Chapter 6 – Rule Number One: Don’t Fall in Love
1443 Words
The convoy pulled back into the underground garage just after one-thirty a.m.
I was still buzzing, skin too tight, blood too loud. My ears rang with the echo of a hundred predatory heartbeats and the memory of Cassian’s hand on the back of my neck like a brand.
He walked me to the private elevator without a word. The doors closed. The silence between us crackled.
I watched the numbers climb—50, 60, 70—until the penthouse swallowed us again.
Cassian shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket the second we stepped inside, tossed it over a chair like it hadn’t cost more than a car. Rolled his sleeves higher, exposing those scarred forearms that made my mouth dry.
“Drink?” he asked.
I shook my head. My voice felt borrowed. “I’m good.”
He studied me for a long second, golden eyes unreadable, then nodded once and disappeared down the hall. I heard ice clink, the low pour of whiskey, the soft thud of a glass on marble.
And then nothing.
I was alone.
I kicked off the heels in the foyer, left them where they fell like crimson evidence, and padded barefoot across the cold floor until I reached the wall of windows.
The city glittered below, indifferent and endless. I pressed my forehead to the glass and waited for the freak-out that was supposed to come.
It didn’t.
I had just spent four hours surrounded by actual werewolves. I’d watched a woman’s pupils slit vertical when she got angry. I’d felt the floor vibrate when Cassian’s power flexed. I’d smelled blood and pine and dominance so thick it coated my tongue.
And I hadn’t screamed.
Hadn’t run.
Hadn’t even wanted to.
I waited for the panic, the tears, the what-the-hell-is-happening-to-my-life meltdown.
Instead I felt… steady.
Like the floor under my feet had finally stopped tilting.
“That’s not normal,” I whispered to my reflection in the glass.
Normal people would be rocking in a corner right now. Normal people would be Googling “nearest exorcist” or calling their therapist or at least throwing up from sheer adrenaline.
I felt like I’d come home after a really intense concert—wired, alive, weirdly at peace.
I laughed once, soft and shaky. “You’ve read too many damn paranormal romances, Aurora.”
That had to be it. Years of devouring rejected-mate, fated-mate, enemies-to-lovers books had desensitized me. My brain had simply filed tonight under “finally living the trope and moved on.
Except…
Except I could still feel the exact spot on my neck where Cassian’s thumb had rested during dinner. A phantom pressure, warm and possessive. My skin there felt hypersensitive, almost aching for more.
Except when that blonde—Seraphina, I think her name was—had leaned across the table and hissed “human” like a curse, something inside me had answered with a low, rumbling calm. Not fear. Not even anger. Just… certainty. Like a voice in the back of my head had whispered: Try me.
Except every time Cassian’s power had flared tonight, the air thickening of the air, the way lesser wolves dropped their gazes, the way the chandeliers trembled—I hadn’t wanted to shrink from it.
I’d wanted to lean into it.
I pressed both palms to the cool glass and closed my eyes.
Get it together. You’re human. You’re the weak link here. You’re the one they want gone.
But the words felt hollow.
I wandered back through the penthouse like a ghost, trailing my fingers over marble and leather and things that cost more than my life. Ended up in the bedroom that was supposedly mine.
The red dress slid off my shoulders and pooled on the floor like spilled blood. I stepped out of it, left it there, and walked to the en-suite in just the black lace panties the stylist had bullied me into.
The mirror was merciless under the soft lights.
Same freckles. Same hazel eyes. Same mouth he’d kissed until it bruised.
But the girl staring back looked different.
Shoulders straighter.
Chin higher.
Something quiet and watchful behind the eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.
I lifted my hair off my neck and turned my head.
There—where Cassian’s hand had rested—was the faintest pink mark. Not a bruise. Not fingerprints. Just a flush, like the skin itself had decided to remember him.
A soft knock at the bedroom door made me jump.
Cassian’s voice came through, low and rough. “You decent?”
I snorted. “Define decent.”
He opened the door anyway.
He’d lost the vest and tie. Shirt unbuttoned halfway, revealing the top of that wolf tattoo that haunted my dreams. He held two bottles of water and looked like he’d been arguing with himself the whole way here.
He stopped when he saw me standing there in nothing but panties and moonlight.
His throat worked. “Christ, Aurora.”
I didn’t cover myself. Didn’t want to. The realization hit me like a second heartbeat.
I liked the way he looked at me.
Like I was oxygen and he’d been drowning for years.
He cleared his throat, stepped inside, and set one bottle on the dresser. “Hydrate. You barely drank anything tonight.”
I took a lot out of you.”
I took the bottle but didn’t open it. “Why am I not freaking out?”
He went still. “What?”
“Tonight. All of it. Werewolves. Power. Threats. You.” I gestured vaguely at the space between us. “I should be losing my mind. I should be calling Lila to come get me with her wolfsbane canister. But I’m… calm. And that’s terrifying me more than anything else.”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, wariness, maybe even hope.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Maybe you’re stronger than you think.”
“Or maybe I’m broken.”
He shook his head once. “You’re not broken.”
“Then what am I?”
He looked at me for a long moment, eyes glowing faintly gold in the dark.
“Mine,” he said simply.
The word settled over me like a blanket made of fire.
I should have hated it. Should have thrown the water bottle at his head.
Instead my pulse stuttered and something deep inside my chest stretched, slow and luxurious, like a cat waking up.
I took one step toward him.
He tensed, every line of his body going predator-still.
“Rule number one,” I said quietly. “No falling in love. That was my rule, remember?”
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “I remember.”
“Good.” I took another step. Close enough now to see the muscle ticking in his jaw. “Because I’m starting to think my body didn’t get the memo.”
His breath hitched.
I reached up, slowly, and touched the place on my neck that still tingled. “What is this?”
He swallowed hard. “My mark. Not a claiming bite. Just… scent. Claim enough that no one will touch you.”
I traced the faint flush with my own fingers. “It feels like it’s burning.”
“It’s supposed to.”
We stared at each other across six inches of charged air.
I don’t know who moved first.
Maybe both of us.
One second we were apart, the next his hands were on my waist, my back against the dresser, his mouth hovering a breath from mine.
“Don’t,” he growled, voice shredded. “Don’t start this unless you want me to finish it.”
My nails dug into his shirt. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He laughed, low and tortured. “Liar.”
Then he stepped back, hands clenched at his sides, breathing like he’d run ten miles.
“Separate bedrooms,” he rasped. “Your rule.”
I nodded, throat dry.
He backed toward the door, eyes never leaving mine. “Sleep, Aurora. Tomorrow the real games begin.”
The door closed softly behind him.
I stood there for a long time, heart hammering, skin on fire, wondering why the word mine felt less like a cage and more like the answer to a question I hadn’t known I was asking.
And somewhere deep, deep inside, something ancient stirred again.
Not fear.
Recognition.
I pressed a hand to my chest, whispered to the empty room, “What the hell are you?”
The only answer was the soft, steady thrum of a second heartbeat that wasn’t the baby’s.
It was mine.
And it was answering his.
- Writer
