Chapter 2 Morning Heat

The wine glass was still on the counter when Cassia woke.

Same place she left it.

Same as her thoughts-unsettled, too full, and bitter around the edges.

The sheets were tangled around her legs. Her thighs stuck together. She kicked them off and pressed her palm to her cheek. Still warm. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was louder than it needed to be.

She remembered dreaming. A door opening. Fingers brushing her hip. Breath too close. A voice-his voice-saying her name like he wasn't allowed to say it that way.

Cassia dragged herself into the shower. Let the water stay cold. She stood under it until she stopped shivering, then dried off without bothering to do anything with her hair.

She didn't put on a bra. Just a soft T-shirt and shorts that felt indecent in a house like this. That felt indecent around a man like him.

The smell hit her halfway down the stairs-coffee, and something buttery.

Strange.

Dorian didn't cook. Not when Katherine was alive. Not when Cassia had visited years ago. He'd barely said more than ten words to her back then.

But now?

Now, he was in the kitchen. Shirt tight across his shoulders, sleeves rolled. Grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. Barefoot.

He moved with the calm, careful rhythm of someone who was used to being watched.

Cassia stood at the threshold longer than she meant to.

"You cook now?" she asked, voice raspier than usual.

He didn't turn. "You were twitching in your sleep."

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I walked past your room," he said, cracking an egg one-handed. "You were dreaming."

"You could tell?"

"You kept turning over. Breathing fast."

He paused.

"You said my name."

Her body tensed. "That's not true."

He finally looked at her. "It is."

She stayed in the doorway. Crossing the room felt like a line she couldn't uncross.

"I made you something," he said. He plated the food-eggs, tomatoes, buttered toast-and slid it across the island toward an empty stool. "Sit."

Cassia moved slowly. She sat but didn't touch the food.

"Because I looked like I needed feeding?" she asked, trying to sound amused.

"Because I wanted to." He poured himself coffee. "You're here now. I want to take care of you."

The way he said it-calm, quiet-made her pulse skip.

"You're my sister's husband," she said.

He didn't blink. "Was."

"And I'm her sister."

"I noticed."

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Watching her like she was the thing on the plate.

Cassia picked up the fork, stabbing at the yolk.

"You said something last night."

"I said a lot of things."

"You said-'I already do.' When I told you that you shouldn't."

"I remember."

"And you're not sorry?"

"No."

She looked away, unsure if it was shame or desire tightening in her chest. The kitchen was too warm.

"I'm not her," she said.

"I know."

"I won't be her."

"I wouldn't want you to be."

The silence stretched.

Then he moved. Slowly. Each step toward her felt louder than it should've. When he reached her side, she turned her head without meaning to.

His voice was quiet. "You think I'm going to try something?"

"Aren't you?"

He took the fork from her hand, fingers brushing hers. Then, calmly, he scooped a bite and held it out.

"Eat."

Her lips parted before her mind caught up. The egg touched her tongue. She chewed. Swallowed.

He didn't move.

She could feel him next to her, heat radiating off his body, eyes burning a hole in the side of her face.

Then he leaned down, close-too close-and his mouth brushed the shell of her ear.

"I want you to think about me," he murmured, "every time you're alone."

Cassia froze.

And just like that, he straightened. Walked out.

No smirk. No warning. Just vanished, leaving her with a half-eaten plate, a full body of heat, and questions she didn't want to answer.