can almost hear his jaw click in tension. But powerful, leathery wing pitches with the wind, and they descend. Not back to the same woods but precariously outside a dark window. It falls open with a swipe of his nails.

Nesta extricates herself the instant her feet touch the ground. At any other time, she may have dwindled to observe her surroundings properly, what is sure to be his room. Instead, she whips around, striking out like a viper, "He did this to her." 

Hazel eyes flash dangerously, his lips curling into a snarl, "Don't talk about what you don't understand." He hissed at her like she was a silly little prey who could be coaxed to the slaughterhouse.

The wolf emerged from hibernation and roared within her. She shoves the hysterical laugh that threatens to escape and scoffs derisively. She hisses, "Feyre was human when she left. Not," she swallows the lump in her throat, "not this monster Night turned her into." 

"A monster." he echoes flatly, a hint of hurt flashes past his face. It is gone within a heartbeat, replaced by a determined predator's glare.

"Yes," She tilts her chin to level a stern gaze at him, refusing to step back even when he is close enough that the heady scent of snowy pine and sandalwood envelops her. 

She is as stiff as marble as his face lowers towards and the tip of his nose ghosts along the nape of her neck, "Then do you know," he growls, breathing deeply, "how delectable you are to monsters like me?" He whispers as his hot breath practically envelopes her, urging the wolf inside her to let him in and let go of her burdens.

A whimper wrangles out of her as a hot tongue laps her throat with one long lick. The strangely erotic action sends a spike of heat straight between her legs. He chuckles lowly, the barest of movement in the front of his thigh, rubbing delicious friction against her core, “So what does this say about you? Enjoying the attention of a monster?" He crones, his breath hotly against her neck while baiting her like she is nothing more than an insignificant plaything to him.

Slap!

Her hand stings from the impact as she spits venomously, "Is this what he did to her? Seduce her into it? With music and lies?" She wrestles herself out of his grip, stumbling backward. Hot tears prick the back of her eyes, but she holds firm, throwing him the coldest look she can muster, "You tell Feyre. If she ever valued her relationship with us, she would tell us the truth. Otherwise," she takes a breath, "otherwise, she's dead to us."

She straightens her back, her legs moving almost mechanically out of the room. 

"She was dying, and he saved her." He croaks out, desperately like it was something she wasn’t supposed to know. Yet the secret stops her in her tracks and hangs between them heavily. Nesta would have done anything to save her sisters, even if it cost her life. But this…

The ends shouldn’t always justify the means—even miracles carry a heavy cost, for the roads to hell are often paved with the best and good intentions.

She stops, just barely long enough to reply. "Depends on your definition of saved." She says as softly as she can, for if she releases her fury, he will see her bruised heart in pieces beneath her façade. Some things are never meant to be played, no matter the tragedy.

Cassian has the bad habit of biting you during sex. He’s not used to being with someone after sex (he’s more of the hit it n quit it kind, if you catch my drift)

He always apologizes and licks the bite marks closed but you don’t really mind. It gives you a high you’re pretty sure no one else can give you

Cassian is territorial. Likes to mark you with his cum. 

When you’re on your period he loves to eat you out for hours, making sure he gets every last drop.

Likes to smear your period blood all over you, then lick it off.