CASSIAN

  There’s something about her silence that feels louder than words.

  It’s not empty—it’s calculated. Heavy. The kind of silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, but dares you to break it.

  Most people talk to stake their place in a room. They fill dead air with noise, trying to remind the world they matter.

  But Sienna?

  She owns space just by existing in it.

  She holds herself like a secret—delicate on the outside, lethal underneath. A blade disguised as silk.

  And for some fucking reason… I keep wanting to listen.

  I lead her through the corridors of my estate, the soles of our shoes echoing against marble like a ticking clock. Every step feels intentional, like we’re walking toward something that doesn’t have a name yet. Something inevitable.

  She doesn’t ask where we’re going.

  No hesitation. No glances around. No nerves.

  Just the soft click of her heels and that maddening, calm composure.

  Most women who enter my world flinch a little—whether from awe or fear. They either cling to me or try to seduce me.

  But Sienna walks beside me like she’s already claimed a piece of it.

  That should concern me.

  It doesn’t.

  It intrigues me.

  And that makes it worse.

  We descend the grand staircase, the weight of chandeliers above us casting fractured light across her face. She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Just follows like she knows I’ll speak first—and that when I do, it’ll already be too late.

  The garage door groans open, swallowing us in shadow and the scent of oil, metal, and testosterone. My sanctuary. Rows of machines lined up like soldiers—dangerous, beautiful, expensive.

  I stop in front of the black Maserati.

  She stops beside me, arms loose by her side, waiting.

  I toss the keys to her without a word.

  She catches them mid-air. Smooth. Effortless.

  “Drive,” I say.

  She blinks. Just once.

  “Excuse me?”

  I lean against the hood. “Take us somewhere.”

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  Sienna looks at the keys in her hand, then at me. Her gaze sharpens, but her lips twitch upward—just barely.

  “Trust issues, Cassian?” she asks lightly, stepping toward the driver’s door.

  I tilt my head. “I like seeing what people do when they think they have control.”

  A beat passes.

  Then she smirks. “And I like seeing what happens when they realize they don’t.”

  That should’ve sounded like a threat.

  Instead, it lands like a promise.

  She gets in. Moves like the car belongs to her. Like I belong to her.

  And maybe, in a way I don’t want to admit yet—I do.

  I slide into the passenger seat, shutting the door as the engine purrs awake under her touch. She drives with steady hands and eyes that flick from mirror to road with quiet precision.

  She’s not just good.

  She’s flawless.

  We weave through the city, the sun casting long shadows between skyscrapers. People outside move in chaos. Horns blare. Windows reflect our lives in fragments.

  But inside the car, it’s silent.

  Tense.

  Charged.

  I watch her. The slope of her neck. The pulse that flutters just below her jaw. The way her fingers rest on the steering wheel—graceful, but ready to snap to action.

  She drives like someone who’s run before.

  And not just from something—but toward something worse.

  “You drive like someone who’s had to disappear,” I say, my voice low.

  She glances at me with a faint smile. “You observe like a man who never stops chasing.”

  I chuckle, but there’s an edge to it. “You think I’m chasing you?”

  “I think you don’t know the difference between chasing and being led.”

  I exhale slowly, turning my gaze out the window.

  The words echo.

  Too close.

  She takes a hard right, leaving the main road. The city starts to thin. Trees line the street, shadows dancing like ghosts. The buildings here are older, quieter, worn down in that beautiful, tragic way.

  She’s leading me into unfamiliar territory.

  Not just physically.

  Mentally.

  Emotionally.

  Somewhere I haven’t been in years.

  The car finally slows. Gravel crunches beneath us as we pull up near the edge of an old waterfront. The place looks abandoned. Deserted. Forgotten.

  Perfect.

  She kills the engine, lets the silence settle, and then turns to me.

  “Why did you bring me here?”

  I look at her. The way the wind stirs loose strands of hair around her face. She’s almost too calm. Too collected.

  “I told you to drive.”

  “Yes.” She tilts her head. “And you followed.”

  That lands.

  Hard.

  Because she’s right.

  I don’t follow.

  I lead.

  Always.

  And yet… here we are.

  Her lips curl into something slow and dangerous. “That’s not something you do, is it, Cassian?”

  I should shut her down. Remind her who the fuck I am.

  But instead… I lean in. Just slightly. Just enough.

  “And yet,” I murmur, “here we are.”

  Sienna doesn’t gloat. She just holds my gaze, eyes like mirrors reflecting back something I don’t want to see yet.

  Then she turns toward the water, her voice softening.

  “There’s something calming about this place,” she says. “Like it holds stories no one will ever hear.”

  I follow her gaze. The rippling surface is dark and quiet, endless.

  “Every place holds ghosts,” I say. “Some louder than others.”

  A pause.

  She looks at me. Not smiling now. Not testing. Just looking.

  “What’s yours?”

  My fingers tense on my thigh.

  Because for the first time in a long time… I don’t have an answer.

  Or maybe I do. I just don’t want to say it aloud.

  There are too many ghosts.

  Too many stories I buried before they could bleed through the cracks.

  But this woman?

  She’s a mirror and a blade all at once.

  And looking at her now, I don’t know which I want more—to break her, or to break myself open.

  So I say nothing.

  And somehow, that silence says everything.

  She turns back to the water, wind pulling at the hem of her coat, and in the dim light, I see it—

  The smallest shift.

  The tiniest crack.

  Not in her.

  In me.

  I want to unravel her.

  Not gently. Not with care.

  But ruthlessly. Obsessively. Completely.

  Even if it fucking kills me.

  And worse?

  Some part of me knows—it will.