Page 24 of Bitten & Burned

It wasn’t until I stepped back inside that I realized… I had no wine glasses. The obviousness of it made me huff under my breath, as if the conservatory had somehow failed me personally.

Of course I didn’t. I hadn’t exactly stocked the conservatory like a dining room. I suppose I could drink from a mug, or straight from the bottle if no one was around. Privacy made even the smallest indulgences taste better.

I turned toward the side table, already preparing to find a clean mug—when there was a knock at the door.

I blinked. Four visitors in one evening? The universe had apparently decided my solitude was negotiable.

I opened it, slower this time.

Cassian stood there. Not imposing, not looming—just present, the way only he could be. That steady gravity of his pulled the edges of the room into place. Arms full. A folded blanket slung over one shoulder. A small basket in one hand. And in the other… a pair of glasses.

“Thought you might want something to eat,” he said, voice low and even. “No pressure to have it now.”

I stepped aside without a word, and he entered—crossing the space like he’d done it a hundred times, setting the basket down near the lounge chair without asking where. He seemed to know instinctively which surfaces would benefit from what.

From the basket, he pulled two wrapped parcels of food, a napkin-wrapped bundle of utensils, a jar of olives, and a covered tin of what smelled like still-warm bread. The scent curled up from the tin in a soft, yeasty cloud, the kind that made my stomach ache with hunger.

And finally, the wine glasses.

He set them beside the pitcher of water on my side table, giving them no more attention than if he’d placed a fork.

“I’d brought them for water,” he said quietly, without looking at the bottle in my hand. “Didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for.” His voice carried no question, just quiet accommodation.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Because it wasn’t just dinner. It was an invitation—and not the kind that demanded a yes. It was a gentle outstretched hand with no strings attached.

Cassian stepped back from the table, adjusting a fold of the blanket like it mattered.

“I’ll be outside if you want company,” he said.

I looked at the food, at the wine glasses. At him.

“You could stay,” I offered, soft and automatic. “If you want.” The offer felt too bare, too much like opening a door I didn’t know how to guard.

The words left my mouth before I could check them. I didn’t even know if I meant them.

Cassian looked at me for a moment. Not searching. Just… seeing. As if the version of me in his eyes needed no explanation.

He gave a quiet breath of a smile. Not sad, not cold. Just understanding.

“You don’t have to ask me out of politeness,” he said gently. “Not tonight.” The refusal was soft enough to land without bruise, but firm enough to hold me where I stood.

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t quite argue.

He stepped toward the door.

“You’ve had enough demands placed on you this week,” he said. “You don’t need another one in the room.” The truth of it slipped under my ribs before I could block it.

My throat tightened. I didn’t know what to say to that, either.

Cassian didn’t wait. He nodded once—gracious, as always—and let himself out.

The door clicked softly behind him.

I was alone again.

And for the first time since it all started, that felt like the right thing. Solitude, for once, didn’t feel like a punishment.

I stood alone in the conservatory, the silence expanding to comfortably fill the room.

The wine bottle was still in my hand. I hadn’t touched the food. I hadn’t sat down.

Cassian was gone.

He hadn’t said it with judgment, but his words lingered anyway: You don’t have to ask me out of politeness. Not tonight.

I didn’t want to ask anyone. Not anymore.

But I did want someone. The admission sat heavy in my chest, as if saying it—even silently—had weight.

I crossed to the table and poured a glass of wine. Just one. Slowly. Like the ritual might ground me. The swirl of red in the glass felt like it was drawing a circle I could step into and stay inside.

I didn’t drink it. Just held it for a moment, then set it down on the table beside the second empty glass Cassian had left.

I didn’t know why I didn’t put it away.

Maybe I was hoping.

I glanced toward the window. The breeze had cooled. The shadows stretched longer.

I didn’t light the lanterns yet. I liked the half-dark.

The breeze shifted. And with it—something familiar. Earth and smoke. That faint trace of cold metal and old stone. It slipped into the room like something ancient returning home.

Dmitri.

I closed my eyes. Could almost feel the weight of his hand resting beside mine, his presence so quiet I never noticed it until it was gone.

I sat down on the chaise and picked up the little rabbit. Set the river stone near the glasses like it belonged there.

I didn’t call for him.

But if he came—

I’d ask him to stay.

Something in the bond fluttered.

Not loud. Not pulling. Just a presence. Steady. Near.

Then—movement. The faint creak of the door. The hush of someone stepping inside.

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t look up right away.

I knew.

I turned my head, slowly.

Dmitri stood in the doorway.

No knock. No announcement. Just him. Big and quiet and watchful. Like he’d always belonged here.

He looked at me—not with hunger or concern, but with something steadier.

Permission.

“Hi,” I said softly.

“Hi,” he answered. Then paused. “Are you okay, Mishka?”

I nodded.

Then: “I didn’t know if you’d come.”

His shoulders lifted just slightly. “Didn’t need an invitation. I felt it.”

I swallowed. “You felt… what?”

“That you weren’t closing yourself off anymore.”

We looked at each other for a long moment. And this time, I was the one who moved first.

I reached toward him. Just held out a hand.

And he came to me—no questions, no hesitation.

Sat down beside me, solid and silent, his warmth like gravity.

I leaned into him slowly, head against his chest.

His arm wrapped around my shoulders.

Nothing demanding. Nothing tight.

Just… there.

Safe.

The kind of safe that made my bones remember how to unclench.

“Dmitri?”

“Yes, Mishka?”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Because it’s what you are. A little bear. Brave. Fierce when you need to be. But also small… and mine.”

“I don’t feel brave or fierce right now.”

“No one does all the time. Bravery’s a choice in the moment, not a constant state.”

“I just want to hide.”

“That’s okay. Little bears hide when they need to.”

“And I don’t want to talk about anything else,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

And we sat like that, while the room darkened around us.

His arm around me was solid, steady. He didn’t pull me closer. He didn’t ask for anything. Just… stayed.

I rested my head on his chest, listening to the slow, deep rhythm of his breath. Not even his heartbeat. Just his breath.

No pressure.

No need.

Just the space to exist.

I don’t know how long we sat like that. Long enough for the light to fade entirely. Long enough for the quiet to become comfortable, not heavy.

Long enough for me to know I didn’t want him to leave.

Not tonight.

I shifted slightly, lifting my head from his chest.

He looked down at me, his eyes calm, dark, unreadable in the low light—but I could feel what he wasn’t saying. The way he held still. Waiting.

I reached up. Touched his cheek.

Rough stubble met my fingers. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean in.

He just let me.

I rose up slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. A question, not a demand.

He didn’t move.

So I kissed him again.

This time, on the mouth.

Soft. Slow. Testing. My hand slid to his jaw, anchoring me. His lips parted just slightly beneath mine, but he still didn’t deepen it. He was letting me decide how far.

How much.

How fast.

And gods—there was something unbearable in that. How gently he held me, how much power he gave me just by not taking any for himself.

I leaned into him, kissed him again—longer, firmer.

He breathed out, quiet and shaky. The unsteady weight of need.

And, when I finally pulled back, he opened his eyes and looked at me like I’d just given him a gift he didn’t think he deserved.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said softly.

“I know,” I said. “But I wanted to.”

I didn’t move away. I stayed close, forehead resting against his.

His hand found mine, fingers tentative at first, then curling gently around my wrist. Like he was afraid to take too much, even now. As if he knew exactly how fragile my edges felt and didn’t want to press against them too hard.

I laced our fingers together.

He exhaled through his nose, and I felt it—warm against my cheek. His thumb brushed along my knuckles, slow and steady, grounding.

“You’ve been carrying too much,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

He pulled back just enough to see my face. His other hand came up to touch my hair, the back of his fingers ghosting along the side of my head. Soft, almost reverent.

“Let me hold some of it,” he said. “Just for a little while.”

A breath caught in my throat. I wanted to say yes. I think I already had.

“I didn’t mean to bond with all of you,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said. No hurt in his voice. No bitterness. Just certainty.

“I thought it was just going to be Vael,” I continued. “Then… it wasn’t. And I can’t fix it, I can’t undo it, I just… made a mistake. A huge, irreparable, unforgivable mistake.”

“Nothing’s irreparable,” Dmitri murmured. “I’ve been around for nearly two hundred years, and I’ve yet to see something happen that was actually irreparable.”

“Nearly two hundred years, huh?” I asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“One hundred eighty-six, if you’re counting.”

“Are you?” I asked, laughing.

“I try not to, but then again, it’s difficult not to.”

I was silent for a long moment before shaking my head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “You just have to want something real.”

I blinked at him. “And you’re real?”

His mouth quirked—not quite a smile. “Very.”

I let out a shaky breath and rested my head against his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the crown of my hair and said nothing more.

He didn’t need to.

And for the first time in days, I felt something settle in my chest.

Not peace.

But maybe the beginning of it.

A fragile, flickering thing, but mine all the same.