Page 44

FORTY-FOUR

CASSIAN

C assian hadn’t ever known peace.

Not real peace. Not the kind you could taste on your tongue or feel pressing quiet into your bones. He’d had breathers. Pauses in the storm, when war didn’t gnash at his heels and ghosts didn’t whisper his name in the dark. But never peace.

Until now.

He watched her from the balcony.

Seraphine stood at the edge, wind tangling in her hair, her new crown resting crooked on her head like she dared anyone to try and straighten it. She was half in armor, half in rebellion—bare feet on stone, a blade strapped to her thigh, and a warmth in her eyes that didn’t belong to a queen.

It belonged to the woman who’d burned down a world just to save him.

Gods, he was in love with her.

Two weeks. Fourteen days of watching her bear the weight of a kingdom on her shoulders while acting like it didn’t cut into her bones.

She didn’t complain. Didn’t falter. But he saw it.

In the late hours when she thought no one was looking.

In the way she reached for him in her sleep and never quite let go.

So he got her out of the damn war room today. Dragged her up the cliffs where the old ruins watched over the sea and told her—no arguing, no politics, no court games—she was going to sit still and breathe.

She hadn’t slapped him. He took that as progress.

Cassian stepped forward now, slow and quiet, until he stood just behind her. His hand brushed hers, fingers curling gently around her wrist.

“You look like you’re waiting for something,” he said softly.

Seraphine tilted her head just enough to glance at him, eyes tired but full of that defiance he adored. “Waiting to see how long it takes for someone to bring me another fire to put out.”

Cassian chuckled under his breath. “You know, you could just let it burn sometimes.”

“That’s your strategy,” she said, turning to face him fully now. “Not mine.”

“No,” he murmured, his voice quieter than before. “My strategy’s always been to survive.”

She studied him for a long moment. The wind caught her hair, sent it whipping around her face like flames, and her lips parted slightly, like she knew something he hadn’t said yet.

Cassian reached into his coat pocket. His hands, always steady in battle, trembled now. Just a bit. Just enough to piss him off.

“I don’t have a fancy speech,” he said, stepping closer. “No rehearsed words or poetic bullshit. I’m not built for that.”

Seraphine blinked, her brows dipping slightly.

He held up his hand. A small ring sat in his palm—simple, dark steel, carved with storm runes and etched with one small dragon-scale in the center. Nothing extravagant. Nothing gilded.

But it burned like fire between them.

“I love you,” he said. “I’ve loved you since you yelled at me in the middle of a godsdamn battlefield and told me to stop bleeding.”

Her breath hitched. He saw it—saw the way she swayed, like she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or break.

“I’ve died for you,” he continued, stepping even closer, “and I’d do it again. But I’d rather live with you. If you’ll have me. Not as a prince. Not as a weapon. Just… me.”

Cassian swallowed, voice rough now. “Will you marry me, Seraphine Drakar? Or are you gonna make me fight the dragon to earn it?”

She stared at the ring. Then at him. Her throat worked as she swallowed, hard. “You idiot,” she whispered.

His brow twitched. “That a yes?”

She reached for him then—fast and fierce.

Her fingers caught the front of his shirt like she might tear right through it, dragging him down without ceremony, without hesitation.

Her mouth crashed into his with the force of everything they'd been through rage, grief, relief, and love.

It all burned between their lips like wildfire.

Cassian froze for half a heartbeat, caught off-guard by the sheer ferocity of it.

Then he melted into her, mouth slanting deeper, more urgent, like he’d been dying for this, like the only thing tethering him to this world was the taste of her.

He made a sound against her lips—low, gravelly, and broken.

Somewhere between a groan and a prayer. His hands found her hips first, then slid up her back, one tangling in her hair, the other pressing her tighter against him, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them.

She kissed like a queen who’d earned every scar, every hard-won heartbeat.

And he kissed her like a soldier who knew this was his final surrender.

Her lips were soft but unyielding, her breath hot against his skin, and when she nipped at his bottom lip, he felt the spark of it down to his damn bones.

The world blurred around them. There was no war, no crown, no past or future—only now. Only them.

They broke apart only when breath demanded it, lips parting slow and reluctant, foreheads resting together, hearts still beating like drums. Cassian’s thumb brushed the edge of her jaw.

“I love you, you storm-born bastard,” she said, pressing her forehead to his. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

He grinned like a man who’d just conquered fate. “Well damn. I was half-prepared to lose a limb before you said yes.”

She laughed—real and raw. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.

“Next time,” she said, “maybe bring flowers.”

“Next time,” he murmured, “maybe I’ll just throw you over my shoulder and steal you away.”

She smirked. “You’re lucky I like trouble.”

Cassian slid the ring onto her finger slowly, reverently. “You’re my trouble,” he whispered. “Always.”

The wind howled around them, but it was soft now. Like it, too, was holding its breath.

They stood there for a long time. Two soldiers. Two rulers. Two hearts, burned and broken and made whole again in the ashes.