Page 93 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

The only sound was their footsteps on the sidewalk. Then, Cassia stopped and turned to glare at him.

“So that’s it?” she said softly, incredulously. “We back down? Because the engagement’s fake, so it doesn’t matter?”

Ark’s lips parted.

Cassia stepped closer, chin lifting, shoulders squaring. “What will that say? That Alderrath can snap his fingers and the world folds to him? That someone like me—an Untethered witch, an outsider—shouldn’t even think of standing beside someone like you? That if I dared, he’d just destroy everything I hold dear?”

She shook her head fiercely. “You know what?” Her voice wavered, then steadied, brimming with defiance. “If this engagement were real . . . I’d sure as hell fight for it.”

The words punched through him like a spark to dry tinder. His pulse kicked hard. His magic stirred low in his chest, restless and sharp. For a heartbeat, he just looked at her—the fury, fear, and courage braided together in her voice.

He drew a slow breath, his voice dropping rough and low. “Cassia . . .”

Anuck chose that precise moment to mrrreow from inside her jacket, as if to remind them that he still deserved that dish of cream. Ark let out a helpless laugh.

He shook his head, awe and guilt and a pull he could no longer evade tightening beneath his ribs. “Remind me,” he murmured, “to never underestimate either of you again.”

He’d never been more aware of just how much he’d underestimated her—her strength, her pride, the way she could carve out space in a world that tried to keep her on the margins. She’d stepped into a role he’d invented on a whim and made it real.

They continued walking. Her home looked the same as when they’d left it. The moment the door swung open, Anuck launched himself from her arms and hit the floor running, an urgent blur fleeing for the comforts of the kitchen. Cassia followed him, Ark trailing just behind. He placed a dish on the counter while Cassia opened the fridge, Anuck watching them both with twitching whiskers.

As Ark poured the cream, Cassia said, “Rhodes and Caius are coming at dawn, but what about till then?”

He held her gaze. The thought of leaving her alone—even for a few hours—was inconceivable. Alderrath had already reached for her once. If anything happened, he wanted to be the one standing between her and the threat. The one who made sure nothing touched her.

“I’ll stay the night,” he said.

Her throat bobbed. Her fingers slid down the front of her sweater, smoothing it with a restless edge. Then she nodded. Ark lowered the dish of cream to the floor, and by the time he straightened, she was already heading toward the hallway.

“I’ll show you the guest room.”

“No need.”

She paused, glancing back at him.

“I should stay near the door,” he explained. “In case something happens.”

She didn’t speak for a moment. Then, another slow nod.

“You can sleep on the sofa. It’s . . . surprisingly comfortable.”

He couldn’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. “Fall asleep there often, do you?”

Cassia pursed her lips, a flush blooming across her cheekbones. “Only sometimes.”

He inclined his head. “Then I’ll consider it an honour to spend the night on your sofa.”

She wet her lower lip—barely a flick of movement—but it was enough to drag his gaze. The memory of her kiss ghosted back with sudden clarity. Not just the press of her mouth, but also the way she’d touched him. The tentative, curious glide of fingers along the base of his horns. The way her breath had caught—like she hadn’t meant to want him quite so much.

And gods help him—he’d wanted her. He still did.

She cleared her throat, and the tension cracked just enough to let the air move again.

“Right,” she said. “There are clean towels in the guest bathroom. New toothbrushes under the sink. You’ll find everything you need. I’ll get you something to wear.”

Before he could respond, she turned and slipped down the hallway. When she returned, she held a neatly folded set of dark blue pajamas.

“These should fit,” she murmured. “My mother sewed these for my father. He’d been ill. But he—” He watched her throat worked. “He never got the chance to wear them.”