Pain welcomes me before consciousness does.
A slow, throbbing ache in my arm. The sharp pull of bandages against my skin. The dull pressure in my ribs when I breathe too deep.
I let my eyes flicker open, adjusting to the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
The sheets beneath me are smooth. Expensive.
The room smells like clean linen—and something darker.
Cologne and control.
Not a hospital.
I expected as much.
Cassian Morelli isn’t the type to hand someone over to the care of strangers.
If you land in his hands, you stay there until he decides what to do with you.
I shift slightly, testing my body.
My dress is gone, replaced with a silk robe far too delicate for someone as broken as me.
And then I feel it.
A presence.
Watching.
I don’t react immediately.
Instead, I let my gaze drift slowly to the chair in the corner.
Where he sits.
Cassian.
Legs spread. Fingers steepled beneath his chin.
His eyes—sharp, assessing, ruthless—lock onto mine the second I meet them.
“You’re awake.”
His voice is smooth, but there’s something beneath it.
Something calculating.
I wet my lips, ignoring the way his eyes flick down—just for a second.
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Men like him always notice the smallest things.
The slight shift of a pulse.
The tension in a jaw.
The way a woman breathes when she’s scared.
Too bad for him.
I don’t scare easily.
“Where am I?”
My voice is soft, hoarse from sleep.
“My home.”
Not an answer.
A warning.
I glance around the room.
Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows.
The kind of wealth that isn’t just money—but power.
I inhale slowly, ignoring the sting in my ribs.
“I suppose I should say thank you.”
Cassian tilts his head, studying me like I’m a puzzle with missing pieces.
“You should be dead.”
Blunt. No theatrics.
He wants answers.
“But I’m not.”
I meet his gaze without hesitation.
The silence that follows is thick.
He stands.
His movements are smooth and deliberate.
Everything about him is control.
The way he looks at me.
The way he moves.
The way he doesn’t move—like stillness itself is a weapon.
“You crashed your bike,” he says. “Right in front of me.”
“Unfortunate timing.”
I don’t blink.
Cassian smirks.
But there’s no amusement in it.
“Was it?”
I hold his stare, ignoring the way my heartbeat kicks up just slightly.
Not out of fear.
Something else.
Something I don’t have time to name.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
“Tell me something, Sienna…”
His voice lowers, like he’s speaking a secret into the night.
“Do you believe in fate?”
My breath catches—for just a fraction of a second.
Because I remember.
I remember those exact words leaving my lips in the street.
I remember the way his hand gripped my chin, forcing me to stay present.
To stay in his grasp.
And I remember the way he looked at me—not like a man who found a woman,
but like a man who found a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.
I tilt my head.
My lips curve into something small.
Something unreadable.
“I believe,” I murmur, “that fate is a dangerous thing.”
Cassian watches me for a moment longer.
Then he turns toward the door.
“Get some rest,” he says, just before disappearing into the hallway.
And for the first time in years,
I do.