Hunger

Cassian’s POV

She doesn’t scream.

Doesn’t clutch a towel or cloth to her chest in a desperate attempt at modesty.

No, Reina Vale just stood there—drenched, exposed, her skin flushed from the heat of the bath. A goddess carved from defiance and misplaced courage.

And fuck, she is a sight.

I take my time, letting my gaze drag over her, unhurried and unapologetic. She’s a vision—bare, vulnerable, yet still brimming with defiance.

The way the water trails down her body, clinging to her in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to follow. The way her breathing quickens but doesn’t break, her pulse fluttering at the base of her throat like she’s fighting against her own instincts.

Fear. Desire.

Both tangled together in a way that makes my blood hum.

She should be terrified.

I killed a man right in front of her, and yet here she stands, staring at me like I’m the real danger.

Smart girl.

I let the silence stretch, drinking her in. Her fingers twitch near her thighs, the closest thing to nervousness she’s shown. But she doesn’t run. Doesn’t shrink back.

Interesting.

"Speechless, Dottoressa?" I murmur, watching the way her throat bobs as she swallows.

Her lips pressed together, drawing my attention to the way they part slightly when she exhales, like she’s considering her next words carefully.

Good.

She should.

Because there’s no correct answer here.

She either submits—drops her gaze, stammers some pathetic excuse, and gives me the satisfaction of knowing she’s unraveling.

Or she fights—keeps her chin up, dares to meet me head-on, and invites the kind of attention that will ruin her.

Her fingers tighten at her sides. A decision made.

"Do you make a habit of sneaking into women's rooms unannounced, Mr. Morelli?" Her voice is steady, clipped. A thin veil of irritation that does nothing to hide the war raging in her eyes.

My smirk deepens.

"You were late," I said simply. "I was beginning to think you've been kidnapped."

I drag my gaze over her again, slow and deliberate. "But now, I see you just got… distracted."

A muscle ticks in her jaw.

Her fingers twitch before she snatches the sheets from the bed and clutches it against her chest, her knuckles going white.

Shame.

I was enjoying the view.

I roll my wheelchair closer, closing the distance between us inch by inch. The sound of the wheels against the floorboards fills the thick silence. She doesn’t move, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s forcing herself to remain still.

"Tell me," I muse, resting my hands on the armrests, tilting my head slightly. "Is it a habit of yours to keep your employer waiting, or am I just special?"

She exhales slowly through her nose.

"I apologize for the delay, Mr. Morelli," she says, voice even. "I assumed I had more time to prepare before our session."

A perfect, polite answer.

But that’s the thing about perfect answers—

They bore me.

I lean forward, my voice dipping lower. "You assumed," I echo. "That’s your first mistake, Dottoressa."

She finally moves then. A small shift, her weight settling on the balls of her feet like she’s bracing herself.

For what? For me?

I let the thought simmer as I reach into my pocket, pulling out the gun that was used earlier, still warm from the body that was dragged away. Her gaze flickers toward it—a tell—but she doesn’t recoil.

Doesn’t flinch just as I expected.

Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, meeting my stare with a sharp, unyielding gaze.

Fascinating.

"You know what I like about you, Reina?" I muse, my fingers tracing absent patterns against the polished metal.

She doesn’t answer.

Smart girl.

"You walk into the lion’s den, knowing exactly who I am, and you still pretend you have control." I let my smirk grow, slow and wicked. "But control is an illusion, Dottoressa."

I extend the gun toward her, my grip loose, casual. An invitation.

"Here," I say smoothly. "Take it."

For the first time, she hesitates.

Ah. There it is. That flicker of uncertainty.

It’s brief—gone in the space of a breath—but I see it.

I feel it.

And it makes me hungry.

Slowly, carefully, she reaches out. Her fingers brush against the cold steel as she takes the gun from my hands, weighing it, testing it.

She doesn’t lift it. Doesn’t aim.

Instead, she just stands there, gripping the weapon like she’s holding something far more dangerous.

Not the gun.

Me.

I watch her for a long moment, watching the way her breaths come shallow, her pulse ticking faster than before.

"Do you think this makes us even?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips part slightly. “It does make you vulnerable right now, sir,” she replied boldly.

"You think this gives you power?" I lean in, just enough to let the heat of my breath graze her damp skin. "It doesn’t."

A slow, deliberate pause.

"Because you can't pull the trigger."

Her hand tightens around the gun.

Her mistake.

I move fast—grabbing her wrist, twisting it just enough to force her fingers open. The gun clatters to the floor, and before she can react, I’ve pulled her against me, her body colliding with mine, every inch of her soft heat pressed against the unyielding sharpness of me as the sheets slipped off her body.

A sharp inhale. A subtle tremor.

I grip her chin between my fingers, tilting her face up until our noses nearly touch.

Because the moment her scent—clean, sharp, still laced with the faintest hint of vanilla—hit me, something tightened in my chest. Something dark. Something possessive.

Her breath is warm against my throat, her hands splayed over my shoulders, trying to push away, but I don’t let her.

I tilt my head, my lips grazing the shell of her ear as I whisper, “Careful, Dottoressa. Fall too hard, and I might not let you get back up.”

She shudders.

Not in fear. Not quite in desire.

Something else. Something I will unravel.

“Is this your idea of therapy, Mr. Morelli?" she asks, her voice carefully measured.

I smirk. "Something like that."

But then—

The door swings open.

A sharp intake of breath slices through the room like a blade.

And I didn't have to turn to know who it was.

“Cassian?”