CYAN

The sound on the glass was soft. Not a demand, just a check-in.

I turned my head and saw Reginald through the window. He looked exactly as he always did, perfectly pressed suit, posture like a ruler, and an expression of long-suffering patience that was practically an art form.

But in his eyes, there was that tiny flicker of relief. The relief of finding the thing you’re guarding hasn’t vanished overnight.

I opened the door. The morning air hit me like a slap to the face, clean and freezing.

"You’ve awakened, Master Cyan," Reginald said. His voice was formal, but it had that underlying warmth that comes from decades of putting up with my nonsense.

The switch In my head flipped. I packed away the floating man and the quiet car. I assembled the "Cyan" the world expected, the bright, erratic coat of many colors.

"Reggie!" I sat up, ignoring the way my brain sloshed against my skull. "That was genuinely one of the best sleeps I’ve had in months. The leather does something for the spine. I think I’m going to sell my bed and just buy a fleet of luxury sedans to sleep in. It’s the future."

Reginald didn’t blink. "I’m glad you rested, sir. Though I suspect your chiropractor might disagree." He paused, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled state. "How are you feeling?"

I considered the question for a second longer than I should have. "Terrible," I said with a wide, manic grin. "Magnificently, spectacularly terrible. My head is a construction site."

I stood up, stretching until my bones made a series of alarming popping sounds. "Prepare the car once I’m human again. And tea. The good one. The one that smells like a sweet fruit, not the sensible green stuff."

"Of course, sir," Reginald said. "Will you be viewing the second property today? The consultant is expecting a call..."

"Later," I said, already walking toward the massive stone entrance of the mansion. "I want to see Cassian’s new place first. I need to make sure he hasn’t decorated it like a funeral home."

The mansion was technically my father’s. The Prime Minister doesn’t just "visit" cities; he occupies them. This house was a fortress of marble and inherited status, and it was mine because I was convenient and because my father had more houses than he had children to put in them.

My room was a disaster zone of my own making. It was a collection of unpacked things, rare books I hadn’t finished, silk scarves, vintage cameras, and bottles of perfume that cost more than some people’s rent. Most people would call it clutter. I called it necessary. It was a barricade against the emptiness.

I showered until the water turned cold. I left my pink hair down today, no braids, no pins. Cassian always pretended not to notice when I changed my hair, which was how I knew he noticed it every single time.

I applied just enough makeup to hide the fact that I’d slept in a car, but enough to ensure that if I walked into a room, I was the only thing anyone saw. The outfit was a deliberate provocation, something that made Reginald’s mouth go into a straight, professional line while his eyes screamed "Why?"

Perfect.

Cassian’s new place was in a different world than my father’s mansion. It wasn’t about old money and stone gates; it was about modern lines, glass, and a very specific, masculine aesthetic. It was beautiful in a way that made me want to touch everything.

As the car pulled up, I stepped out and just looked at it. I didn’t filter it. I saw the way the light hit the proportions of the windows, the way the plants had been chosen by someone who actually cared about the texture of the leaves, not just the price tag. It didn’t look like a decorator had done it. It looked like him.

"The lines are delicious, Reggie," I said, my voice trailing off as I walked toward the door. "Look at the joinery on that overhang. It’s almost pornographic."

"I shall take your word for it, sir," Reginald murmured from the car.

I pressed the doorbell and waited. It only took a few seconds before the door swung open.

Cassian stood there. He looked exactly like Cassian, dark hair, a face that looked like it had been carved out of granite, and an unamused expression that was his default setting for 90% of human interaction.

I didn’t wait for a "hello." I launched myself at him.

I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, deploying the full, chaotic weight of my greeting. "CASSIE!"

He staggered back a step, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp huff. He didn’t push me away. He never pushed me away, even when he was pretending to be annoyed. His large hands came up to steady me, gripping my thighs to keep me from sliding down.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. His voice was flat, but I could hear the familiar thread of resignation in it.

"Visiting! Obviously!" I stayed hooked onto him like a koala. "I wanted to see the villa. It’s so beautiful, Cassie. Did you design it yourself? Or did you just tell an architect to make it look like your soul, dark, expensive, and intimidating? Also, I missed you. Also, I had a terrible night. Also, "

"Also, you’re heavy," Cassian interrupted, though he began walking back into the house without putting me down.

The interior was just as good as the outside. It smelled like cedar and fresh coffee. He carried me into the kitchen, where a high-end espresso machine was already hissing on the counter.

"Do you want coffee, or are you going to continue being a backpack?" he asked.

"Coffee," I said, nodding enthusiastically against his shoulder.

He set me down in a sleek, minimalist kitchen chair. I watched him move. He moved with a heavy, certain grace that always made me feel grounded. He passed me a cup, black, no sugar, exactly how he knew I needed it when I looked this "bright."

The morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, clean and sharp. It was the good kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t feel like a threat because the right person is in the room to share it with.

I looked at him over the rim of the cup. His eyes, that intense, sharp blue, were watching me. Those eyes made my heart do a very inconvenient, very rapid thud against my ribs. I remembered those eyes in the dark, and I remembered his hands, those large, certain hands that knew exactly how to quiet the noise in my head by giving me something else to focus on.

Already, the volume was turning down. The floating man was gone. The construction site in my head was closing for the day.

"So," I said, leaning forward, "tell me everything. Who did you kill to get this view?"

Cassian sat opposite me, his own cup in hand, and for the first time that morning, the world felt like it was finally in the right place.