The golden roses faded after three days, their petals turning to a delicate, ash-grey silk that crumbled at a touch. But their mark remained. The estate thrived with a vibrancy that was almost aggressive. Vines climbed the manor walls overnight, heavy with jasmine that bloomed under the noon sun. The very air tasted richer. And Cassian… Cassian was different.
He smiled more, a true smile that softened the sharp lines of his face. He began to appear not just at night or in shadowy corners, but in the sun-drenched kitchen as she made tea, his form more solid, less like a trick of the light. He told her stories of Thornwood's past—the mundane ones, about the building of the greenhouse, the planting of the oak sapling centuries ago. The hunger in his eyes, while still present, was tempered by a profound, focused affection that was more addictive than any magic.
It was a gilded, dreamlike existence. Which was why the arrival of Leo was such a violent intrusion.
Leo was a botanist and historian, a colleague of her late father's. He arrived unannounced in a sensible sedan, all cheerful enthusiasm and tweed. "Lilith! My dear, I was in the area researching old estate gardens. Your father… he'd be so glad to know you're here. I had to see it! The legendary Thornwood gardens!"
Lilith's heart sank. She stood on the front steps, Cassian a palpable, furious coldness just inside the shadow of the doorway. "Leo, this isn't a good time. The estate is… private. In restoration."
"Nonsense! Just a peek? For your old Uncle Leo?" He was already striding past her, his eyes wide at the unnaturally lush foliage.
Cassian melted from the doorway, appearing at Lilith's side. "The lady said the estate is private." His voice was like ice cracking.
Leo stopped, his joviality dimming under Cassian's gaze. "And you are?"
"The groundskeeper." The words were a low growl. The roses lining the path seemed to lean inward, their thorns lengthening.
An awkward silence fell. Leo, to his credit, stood his ground, though he paled slightly. "Right. Well. Lilith, I'm staying at the inn in the village. Perhaps tomorrow? We could have lunch. Catch up. Your father… he'd want me to check on you."
It was a low blow. Lilith felt a pang of guilt. "Tomorrow afternoon, Leo. In the village. Not here."
After his car disappeared down the overgrown drive, the tension snapped. Cassian turned on her, his face a storm cloud. "You invited him here?"
"I did not! He just showed up!"
"He will come back. He will pry. He will see things that are not for mortal eyes." Cassian's hand shot out, gripping her arm. His touch was no longer just cold; it was biting, painful. "He is a threat to the balance. To us."
"He's a friend of my father's! He's harmless!"
"No one is harmless!" Cassian's eyes blazed with a feral light. The sky, moments ago clear, darkened with rapid, roiling clouds. "This is my domain, Lilith. Ours. I have tolerated your mortal world, but I will not let it intrude. He smells of academia, of dissection. He will want to study, to expose. I have survived centuries hidden. I will not be exposed now. Not when I have…"
He stopped, his grip loosening. The rage bled away, replaced by a desperate fear. "Not when I have you," he finished, his voice ragged.
He was jealous. And terrified. The realization chilled her more than his anger. The powerful, ancient Warden was afraid of a middle-aged botanist.
"I will handle him," Lilith said firmly, pulling her arm away. "I will meet him, reassure him, and send him on his way. Without suspicion."
Cassian searched her face, his suspicion a living thing. The bond between them thrummed, and she felt the chaotic whirlwind of his emotions: possessiveness, fear, a deep-seated terror of the outside world that sought to rationalize and destroy his existence. For the first time, she felt the true weight of his paranoia, forged over lifetimes of hiding.
"Do not speak of me," he said finally, each word a shard of glass. "Do not speak of the rituals. If you invite his curiosity, Lilith… the land protects itself. And I am the land."
It was not a warning. It was a promise. As he turned and strode into the gathering storm, the first drops of cold rain began to fall, each one hitting her skin like a tiny accusation. The dream was over. The outside world had pierced their bubble, and it had revealed the razor-sharp edge of the paradise she had chosen. She loved a being who saw any other connection as a threat. And she had just promised to lie to an old friend to protect her dark, secret love. The guilt was a new, sour note in the symphony of Thornwood, and it tasted like betrayal.