Chapter 6 Chapter 6

CASSIAN'S POV

I should have said no.

Every rational bone in my body was screaming it. My future. My reputation. My carefully constructed life that had taken twenty years to build. All of it would go up in flames if I agreed to whatever sick game Dominic Costello was playing.

But my phone was in his hand.

And my name was still on that project list.

And his arm was wrapped around my waist like a steel band, and his chest was warm against my back, and I couldn't think straight with him breathing against my neck like that.

"No."

The word came out weaker than I intended. Less like a refusal and more like a question.

Dominic laughed softly. The sound vibrated through me, and I hated how my body responded to it. How my spine straightened. How my pulse quickened.

"No?" He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. "You're sure about that?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay." He shrugged, actually shrugged and reached for something on the coffee table. His phone. The one he'd planted in my backpack. "I guess I'll just send this video to your father, then. The one from the party. You know, the one where you're skulking around in a mask like a little creep."

My blood turned to ice.

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?" He was already scrolling, his thumb hovering over the screen. "Your dad's a busy man, isn't he? Running that restaurant empire. I bet he'd love to see what his golden boy gets up to when he's not studying."

"Dominic."

"What about the dean? Should I send it to the dean instead? I'm sure the university would love to know that one of their top students spends his free time stalking people and setting up hidden cameras."

"Dominic."

His thumb moved.

I grabbed his wrist before I could stop myself. My fingers wrapped around the bone, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath the skin. His eyes dropped to where we were connected, and something in his expression shifted. Softened, almost.

"One month," he said quietly. "That's all I'm asking."

"A month of what, exactly?" My voice cracked on the last word. I hated it. Hated him. Hated how small I sounded. "What do you even want from me?"

He was quiet for a long moment. His free hand came up slowly, like he was approaching a frightened animal and pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. The gesture was so gentle, so unexpectedly tender, that I forgot to flinch.

"Everything," he said finally. "I want everything, Cassian."

My name in his mouth sounded different than it did anywhere else. Heavier. More significant. Like he was claiming each syllable as he spoke it.

"I don't understand you." The admission slipped out before I could catch it. "I've never understood you. Not since we were fifteen. You hate me, or you or you something me, and I can't figure out which, and it's driving me insane."

"I don't hate you."

"Then what?"

He didn't answer. Just looked at me with those dark eyes, his thumb still resting against the frame of my glasses, his breath warm on my face.

I realized, suddenly, how close we were.

His lap beneath me. His arm around my waist. His hand on my face. I was practically curled against his chest like a cat, and when had that happened? When had I stopped fighting?

"You need to let me go," I said.

"Do I?"

"Yes." I pushed against his chest again. This time, he let me move, just enough to create a few inches of space between us. "This is insane. You're insane. I can't just…I can't agree to something when I don't even know what it means."

Dominic considered this. His hand dropped from my glasses, but the other one stayed firmly on my hip.

“How about this," he said. "One month. You do what I say, when I say it. No questions. No arguments. And at the end of the month, I return your phone, remove your name from the project, and leave you alone forever."

Forever.

The word should have been a relief. It was what I'd wanted for years for Dominic Costello to finally get bored of me and move on to someone else. Anyone else.

So why did my chest ache at the thought?

"And if I refuse?"

“Then I send the video." His voice was matter-of-fact. Unapologetic. "Your father sees it. The dean sees it. Maybe the whole university sees it. Your precious internship goes up in smoke, and your reputation follows right behind it."

"You're blackmailing me."

"I'm negotiating with you." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"The difference is that I'm giving you a choice. You can say no. You can walk out that door right now, and I won't stop you." He gestured toward the entrance with his chin. "But if you walk, the video walks with you."

I stared at him.

He stared back.

The air between us crackled with something I couldn't name. Tension. Anticipation. The sense that whatever I decided in the next few seconds would change everything.

"You're a monster," I said finally.

"I know."

"You enjoy this. Watching me squirm. Having power over me."

"I enjoy you." His voice dropped. "Everything else is just... strategy."

I should have walked out.

Every instinct told me to stand up, grab my phone, his phone, the one he'd planted and smash it against the wall. To scream and fight and make him regret ever crossing me. To call my father and confess everything and deal with the consequences like an adult.

But I didn't.

Because some part of me, some dark, shameful part I'd been ignoring for years wanted to know what would happen next.

"One month," I said.

His eyes lit up.

"One month," I repeated, "and you leave me alone forever. No more projects. No more parties. No more showing up where I am and pretending it's a coincidence. You disappear from my life completely.

"Completely," he agreed.

"And you give me back my phone. The real one. Not the decoy you planted in my bag."

"Of course."

"And you delete that video. Every copy. Every backup. I want it gone."

Dominic's smile widened. "Whatever you say, sunshine."

"Stop calling me that."

"Make me."

I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already moving, shifting me off his lap and setting me on the couch beside him. The loss of contact was jarring. Empty. I immediately missed the warmth of his chest against my back, and I hated myself for it.

"First rule," he said, standing up and stretching his arms above his head. His t-shirt rode up, exposing a strip of toned stomach. I looked away. "You show up at my apartment every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 7pm. No excuses. No cancellations."

"For what?"

"You'll find out."

“Second rule?"

He walked over to a cabinet near the window and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Two glasses. He poured with practiced ease, sliding one across the coffee table toward me.

"You don't ask questions unless I tell you to."

I stared at the glass. "I'm not drinking that."

"You are."

"I don't drink whiskey."

"You do now."

"Dominic…"

"Third rule." He settled back onto the couch, the couch, I was still sitting on the couch and took a long sip from his glass. His eyes never left mine. "You don't lie to me. Not about where you are. Not about what you're feeling. Not about anything."

"What I'm feeling?"

"Was I unclear?"

"Yes. You were unclear. You're always unclear." I stood up abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. The whiskey sat untouched on the table. "You show up with these vague demands and these, these looks and you expect me to just go along with it like some kind of puppet."

"I expect you to trust me."

"Trust you?" I laughed. The sound was hollow, bitter. "You've spent five years making my life miserable. You've blackmailed me. You've humiliated me. And now you want me to trust you?"

Dominic set down his glass.

When he stood, he towered over me. Six inches taller. Fifty pounds heavier. All muscle and menace and that ridiculous snake tattoo I could see curling up the back of his neck.

"I've never made your life miserable," he said quietly. "I've made it interesting. There's a difference."

"There is no.."

"You were bored, Cassian." He took a step closer. I took one back. "You were going through the motions. Getting perfect grades. Following your father's plan. Living a life that someone else picked out for you."

"That's not…"

"You weren't happy." Another step. Another step back. My shoulders hit the wall. "You haven't been happy since I've known you. And I've known you for a long time."

His hands came up on either side of my head, caging me in. His forearms bracketed my shoulders. His body blocked out the light.

"You can be angry at me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You can hate me. You can punch me and scream at me and call me every name you can think of. But don't stand there and tell me I'm the reason you're unhappy."

I couldn't breathe.

He was too close. Too warm. Too much. His scent filled my lungs, cedar and whiskey and something underneath that was just him. His eyes were dark and serious, no trace of the usual mockery.

"I'm not unhappy," I whispered.

"You're not happy either."

I didn't have an answer for that.

Dominic held my gaze for a long moment. Then he stepped back, releasing me from his cage, and the air rushed back into my lungs so fast I nearly choked on it.

“Monday," he said, picking up his whiskey glass like nothing had happened. "7pm. Don't be late."

He walked toward the door and held it open. An obvious dismissal.

I should have left. I should have grabbed the decoy phone, my temporary phone, whatever and walked out and never looked back. But my feet wouldn't move.

“What happens if I say no?" I asked. "Not to the whole deal. To one of the rules. What happens?"

Dominic's smile returned. Slow. Dangerous. Full of promise.

"You don't want to find out, sunshine."

I picked up the whiskey glass. Drank it in one burning gulp. The liquid seared my throat and warmed my stomach and did absolutely nothing to calm my nerves.

Then I walked to the door.

Stopped beside him.

Looked up into those dark, knowing eyes.

"One month," I said.

"One month," he agreed.

"And then you're out of my life forever."

His smile didn't waver. But something flickered in his eyes, something that looked almost like sadness before he masked it.

"Whatever you say, Cassian."

I walked out.

The door closed behind me.

And I stood in the hallway of his ridiculously expensive building, leaning against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe.

What had I just agreed to?

What had I just done?

My reflection stared back at me from the gold elevator doors* flushed cheeks, messy hair, glasses askew. I looked like someone who had been thoroughly debauched. And all we'd do

ne was talk.

I pushed the button for the ground floor.

The elevator arrived. I stepped inside. The doors closed.

And somewhere behind me, in a penthouse at the top of the building, I could have sworn I heard Dominic Costello laughing.