PRETEND IT DIDN'T HAPPEN
713 Words
Seren
By morning, the palace feels quieter—but heavier.
Some pack leaders departed before dawn, eager to return to their territories and spread the news. Others stayed, citing alliances, unfinished business, or curiosity thinly veiled as diplomacy. The North, of course, remained.
Cassius Blackwell sits across the long council table like he owns it.
I take the seat beside Elora without thinking—my place, always close enough to support, never to overshadow. Lysander sits at her other side, his presence steady, familiar. My parents and uncle are already seated, calm but alert, the way you get after surviving years of hostility disguised as tradition.
And then Cassius moves.
He takes the seat beside me.
It’s a simple thing. Unremarkable. Except the moment his arm brushes mine, heat skates up my skin like a warning.
My heart trips.
I lean just enough to murmur under my breath, “Oh goodness no. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend it didn’t happen.”
His voice comes immediately—low, unbothered, unmistakably amused.
“I think it’s a bit too late for that.”
I stiffen.
Across the table, I feel it before I see it—the shift. Elora’s gaze sharpens. My mother’s spine straightens. My uncle’s attention locks in with predatory calm. Even Lysander’s expression changes, the warmth cooling into something ancient and territorial.
Protective. All of them.
Lysander folds his hands atop the table, eyes fixed on him.
“And what exactly are your intentions,” he asks evenly, “toward my sister?”
The room goes silent.
Cassius doesn’t look away from me when he answers.
“My intentions,” he says, measured and clear, “are to accept what fate has bound, to honor it fully, and to ensure my mate is protected and provided for—without compromise.”
The words land like a stone dropped into still water.
I blink once. Then turn to him.
“Not that I need taking care of,” I say calmly, “but thanks.”
For the first time since I met him—
His lips turn up.
Not a smile. Not really.
Just enough.
And the fact that I notice it at all makes me deeply, profoundly annoyed.
The tension eases not gone, but redirected. The meeting resumes, alliances discussed, borders negotiated. Cassius speaks with precision, authority, restraint. He doesn’t interrupt unnecessarily. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t condescend.
That almost bothers me more.
When the meeting adjourns, the others linger—Elora squeezes my hand, my mother gives me the look, my uncle murmurs something about “watching closely.”
And then it’s just us.
The doors close.
CASSIUS POV
I have faced war councils, execution chambers, and grieving packs without flinching.
Standing alone with Seren is harder.
She turns toward me, arms crossed not defensively, but deliberately. Like a woman used to standing her ground.
“You speak like someone who’s used to making decisions for others,” she says.
“I am,” I reply simply.
“That won’t work with me.”
Good.
The thought surprises me.
I was raised to be harsh because harshness kept people alive. Because mercy came too late for my twin brother—barey given a chance to experience life, dead after trusting the wrong hands. Friends hands. The kind that smile while sharpening knives behind your back.
After that, everything in my life changed.
My father hardened. I was taught perfection as armor. Protect. Stop harm. Punish quickly. Never hesitate. Never assume loyalty.
Empathy was not removed—it was buried. Too dangerous to wield openly.
Seren watches me like she sees the weight, not just the blade.
“You don’t scare me,” she says quietly. “But if you try to cage me, I will leave. Bond or no bond.”
There it is.
Not a threat. A boundary.
I nod once.
“Then I won’t cage you,” I say. “But don’t mistake restraint for weakness.”
Her mouth curves—sharp, knowing.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
Something shifts in my chest. Not peace. Not yet.
But interest. Respect. Possibility.
For the first time since my brother died, the bond doesn’t feel like a loss of control.
It feels like a challenge.
And I have never turned away from those.
- Writer
