The elevator ride back to Cassian's penthouse felt like a hostage situation.
He didn't say a word. Didn't touch me. Didn't even look in my direction.
Just stood there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders drawn tight. Jaw locked. Like a storm packed into a tailored suit, ticking second by second toward detonation.
The air between us wasn't silence. It was threat.
And I hated how my body still responded to it—how my thighs pressed tighter together, how my breath caught, how I wanted him to turn and wreck me already. Just to feel something again.
The doors opened.
He walked out. No glance back.
I followed.
The moment we stepped inside, he peeled his jacket off like it offended him, let it drop to the floor, and headed straight to the bar.
Whiskey. No ice. No words.
Just the clink of glass, the pour of liquid, the burn that probably didn't even register anymore.
He drank it in one go, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Slammed the glass down.
A sharp crack fractured through the marble countertop beneath it.
I flinched.
"You didn't tell me he was back."
His voice wasn't raised. Not loud. But it was dangerous. Like a knife left unsheathed on silk.
"I didn't know," I said quietly. "He just showed up."
He turned slowly. The look in his eyes could've set the skyline on fire.
"You didn't stop him either."
"What the fuck was I supposed to do? Stab him with a hairbrush? There were people, Cassian. People watching."
"Exactly." He stepped forward, measured and lethal. "And he knew that. That's why he did it. Because he knew you wouldn't stop him."
His hands were on me before I could back away—one gripping my hip, the other threading into my hair, fisting it just enough to tip my head back. Not rough. Not gentle. Just… controlling.
"You let him see you like this?" His voice dropped, eyes scanning my neck, my collarbone, the bruises he'd put there hours ago. "Did he touch you?"
"No." My voice caught. "He didn't."
"Did he try?"
My silence said too much.
Cassian's nostrils flared.
He let go of me. Just for a second. Just long enough to back me up against the nearest wall.
And then he kissed me.
Not the kind of kiss that asked permission. The kind that rewrote the air in the room. That demanded obedience.
I moaned against his mouth, trying to breathe through the bite of it. Trying to stay upright as his thigh pressed between mine, lifting me slightly.
"You still smell like him," he whispered against my skin. "But don't worry. I'm going to fix that."
He grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head. His thigh flexed between mine. His breath was hot against my ear.
"I'm going to fuck him out of your body, Lexa."
Then he kissed my jaw, slow and punishing.
"Out of your mouth."
Lower.
"Out of your pussy."
Lower.
"Out of your bones."
And he did.
Right there against the wall.
No pretense. No softness. Just the sound of clothes being shoved aside, panties torn, belt clinking.
I arched into him, nails digging into his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist like I was clinging to the last sane thought in my brain—and failing.
He drove into me like he had something to prove.Like he had something to destroy.And maybe he did.
Me.
I didn't come.I shattered.
Twice.
By the time he finished, I couldn't tell if I was crying or sweating.
Cassian carried me to the bathroom, sat me on the counter, turned the tap on, and soaked a towel in cold water.
He cleaned me silently.
No kisses. No apologies. Just heat cooling into quiet.
He looked at me in the mirror. I looked at myself.
And then he said, flat and slow:
"If he shows up again…"
He paused. Towel still in hand.
"I won't break him."
Another pause.
"I'll bury him."
And for the first time that night— I believed him.