Chapter 3
1267 Words
Cassian let out a small, quiet chuckle.
It was a terrifying sound completely devoid of any real amusement, sterile and dry, barely a puff of cold air passing through his teeth.
It was the laugh of a man who looked at my threat of murder and saw nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum.
"Do you truly believe you could bring yourself to kill me, Athanasia?" he asked, his voice entirely even.
He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, his icy blue-green eyes slowly traveled down my body.
There was no warmth in his gaze, no passion just a cold, clinical assessment.
He looked at me the way an art collector might examine a sculpture they had just purchased, checking for cracks in the marble.
"You have decent curves," he remarked, his tone flat, as if he were reading a bulleted list of my features.
"Wide hips. You’ll be fit to bear the Hestia name and my heirs."
A spike of pure, burning disgust flared in my chest, cutting through the chill of the room.
"I am not some cheap breeder for your seed, Cassian," I spat, my knuckles turning white as I clutched the torn, ruined bodice of my wedding gown against my chest.
Cassian’s eyes narrowed slightly, a shadow of dark intent crossing his features.
"You are whatever this contract requires you to be."
Slowly, his hands moved to his neck. He reached up and loosened the silk tie he had worn all day, pulling it free from his collar with a smooth, fluid tug before tossing it onto the floor.
It landed softly near the scattered pearl buttons of my dress.
Then, his fingers dropped to his waist.
*Clack.*
The heavy silver buckle of his leather belt unclasped, the metallic sound echoing sharply in the quiet room.
He slowly pulled the leather strap through the loops of his trousers, the slide of the material sounding like a warning.
I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat.
My face must have betrayed me. I could feel the blood rushing away from my skin, leaving me cold and pale, my eyes wide with a mix of shock and rising panic.
My chest heaved against the tight silk of my corset slip.
I was a Sinclair, raised in the same high-society circles as him, but I had never felt so utterly powerless, so desperately cornered.
I did not want this.
I did not want him.
The thought of his hands on me cold, demanding, and full of hatred made my stomach churn.
Cassian stepped closer, the belt hanging loosely from his hand.
He looked down at my pale, trembling face, his expression completely unyielding.
"So," he said, his voice dropping to a low, commanding whisper.
"Are you going to strip, or do I need to help you?"
Panic surged through me like a physical shock.
As he took another step forward, I instinctively scrambled away from the vanity, backing deeper into the room.
My feet tangled in the heavy, ruined train of my gown, but I kept moving, putting the massive king-sized bed and the bedside table between us.
My back hit the edge of the mattress, and my hands scrambled behind me to steady myself.
That was when my fingers brushed against the cold edge of a silver platter resting on the bedside table.
I glanced down for a split second.
Resting on the platter was a single green apple, and wedged deep into its flesh was a small, sharp paring knife.
Without taking my eyes off him, I wrapped my fingers tightly around the silver hilt.
I pulled it free.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Cassian said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.
He didn't even stop walking.
I raised the knife, pointing the sharp silver blade directly at his chest.
My hand trembled, but I forced my voice to stay ice-cold.
"Step back, Cassian.
I swear to God, I will puncture holes in you if you come any closer."
He didn't blink.
He didn't hesitate.
In a fraction of a second, before I could even register the movement, Cassian closed the distance.
His hand shot forward like a striking viper his left hand clamped around my right wrist with brutal, bruising force, squeezing the nerve just enough to make my fingers instantly lose their grip.
With his right hand, he caught the hilt of the knife before it could even hit the floor.
It was a seamless, military-grade disarming technique, executed without him breaking a single sweat.
With the same fluid, terrifying momentum, he used his grip on my wrist to push me backward.
My knees hit the mattress, and I fell flat onto the bed, the heavy silk and torn lace of my gown pooling around me.
With a flick of his wrist, Cassian tossed the paring knife across the room.
It clattered sharply against the marble fireplace in the distance and slid out of sight.
Before I could scramble away, he climbed onto the bed, towering over me.
He pinned me beneath him, his heavy, suffocating frame trapping me against the mattress, completely cutting off any escape.
His right hand shot down, wrapping firmly around the front of my throat.
He didn't choke me, but his grip was tight and unyielding, a heavy, restrictive band that pinned my head to the pillows.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his blue-green eyes dark with a cold, mocking fury.
"I told you to be a good girl, Athanasia," he whispered, his grip tightening just a fraction, "but you are acting like an incredibly stubborn b***h right now."
Panic and fury flared inside me.
I brought my hands up, clawing desperately at his forearm, my nails digging into his skin to pry his hand off my neck.
It was like trying to move solid marble.
He was entirely too strong, his muscles locked in place.
Amused by my struggle, he seized both of my wrists in his left hand, pinning them firmly above my head against the pillows.
He let go of my throat.
I instantly gasped for air, coughing violently as the oxygen rushed back into my lungs.
My chest heaved under the delicate, bone-white silk corset slip the thin, minimalist fabric offering absolutely no protection against the cold room or his heavy gaze.
"If you want to kill me so badly, why did you even marry me?" I choked out between rough coughs, glaring up at him with raw, unadulterated hatred.
"You are cruel, Cassian. You’re a monster. I hate you. I hate everything about you."
He didn't look offended. In fact, a dark, slow smirk spread across his face.
Slowly, his free right hand settled against my bare stomach, just above the hem of my silk slip.
His fingertips traced a slow, agonizingly deliberate path upward, sliding over the smooth silk, mapping the curve of my waist until they rested just beneath my chest.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear, though his voice remained as cold as ice.
"I married you because you are a Sinclair, and our families needed a union," he murmured, his hand shifting to grip me through the thin, bra-less silk of my slip, his hold possessive and entirely dominant.
"And because you are going to give me an heir. So tell me, Athanasia... how many rounds of this do you think you can take before I lock you in this room and make sure you're pregnant?"
My breath hitched sharply in my throat, my heart hammering like a trapped bird beneath his hand.
- Writer
