CHAPTER 3
509 Words
Day 2 – 7:04 a.m.
The fire was ash when Evie woke.
Cassian was gone.
She was alone on the rug, wrapped in the blanket like a burrito, his scent (pine, smoke, something metallic) still clinging to the wool. The room was arctic. Her breath fogged.
She sat up fast, scanning. Bed untouched. Bathroom door open, dark. No sound except the low mechanical heartbeat of the house.
For one irrational second, panic clawed her throat: he’d left. He’d walked out, taken the money, condemned her to guardianship like a child.
Then she heard it: the rhythmic thud of fists on leather.
Downstairs.
She pulled on thick socks and his stolen sweater (because f**k him) and followed the sound.
The gym was in the old ballroom (mirrors cracked, chandeliers wrapped in dust sheets). Cassian had dragged a heavy bag from somewhere and hung it from a chandelier chain. Shirtless. Taped hands. Moving like violence was a language he was fluent in.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Elbow. The bag swung hard enough to crack ribs.
Sweat poured down his spine, tracing every ridge of muscle, every scar. There were dozens. Burns, blades, bullet grazes. A roadmap of places he’d been asked to die and refused.
He didn’t stop when she stepped into the doorway.
Evie leaned against the frame and watched him try to punch the last twenty-four hours out of his body.
After five minutes he spoke without turning.
“Sleep okay, princess?”
“Like a baby,” she lied. “You?”
“Didn’t.”
Another vicious combo. The chain groaned.
She walked closer. “We need to talk strategy.”
He caught the bag, stilled it, finally looked at her. Chest heaving. Eyes flat and lethal.
“Strategy,” he repeated. “You mean how fast you can spread your legs so we can both get out of this nightmare?”
The slap echoed before she felt her hand move.
His head barely turned with the impact. A red print bloomed on his cheekbone.
Cassian smiled. Slow. Terrifying.
“There she is.”
Evie’s palm stung. Her voice didn’t shake.
“Touch me again without permission and I’ll cut your balls off and feed them to the wolves in the north paddock.”
He stepped forward until the toes of her socks touched his boots.
“Wolves are dead,” he said quietly. “I checked yesterday. Starved in their cages. Your father liked watching things die slow.”
Something cold slithered down her spine.
Cassian leaned in, lips brushing her ear.
“And for the record, little sister, when I touch you, you’ll ask nicely. Maybe even beg.”
He walked past her, shoulder brushing hers hard enough to make her stumble.
Evie stood rooted, pulse roaring, cheeks burning with rage and something darker.
She looked at the heavy bag still swaying.
Then she ripped the tape off his abandoned roll, wrapped her own hands, and started hitting until her knuckles split.
Upstairs, a new red light blinked awake in the bedroom ceiling.
The audience was growing.
- Writer
