Cassel did not loosen his hold on me even after I opened my eyes.
His arm was still wrapped tightly around my waist, his palm resting against my back as if he feared that the moment he let go, I might disappear—turn to smoke, or shatter into something he could never gather again.
"Are you feeling better now?"
His voice was gentle—soft, careful, almost fragile.
The kind of tone that belonged to someone who had already lost something precious once and was terrified of losing it again.
"If you're hungry," he continued quietly, "tell me what you'd like to eat. I'll prepare it for you."
I looked up at him.
At the man holding me on the bed, his embrace possessive yet trembling, his gaze locked onto my face with an intensity that bordered on fear.
His eyes were bloodshot, his lashes still clumped slightly from dried tears.
He looked nothing like the cold, ruthless villain everyone else feared.
He looked like a man who had spent the entire night on the edge of collapse.
