CYAN

Cassian didn’t look away.

He has this way of looking at you, not like he’s waiting for his turn to speak, but like he’s performing an autopsy on your thoughts.

It’s heavy. It’s unblinking. It’s the kind of stare that makes most people confess to crimes they haven’t even committed yet.

I held it for a heartbeat, maybe two, feeling the weight of it pressing against the lie I was trying to tell. Then, I did what I always do. I built a joke.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to assume you’re deeply in love with me," I said, my voice light, airy, and perfectly practiced.

I gave him a little wink, the kind that functions as a shield. "Or possibly that you’re turning into a marble statue. Either way, it’s alarming, Cassie. My ego can only handle so much tension before breakfast."

Cassian didn’t smile. He didn’t roll his eyes or offer a dry comeback. His expression stayed grave, his blue eyes anchored to mine. When Cassian stops being sarcastic, it’s usually because the truth is about to get loud.

"You know you can tell me," he said. His voice dropped an octave, moving into that quiet, private register he reserved for the two of us. "Whatever is going on. You know that, Cyan."

The words landed exactly where they always land... in the soft, unprotected center of me.

To anyone else, it was just a friend checking in.

To me, it was a specific kind of torture. It’s the agony of being known completely by the one person you’re trying to hide from.

It’s the way he looks at me like I’m something worth fixing, even when I feel like a pile of broken glass.

Internally, I was screaming. Don’t. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t use that voice. Because every time you do, it gets harder to remember the rules.

It gets harder to remember that I’ve already accepted this. I’ve accepted that we are what we are. I’ve accepted that I’m the best friend, the partner-in-crime, the one who knows where the bodies are buried.

I’d named the feeling a long time ago in the privacy of my own head, where names don’t have consequences.

I wanted him. Not just the history, not just the shared trauma, but him.

The way he tastes like whiskey, coffee and cold air. The way his hands feel when they’re holding me down so I don’t float away.

And now, there was a new fear. If he chose Noah... fully, completely, legally... then I became a ghost in his new life.

I’d be the one who watched it happen from the sidelines, smiling until my face ached, because saying anything would cost me the only person who makes the world feel real.

"I’m fine," I said, the performance seamless. I leaned back and stretched, making sure the rings on my fingers caught the light.

"Genuinely. Stop looking at me like I’m a patient in a high-end ward. It’s just the gin talking back, I promise."

Cassian watched me for one more beat. His eyes said, I don’t believe a word of that, but he let it go. He knew when to push and when to wait.

I shifted gears, leaning half across the basalt counter again, but this time my energy was sharp. Professional. "So. What’s the plan now? For both of them. The Vincenti and the Lorenzos. You’re not forgetting the Lorenzos are you?"

"No," Cassian said, his jaw tightening.

"Because the Vincenti pulled the trigger," I said, my voice steady, stripped of its usual playfulness. We spoke about this the way soldiers speak about a map. No emotion, just physics. "But Marceli Lozenzo loaded the gun. And handed it over. That’s not something you forget."

Cassian stared into his coffee. The name Julian wasn’t mentioned, but it was there, sitting at the table with us. It was always there.

"I’ve been delayed," Cassian admitted, a rare note of frustration leaking through. "My father’s work. His timelines, not mine. He likes to keep me on a leash made of executive meetings and dinner parties. But that’s changing."

"Emilio Vincenti is being careful now," I noted. "He’s gone to ground."

"Someone’s advising him," Cassian said.

"The Emilio I knew was reckless. He would have made three fatal mistakes by now. He’s made none. Which means he’s listening to someone smarter. It also means he’s scared. Scared men listen to advice, but they also resent it. Eventually, he’ll get bored of being safe and do something stupid. I’ll be there when he does."

"And Marceli?"

"After," Cassian said firmly. "In order. Emilio first. The Don of the Lorenzo family thinks he’s been careful, but he’s not as invisible as he thinks."

I felt the hum in my blood... the old, familiar thrill of the hunt. "And when you move... you’re going to call me." It wasn’t a request.

"Cyan—"

"Don’t," I snapped, cutting him off. "Don’t give me the ’it’s too dangerous’ speech. I’ve heard it. I’ve memorized it. I could perform it back to you in your own voice, complete with the brooding pauses. Drop it, Cassie. I’m in."

Cassian looked at me, calculating the risk against the reality that I’d follow him anyway. "Fine," he conceded.

I was on my feet before he could change his mind. I bypassed the chair and moved around the counter, throwing my arms around him in a full-commitment Cyan hug. I squeezed him like I was trying to fuse our atoms together.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" I chirped, kissing the side of his face, then his temple, then the top of his head. "I love you. You’re my favorite person. You’re terrible and moody and you dress like a hitman, but you’re my favorite."

Cassian didn’t move, though I felt him sigh against my ribs. He took a calm sip of his coffee while I was still attached to his neck. "Your hair is in my mouth," he said flatly.

"That’s your problem, not mine," I muffled into his shoulder, squeezing even harder.

Then, I heard it.

Footsteps in the hallway. Soft, hesitant. A voice followed, quiet and thick with sleep. "Cassian?"

We both looked toward the doorway.

Noah was standing there, and the sight of him was like a physical blow to my chest.

He was wearing an oversized black t-shirt that clearly belonged to Cassian... it hung off his frame, the hem reaching mid-thigh. He was in Cassian’s sweatpants, too, the drawstring pulled tight. His hair was a chaotic mess, his green eyes blinking against the morning light.

But it was the marks that stayed with me. Just above the collar of the shirt, on his neck and collarbone, were the faint, dark blossoms of bruises. Purple and red. Fresh.

The picture was complete. I saw the clothes. I saw the marks. I saw the way Noah occupied the doorway... not like a guest, but like someone who had found his way home. He looked comfortable. He looked claimed.

A new wave of jealousy hit me, but this one didn’t have the sharp edges of the night before. This one was heavy. It was the weight of a final realization.

This is real. Whatever was happening in this villa wasn’t a distraction or a phase. It was a foundation.

Underneath the jealousy was a quiet, aching resignation. I wanted to be happy for them. I was happy for them. Noah was good for him.

But there’s no clean name for the feeling of watching someone else wear the clothes you’ve always wanted to touch, in the house you’ve always wanted to stay in.

Cassian’s face did the thing again. The loosening. The softness. It was even more pronounced now that Noah was actually in the room.

He looked at the boy with a direct, quiet intensity that made the rest of the world... including me... fade into the background.

"Sleep well?" Cassian asked. His voice was like velvet.

"Yeah," Noah murmured, a slight flush creeping up his neck. Then he noticed me. "Oh—morning, Cyan."

I released Cassian immediately, the "Cyan" mask snapping back into place with practiced ease. I bounced over to Noah and grabbed his face with both hands, squishing his cheeks together.

"Good morning, tiny! Look at you, all cozy and domestic. It’s disgusting. I love it."

"Are you hungry?" Cassian asked Noah, already moving toward the stove with a purpose he hadn’t shown all morning.

"Not yet," Noah said, smiling shyly. "Maybe in a bit."

The exchange lasted thirty seconds. It was Remarkable for how unremarkable it was. It was just a morning. A coffee. A question about breakfast. But to me, it was a complete sentence about where I stood.

Noah turned to me then, his expression turning serious. Genuine. "Thank you," he said. "For yesterday."

I tilted my head, my rings jingling. "What did I do yesterday? I did a lot of things. Most of them involved gin."

"My brother," Noah said softly. "You punched him. Outside XUM."

The memory arrived, the man on the sidewalk, the venom in his voice, the way he’d looked at Noah like he was something to be stepped on. I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d just seen a target and hit it.

"Oh," I said, waving a hand dismissively. "That. Please. It was barely a punch. More of a corrective slap with my knuckles."

"I mean it," Noah insisted. "Genuinely. Thank you, Cyan. No one has ever... thank you."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. He meant it. He was surprised that someone had defended him. It made my heart ache in a way that had nothing to do with Cassian.

"Some people need a lesson," I said simply. I gave him a wide, sharp smile. "He was one of them. Don’t thank me, tiny. It was the highlight of my afternoon."

The decision hit me then. It was the right time to go. If I stayed, I’d just be the third wheel in a house that was built for two.

"I should go," I said, popping my neck. The performance was fully deployed now, bright, loud, and untouchable.

"Stay for breakfast," Cassian said, pausing with a frying pan in his hand.

"Can’t!" I chirped, already heading for the door. "I have plans with Reggie. He’s very sensitive about his schedule, and if I’m late, he’ll give me that look that makes me feel like a disappointed toddler. I can’t risk it."

Cassian looked at me. He knew. I could see it in the way his eyes tracked my movement. He saw the exit for what it was—a retreat. Liar, his expression said.

I didn’t meet his gaze. I squeezed Noah’s face one last time, gave Cassian a pointed "Call me" gesture, and blew a kiss to the general direction of the kitchen.

I pulled the heavy front door open and stepped out into the morning air. The sound of the door closing behind me was clean. Final.

The second the latch clicked, the mask dropped. The smile vanished. The brightness was packed away into the dark corners of my mind. I stood on the porch for a second, my rings catching the sun, and just breathed.

"I am going to need considerably more alcohol than last night," I whispered to the empty driveway. "Considerably."

Reginald was waiting by the car, his posture perfect, his face a mask of professional neutrality. But he saw me. He always saw me. He didn’t say a word as he opened the door.

I got in, the leather of the seat familiar and cold. As we pulled away, I watched the villa get smaller in the rearview mirror.

"Master Cyan?" Reginald asked softly as we hit the main road.

"Don’t, Reggie," I said, staring out the window at the passing trees. "Just drive. Fast. I want to be somewhere else."