Chapter 3

The East Wing was quiet at night. Alessia sat on the edge of her narrow bed with her knees drawn toward her chest, staring at the wooden door.

The thin blanket around her shoulders did little against the creeping cold. A guard’s boots passed outside — once, twice, then silence.

She hadn’t left her room since dinner. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those silver eyes at the end of the table.

Cassian hadn’t looked at her like a man looking at a woman, he had looked at her as though deciding what she was worth.

She had spent her entire life learning how to stay unnoticed. Antonio liked obedience, Elena liked submission and Bianca liked having someone weaker to torment. Cassian seemed to like none of those — he simply commanded fear without effort.

A floorboard creaked outside, making her head snap toward the door. Then someone knocked.

“Alessia?”

She recognized the voice. “Marta?”

“Yes.”

Alessia relaxed slightly. Marta was one of the older kitchen maids who occasionally slipped her extra bread. “What is it?”

“The Don’s wife wants the laundry sorted in the utility room,” Marta said through the door. “She said not to make her wait,” Marta said.

Alessia slid from the bed, her feet hitting the freezing floor. “I’m coming.”

She opened the door. Marta stood outside, looking tired. “You look pale. Go,” Marta whispered. I’ll see if I can get you something warm later.”

“Thank you.”

Alessia stepped into the corridor, keeping her face down as she passed two armed guards. The utility room was on the other side of the central hall. As she crossed near the courtyard, she caught sight of someone on the upper balcony.

Cassian stood under the stone arch, leaning against a pillar in a dark grey shirt with a cigarette burning between his fingers. As Alessia passed, he lifted his eyes and found hers immediately.

Her stomach dropped. She looked away at once, walking faster. When she reached the far corridor she looked over her shoulder — he was still there, smoking and watching her. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress as she hurried into the shadows.

—

By midnight, Alessia could barely feel her arms. She had spent hours sorting laundry, folding sheets and carrying baskets.

When she finally finished, she carried the last basket down the almost dark utility corridor toward the servant staircase.

The moment she turned the corner, a man stepped away from the wall.

Alessia stopped so abruptly the basket slipped from her hands, spilling folded linens across the stone. Her heart slammed against her chest as she recognized Cassian.

He stood in the narrow passage, blocking her path. She stepped backward until her shoulders hit the wall.

“Cassian.” her voice barely came out.

He stared at her in the dim light , then reached into his pocket. Alessia flinched in terror and a faint crease appeared between his brows.

He pulled out a small leather pouch of tobacco, calming rolling a cigarette between his fingers with steady hands. Alessia watched as he opened it.

Tobacco.

He took a thin sheet of rolling paper and began preparing a cigarette. His hands were steady. He struck a match against the stone, the sudden orange flare illuminating his hard jaw and cold silver eyes.

Cassian lit the cigarette, dropped the match, and took a slow drag.

“Can… can I pass?” she whispered. “Please.”

Cassian took another drag, letting smoke curl from his mouth. “Why are you always afraid?”

When she didn’t respond, he took a step toward her. Alesia pressed harder against the wall. He stopped close enough that she had to tilt her head to look at him, his eyes settling on the pulse beating rapidly in her throat.

“Leave it,” he ordered quietly when she raised a hand to cover her neck. Her hand dropped reluctantly, smoke drifted toward her face. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not,” she whimpered.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She turned her face away. His hand suddenly came up, making her jerk back, but his fingers hovered without touching her before dropping away. An expression of mild irritation crossed his face. “You’re scared of everything.”

“I’m not.”

“Good,” Cassian said. He stepped back and gestured toward the floor. “Pick them up.”

“What?”

He tilted his chin toward the spilled linens. Alessia crouched immediately, gathering the sheets with shaking hands while he watched. When she reached for the final piece, Cassian’s shoe came into view beside her.

“Look at me.”

Slowly, she raised her head. Cassian crouched down, bringing his face leveled with hers.

“Do you know what I hate about frightened people?” his voice dropped low. “They lie.”

Alessia swallowed. “I… I haven’t lied.”

“Everyone lies.” He stood up, stepping around her.

Alessia watched him walk toward the end of the corridor, assuming he was leaving. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Next time you see me, don’t run.”

Alessia stared at him from the floor. “Why?”

Cassian’s expression went blank. “Because I’ll assume you’re hiding something, Dolcezza.”

Then he disappeared into the darkness.

Alessia stayed on the floor, listening until his footsteps faded completely.

Her hands were shaking so violently she had dropped half the linens again. She gathered them slowly, hugging the basket against her chest.

Cassian didn’t scream, strike her, or touch her, yet he could stand in a dark hallway and make her feel entirely trapped. And now he had given her an order that terrified her.

Don’t run.

Men like Cassian didn’t give warnings for nothing — they gave them because they expected total obedience.