AYLA
No. I wasn't walking to Cassian Moretti.
I was walking to my son, my apartment, my safety.
Not him.
Cassian's eyes dragged down my face, then the length of me—not in a hurried way, but in a way that was slow, stripping, remembering—the way I'd been sprawled out on his counter, then spread on his bed.
And he was letting me remember he could have me. He had had me. Once and again.
And none of it had been without my permission.
He smiled.
And I smiled back—something that felt like cold starch on my face.
I offered it.
I told myself it was because Arthuro was here.
I gave him a soft smile, something that didn't reach my eyes, didn't belong with me—something I could discard without a blink.
An offhanded soft smile I could have offered to any beggar on the streets.
His smile dropped, his posture changed.
He saw the fakeness ooze out of me like cloying perfume. He hadn't expected it.
I'd taken him by surprise.
His lips thinned.
Mine widened as I stood before him.
