by Angel Payne
Creator’s mercy. Only fifteen minutes have passed since we arrived home but I feel jittery, as if treated to his golden beauty for the first time. Is it like this for every woman in love? And for the men too? If so, how has anything on this earth gotten accomplished beyond the stone age? Despite every confusion and frustration I wrestled with during our episode at The Cloisters, all I want to do is get him alone again. Now. Do all the things that scenario implies. Right now.
“‘Uh-oh’ what?” Mallory’s cheeky comeback eases the edge of my lust a little. A little. I would dare any woman to keep pious thoughts when exposed to the tender smile Cassian reserves only for his mother. “You implying something, sweet little one?”
Cassian grimaces. I smile, despite my tangled heart. No amount of repetition will make me forget the first time I heard the woman use the endearment. After Cassian survived his post-shooting surgery, his friend Doyle finally contacted Mallory. She rushed to the city from her home in Connecticut, sweeping into the room at the hospital without care for how things “appeared”—and leaned over him with love so fierce, it eclipsed every sterile inch of the room. Cassian had been sleeping and did not hear her fervent whisper, but I had—and was shattered to instant tears. He had landed in that damn bed because of me. My stupid actions…
To my shock, Mallory Court had held me through those tears. And as soon as she heard the whole story behind them, embraced me even harder—
Before giving me words that became my guideposts for the next six weeks.
He clearly thought you were worth those bullets, Mishella. So prove him right.
By the Creator, I hope I have fulfilled her expectation.
“I imply nothing that my instincts won’t confirm, Mom.” He leans and kisses her cheek. “But my instincts are pretty good.”
They both arch one brow. His left, her right. “Is this supposed to be fresh news, darling?” Mallory cracks.
Cassian puckers his lips in a funny way—a look that would approach stodgy on most other men. On him, it is simply…determined, with a twist of hot.
“What are you up to with my woman, Mother?”
My woman.
I do not miss the glimmer in Mallory’s eyes—as one sparks in my heart. The glow expands as he loops an elbow around my neck, drawing me close. I have to remind myself—forcefully this time—that this may not be forever. But for now, I will allow it to feel…
utterly
wonderful.
“Up to?” Astonishment again, as Mallory’s glare mirrors her son’s. Or is it his that has copied hers? “We were just making plans for a new Monopoly match…”
“Just?” Cassian zips a look between she and me. “Just? After the way you two edged me out during the last game?”
“Stop pouting,” Mallory chides. “Mishella can’t help where the dice tell her to land.”
He snorts. “Maybe if we played a real version of the game.”
“What’s wrong with Scooby Doo Monopoly?”
“Other than the fact that Boardwalk has been replaced by The Creeper Bell Tower?”
“You love Scooby Doo Monopoly.”
“Loved, Mom. When I was ten.”
“Scooby Doo is eternal.”
In tandem, they swing gazes at me. My bottom lip gets gnashed again. Truly, I should be used to the role of tie breaker, thanks to Brooke and Vy—but two generations of Courts elevate the stress to a new level. “Errrm…the dog is cute. Is that one Scooby?”
Mallory preens. “See? Eternal.”
A sigh leaves Cassian—though does so through his smiling lips, officially stirring mud into the conversation’s waters. Two months away from Arcadia, I have learned only one clear thing about the world beyond my borders: that nothing is clear. One day, people are fighting about the size of sugared drink cups. The next, they are using children as custody battle pawns. The next, they are pitching tents on sidewalks to buy new cell phones. The merit of “Scooby Doo” in all this is still not clear to me.
“Maybe it’s best that we back burner this one.”
Mallory’s glower tightens. “Now trying the back burner tack, Cassian Cameron Jonathan?” She slants a brow toward me. “You hearing this, missie? You’re my witness. He back burnered Scooby.”
Cassian breaks leans away from me long enough to buss her forehead. “Not far back, I promise.” A new solemnity sets into his elegant features. “But right now, I need to borrow back Mishella.” In the barest of mutters, he finishes, “Before I lose the nerve.”
In the space of those five words, Mallory is transformed too. Like me, she hears every slight tremble beneath his soft sarcasm—and in seconds, becomes a different person for it. With eyes glowing and lips tender, she cups his set jaw. “Since when do you lose?”
Cassian rolls his eyes and tosses back his head, though chuckles the whole time. Something tells me it is not the first time Mallory has challenged him this way, nor for his reaction to it—though the laugh was probably not always part of the mix. For a few perfect moments, it is like years peel away from both of them. Suddenly, I am looking at a teenage Cassian being encouraged by his young, single mother—and loving her for it, no matter how hard he tries to cover the reaction with adolescent attitude.
I am…fascinated.
Is this what it is like, when a parent believes in their child?
I can only rely on instinct to answer the question—but in the affirmation, I recognize another piece of Cassian that makes new sense.
But more that do not.
With the love and belief of a mother like this, why does the man still look at the world with so many shadows in his eyes? Ghosts. That is what Kathryn Robbe called them, when I first met his friend after arriving in New York. The word fits. For all of Cassian’s confidence, arrogance, business savvy, and sanity-stealing sexual prowess, this man’s spirit is stalked by darker things…monsters that drag him into places where the only way out is by fighting for himself.
Fighting desperately…
Against creatures he refuses to let me see…
Except for rare moments like this.
As he turns from Mallory, sliding his hand down my arm—and his gaze back into mine. Fits our palms firmly together before murmuring, “Don’t worry, Mom. I don’t intend to lose this one.”
“Good.” The riposte does not spark a single mother-son chortle. Before I can fathom if that is a good or bad thing, she nudges his free shoulder. “You got this, tiger.”
“Tiger?” Even my attempt at a mood lightener gets swallowed by the depths of their new solemnity—a flow defining all of Cassian’s steps, as he leads me away from the kitchen. We walk through the dining room and living room, both drenched in shadows—appropriate symbolism of what lies ahead?—before he stops at the landing bracketed by two arched doors.
Two significant doors.
I already know where they lead—because I have already been through both of them. Temptation Manor’s turrets are among its most fascinating architectural features, identical when beheld from the outside. Inside, they cannot hold more divergent contents. In the upstairs room of Turret One, Cassian and I commemorated my first night in New York with hours of lust and passion I shall never forget. Surrounded by the lights and energy of the city, I gave him the key piece of my innocence—and the beginning of my heart.
And Turret Two?
Well…I can say I have entered it. And climbed six of its steps—before being stopped and nearly hauled out by the roots of my hair by the woman who, for all intents and purposes, has appointed herself Cassian’s ninja patrol. Since that day, Prim Smith—Temptation’s seemingly self-appointed mistress of household—has made some small efforts to warm to me, despite the vigilance for Cassian that once had me fearing her as one of his preferred ex-lovers. It is not a stretch, considering how I had barely met the man before Vy showed me internet hits that brought up as many links to his “romantic adventures” as his international business deals.
Now, that still makes Prim
a glaring—and even more confusing—exception.
And fully justifies why, as Cassian crosses the landing toward that door, I wrench my hand away from his. Back away, Pavlovian instinct kicking in, as he looks back and frowns.
“Armeau.” He reclaims my hand. “It’s all right.”
“Is that so?” I twist again but he is onto me, clutching hard. “And you have come to such a conclusion…how?”
A long breath leaves him. The thief caught with the bag. He does not fight the not-so-veiled allegation. One look into my eyes and he must see it all there. How the memories assault me, as bitter as the incident that spawned them, of the night after Prim ordered me out of the turret…
“This isn’t something I want to talk about anymore, Mishella.”
“Is that why the only sound louder than your fist against that desk is the grind of your teeth? Why you look as if you yearn to collapse where you stand, but run as fast as you can at the same time?”
“This conversation isn’t going to happen. Period.”
“I think this conversation is long overdue.”
“Then you think really wrong.”
The confrontation did not end any better—but like the stars that rebelled from the cosmos to first bring us together, we pushed back the mess and found each other once more. Reconnected.
Dear Creator, if I only know we always will…
And then the comprehension strikes.
Is this the meaning of having faith?
No wonder all those saints at the Cloisters looked so terrified.
No wonder I commiserate so thoroughly with them now.
But if the fear were gripping me tenfold, I would still endure every moment. For Cassian. To know everything about him—no matter how ugly or hard or terrible it is—I will walk through Hades itself.
So maybe this is faith.
And maybe that is simply a huge part of falling in love.
“Mishella.” He reaches over, grabbing my other hand. Brings my knuckles up to his lips. “I love you. And I don’t want to silo the explosives anymore. Not with you.” Before my perplexed frown has a chance to fully form, he rushes on, “If this blows up on me, then I want your finger on the launch button.”
Oh, Creator.
Oh…this man.
I lift our joined hands. Extend just my fingertips from their clasp, spreading them over both sides of his jaw. The warmth of his skin mixed with the stab of his stubble inspires a similar contrast of sensations. Excitement, energy, awakening, even arousal…but also deeper versions of nervousness…fear.
This is faith.
And I do believe it.
Believe in him.
In us.
The surety reaches like roots of a tree, twining through the ground of our connection, reaching for him. I feel his stretching for me too…coiling deeper into me. We are strong, ready for the storm of whatever may come.
“I only want to love you too, Cassian. As best I can, in whatever way you need. That is all.”
For a long while, his stillness is my only reply. Nothing moves through him, not even a breath. I shiver harder. Terrified but turned-on. Unsure but utterly heated.
He steps back. Exhales roughly. “Christ, armeau. That’s all I still pray for…after this.”
*
Cassian
As we climb the spiral of stairs, I start to tremble.
Me.
Fuck.
This isn’t the surface shit, like jitters funneled into productivity. This is the shakes from the inside out. The vibrations claiming the ends of my nerves, the pith of my bones, even the molecules of my breaths. The last time I felt something close to this, I held a shovel in my hands, breaking ground on Court Towers.
This is even more unfamiliar ground. And the route is riddled with quicksand.
But I’m determined. Right now, just this once, it’s time for the silos to go. For the first time, one person alone will have access to every single bomb that can destroy me.
One person…who, as it stands right now, will not even be here in four months.
Is that why I’ve even thought about doing this?
No. Plenty of women—people I’ve even dared to called “relationships” before—have come along before this.
This is different.
She is different.
Reassuring…right? Somebody needs to relay that to my bile-filled gut.
One mire at a time, man. One foot in front of the other. And watch the fucking quicksand.
I sure heed that little tidbit—by hitting the top of the stairs with a step made of lead. One more. Great. You’re doing soooo great.
New acid boils up, scorching my throat as I lift my head, already knowing the dark vista that awaits my gaze.
The room is sealed in perpetual gloom but kept meticulously clean, thanks to Prim. It’s still centered by the ornate day bed, covered in that pristine gold brocade, a dozen pillows, and the stuffed animals in shades of cream and white. Nearby, the little chaise with the throw blanket is still positioned next to the reading table with its small stack of books, purchased by me but never read by their recipient. Long ago, during those numb days when I couldn’t move from the floor next to the couch, I committed every one of those spines into bitter memory.
Stop The Insanity: Pills No More
Beating Back the Beast
Serenity in Stillness: An Addict’s Prayers
Quitting and Sticking
Why Can’t I Say No?
Addiction Understood
But nothing in the room diverts from its main attraction.
The wide curve of the turret almost appears to fall away from the building, due to the ripped wallpaper at its edges. The walls were kept like this on my dictate, along with the dried blood smears on the exposed surface beneath.
Lily, stop it. Stop it. You’re bleeding, dammit!
But she didn’t stop.
The center window of the turret, its original pane still broken out except for a few chunks of glass, bears the harrowing proof of that. Forming a seal over the outside of the panel is the Plexiglass cover Hodge mounted from the outside, since I ordered that the original window also remain as-is. The cover is now clouded by dust and spotted with rain. I wish to hell my memories would grow as dull…have surrendered hope they ever will.
Ella sees that too. More vitally, she understands. I see it in every inch of her bearing as she turns from the window back to me. While new questions flow from her eyes, her lips are firm and her bearing straight. Simply from our shared stares, she knows answers are finally going to come.
I just beg God to get me to the end.
“Cassian.”
Her voice breaks on it. My whole jaw clenches, crushing down on my hatred of the sound. I am the subject of nobody’s pity. But as she uses our joined hands to pull me across the room, I let her. When she stops before the chaise then hesitates to sit, I make the decision for us both—by falling to my knees next to it.
“Cassian.”
She utters nothing but a rasp now. I hate and cherish the sound, drawn to it like an orphan to shelter. As soon as she plummets to the chaise, her hands are in my hair and my head is in her lap. I reach up, compelled by forces I cannot control. Grip her by the ribcage, confirming she is real and warm and here. Dark sarcasm sneaks in. Fuck…I’m going to have to tell Kathryn she’s been right all these years. I’ve been living with ghosts too damn long.
But what the fuck to do with them now? I grapple for the answer past the swamp in my head and the boulders in my throat. The only path to clarity seems to lie in holding this woman harder…in breathing in her strength and warmth, wrapped tighter around me in return. The new pressure brings a strange sensation. Amazement. That she can sit here, overflowing with humanity and tenderness even after two insane months in a city that should be named Insanity, shatters my mind. That she can surround me with devotion, even sitting in a room where Lily whispers from every shadow, smashes apart my soul.
Or
maybe she’s just become as insane as the city already…
As if that matters now.
I burrow deeper against her. Battle for more eloquence than what does come out. “I don’t know…what to do with them now.”
Them.
How an attempt at confessing about Lily turned into a catch-all for Damon too is too tangled a mystery right now. Eye on the goal. You’re best at that above all, remember? In this moment, I just need to get this shit spilled—before survival instinct blasts in and shuts me down.
Because this feels a little like dying.
Maybe a lot like it.
“Cassian.”
“What?”
Yeah…my voice is now the husk, and hers the command. I ignore the recognition. And the new hammer in my blood. And the dread coiling into my grip, seeking more of her warmth.
“Just start at the beginning.”
A scrape of a laugh. “Sure, favori. I’ll get right on that.” This shit has been a part of me for so long, I have no damn idea where “the start” is.
She folds herself tighter around me. Yeah, she knows that too.
“Tell me how you and Lily met.”
Remarkably, I exhale. Unbelievably, layers of tension leave my body, too. Unreal. Is this woman actually turning my giant slab of difficult into a friendly conversation? As I breathe back in, I am suffused with her jasmine and vanilla scent. The memories start to come easier.
“I was…young. Really young.” The qualifier feels necessary. “Nash Quinn recruited me for Quantumm Corp before I finished my junior year at Fordham. He had a huge project starting with Eurail, and wanted me to be a co-project director on it.”
“Project director?” Her stare bulges. “For all of Europe?”
I shrug. Her reply lands me in more familiar territory. While it’s not new to compare an ambitious college student with a decent brain to a genius superhero, I’ve still heard every dazed gush composed on the subject. “I was very close to dropping out and accepting.”
