Chapter 4 Broken Control

Lyra's POV

She knew she should walk away.

Even as her body turned toward the masked man, her mind screamed retreat. She didn't need to see his face, his voice was enough. Smooth and sharp. And now, up close, his scent reached her despite the failing suppressant. Cold, clean. Steel laced with something darker.

It shouldn't have pulled at her.

But it did.

He stood just outside the spill of golden light from the ballroom, shadows clinging to his jaw and shoulders. The mask he wore was ceremonial, a half-face of brushed silver that didn't hide his presence. If anything, it sharpened it.

"You're trembling," he said, voice low and unhurried.

She wasn't. Not visibly. Not yet. But internally, yes. Her body was humming with heat she couldn't suppress, awareness sharpening to a blade.

"Long day," she managed, eyes flicking to the garden gate behind him.

He didn't move to block her. Didn't step closer either. Just stood, watching her with the kind of attention that felt like touch.

"You came alone?" he asked.

Her breath caught. She told herself to lie. Say yes. Say no. Say anything that closed the space between them without inviting more.

But her words tangled. Her tongue felt heavy.

And his scent. God, it was wrong how good it smelled. Like rain on concrete. Like restraint on the verge of breaking.

"I don't usually do this," she said, without knowing why she said it.

Something flickered behind his eyes. Amusement? Recognition? Pain?

"No one ever does," he murmured.

The silence thickened.

Lyra turned, meaning to go, to leave this whole moment behind and pretend it never happened. But her heel caught the edge of a stone tile, and his hand shot out.

Not forceful. Just contact.

Fingers around her wrist. Warm. Steady.

That was all it took.

Everything in her went tight. Not fear. Heat. Sharp and fast, like a match strike.

She yanked her hand back, but the scent bloomed between them. Her suppressant finally cracked. The mask had held too long. Now it faltered. She felt it in her chest, her skin, the ache behind her spine. Her pupils widened. Her balance shifted.

And he... stilled.

Neither of them moved for a heartbeat. Two. Three.

Then he said, quieter than before, "I should let you go."

"Yes," she whispered, her breath shallow.

But neither of them moved.

The garden beyond was empty. The hallway behind them, even quieter.

She stepped back.

He followed.

---

It was a blur. A corridor. A side exit. A quiet car. Her voice, soft and trembling, saying nothing coherent. His hand at the small of her back.

The click of a door. A hush that smelled like paper and cedarwood. Not a hotel, no. A residence.

She didn't know how she got there. She just knew her skin was burning and her heartbeat wouldn't slow and the man beside her had taken off his mask.

Somewhere along the way, her own mask had vanished. She didn't remember taking it off. Maybe she hadn't. Maybe it had slipped, unnoticed, like everything else unraveling inside her.

She hadn't seen his full face before.

He was... beautiful.

Cold and beautiful and watching her like she was something rare, something fragile, something wanted.

He didn't rush. He didn't speak again.

When he touched her, it was careful. Measured. Like someone who had always been in control.

Until now.

And when their mouths met, her last coherent thought was:

Don't remember this. Don't want this.

But her body, treacherous, did.

--

Cassian's POV

He knew the moment her suppressant fractured.

It was subtle at first, like standing too close to a fire and not realizing you're burning. Then it hit all at once: her scent, no longer masked, no longer held back.

Not perfumed. Not coy.

Just real.

And it wrecked him.

Every instinct buried under years of self-discipline surged forward, demanding attention. Cassian Dorne, the man known for cold strategy and colder distance, took a single step toward her, and didn't stop.

She didn't resist when he led her from the terrace. Her breath was shallow, hands trembling, eyes wide like she was waiting to bolt. But she didn't.

She followed.

Down the hallway. Into the car. Up the private elevator.

Into his private world.

Cassian didn't speak. He couldn't, not without saying something he'd regret. Or worse, something true.

In the quiet of the apartment, he watched her for a moment. The way she hovered in the center of the room, still in her green dress, unsure whether to run or stay.

And then she looked at him. Really looked. And that was it.

He crossed the space between them in two slow steps, raised a hand to her jaw, and paused just long enough to give her an out.

She didn't take it.

When he kissed her, it wasn't careful.

It was heat and hunger and something dangerously close to need.

He wasn't this man. He didn't chase. He didn't need. But tonight, none of that mattered

Her fingers curled into his collar, then his hair. The taste of her was sharp with nerves, soft with surrender. He lifted her onto the counter, pressed her back into the marble like a question he didn't know how to stop asking.

She gasped against his throat when his mouth touched her skin. She arched when his hands explored places he never should have touched.

It wasn't slow. It wasn't sweet.

It was inevitable.

Instinct collided with restraint, and for the first time in years, Cassian didn't care what came next. Only that it came from her.

He wanted to brand the moment into her body, make her feel it long after she left.

Even if he never saw her again. Even if he never learned her name.

He would remember this.

And he would burn for it.