Lyra didn't breathe until the door clicked shut behind Cassian.
The air in the room was still humming — like the aftermath of a thunderclap, too loud and too close. Her skin crawled with the ghost of his touch, the memory of his words. The taste of the offer he laid at her feet still lingered — bitter, dangerous, tempting.
One night.
One night for everything he knew.
She had smiled when she said yes. Not because she meant it — but because Cassian wasn't the only one who could wear masks. The difference was, she'd learned to bleed behind hers without flinching.
Now, she stood in front of the mirror, peeling off her gloves with slow precision. Her fingers trembled slightly — not from fear. No, fear was a luxury she buried with the girl who once begged for love. What shook in her was rage. Cold, deliberate, coiled like a whip inside her chest.
Cassian wanted a night.
He'd get exactly what he asked for.
But not how he imagined.
By the time the sun began its descent, casting molten gold across the spires of the palace, Lyra had already dressed in black silk. No corset. No jewels. Just a thin ribbon tied at her throat, a whisper of defiance against the chokehold this court once had on her.
She didn't knock when she entered his quarters.
Cassian was already waiting. Leaning against the mantel, golden hair disheveled like sin itself, a glass of dark liquor cradled lazily in one hand.
"Well," he drawled, voice low and smooth, "you clean up beautifully for betrayal."
Lyra shut the door behind her. Locked it. Let the sound echo.
"You mistake this for trust," she said, each word dipped in velvet and steel. "Don't."
His gaze dragged over her like a hand. "Oh, I don't."
She crossed the room without hesitation, every step deliberate. She could feel the tremble of the old Lyra — the one who'd once loved a man who looked like this. Who thought honeyed lies meant safety. She buried that girl with each tap of her heels.
"I want names," she said flatly.
He arched a brow. "You're not even going to let me undress you first?"
She smiled. "You assume I'll let you touch me."
That got a twitch from his mouth. Not quite a smile — something darker. Something hungry.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Princess."
She was already in front of him. Close enough to smell the smoke on his breath, the sharp citrus of his cologne. "You think I haven't already lost?"
Then she did something unexpected — she took the glass from his hand and tipped it back. The burn ran down her throat like fire meeting fire.
Cassian's eyes flared.
"You'll get your night," she whispered, placing the empty glass on the table. "But it'll be on my terms."
The game began with silence.
No desperate kisses. No fumbling hands. Just… tension. That charged, aching space between two people who once tasted betrayal on the same tongue.
He came to her like a slow burn — circling, calculating. A predator too smart to lunge first.
"You haven't asked what I want in return," he murmured, fingertips ghosting the hem of her sleeve.
"I already know."
Her voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes after a battlefield, when the corpses are still warm.
He tilted his head. "Do you?"
"You want to feel clean again." Her eyes met his. Unflinching. "You think if you fuck the woman you once poisoned, it'll absolve you."
The breath he took was sharp. Painful.
She pressed forward, breath brushing his neck. "It won't."
He gripped her wrist — not hard, but not gentle. "You want to punish me."
"No," she said, leaning in, lips nearly brushing his ear. "I want you to talk."
The first confession came just after midnight.
She had him sprawled across the chaise, shirt unbuttoned, but not discarded. Her knee rested over his thigh — a threat, not an invitation.
"You were there the night I was accused," she said. "Weren't you?"
Cassian's eyes, usually so composed, flickered.
He didn't answer fast enough.
So she pressed.
Her fingers slid down his chest, not seductive — clinical. A surgeon looking for the weak spot.
"Evelyne," she said, watching him. "What did she give you for your loyalty?"
He didn't flinch. But his throat moved. One swallow. Two.
"She promised to clear my brother's name."
Lyra blinked.
Cassian looked away. "He was accused of treason. Caught passing information to the southern front. Evelyne offered to make it disappear… if I helped her."
Her stomach twisted. Not in pity. Not in sympathy. But in cold, calculated understanding.
"Did she?"
He gave a hollow laugh. "No. He was executed two weeks after your sentencing."
Lyra sat back. Let it sink in.
"You did all that… for nothing."
"I did it," he said, voice cracked, "because I thought saving one life was worth damning another."
By dawn, he had told her five names.
Five lords who voted for her death.
Two servants who planted the poison in her chambers.
One noblewoman who forged her letters.
And Evelyne's personal maid — the one who brought the noose.
She rose then. Untouched. Unscarred.
Cassian sat there, hollow-eyed, watching her pull her gloves back on like armor.
"Was this revenge?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Lyra looked over her shoulder.
"No," she said softly. "This was mercy."
Then she left — and did not look back.
She returned to Thorne's quarters before the sun had fully risen.
The guards stiffened when they saw her. She didn't speak to them. Just pushed the door open and walked into the dim, quiet space that already smelled like iron and cedar.
Thorne was awake. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Shirtless. Sword in his lap. Like he'd never slept — or had been waiting.
Their eyes met.
No words passed.
She crossed the room in two steps. Dropped to her knees in front of him. And pressed her forehead to his.
He didn't ask what she did.
He didn't demand an explanation.
He simply wrapped his arms around her, pulled her into his lap, and held her like the war outside the door could wait.
"I didn't touch him," she whispered.
Thorne's breath hitched.
"I didn't want to."
A pause.
Then: "He wanted to feel clean again. But I'm not water, Thorne. I'm fire."
His arms tightened.
"I know," he murmured, brushing her hair back with trembling hands. "I know exactly what you are."
---
And in the quiet morning that followed, the storm finally began to roll.