CASSIAN
The whiskey glass was heavy in my hand, the amber liquid catching the low, warm light of the bar.
I had been watching the way the condensation pooled on the marble, thinking about how easy it was to manipulate the surface of things... to make a murder look like a mob hit, to make an execution look like a consequence.
Then Noah asked the question.
The glass froze halfway to my lips. The silence that followed was so absolute I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer and the shallow, frantic hitch of Noah's breath.
I looked at him. Really looked at him. He was pale, his knuckles white where he gripped his glass of tropical juice... that ridiculous drink I'd ordered to keep him from spiraling.
But his eyes were steady. Those green eyes were searching mine, not for a denial, but for the finality of a confession. He had already decided I was a monster; he just wanted to hear the monster speak.
